《莊子翼》Vol. 4

The "Heavenly Dao" chapter of the Zhuangzi discusses the principles governing heaven and earth and the way of being for sages. The Heavenly Dao (natural order) operates without stagnation, thus all things are generated; the way of emperors (governing principles) flows without obstruction, thus the world submits; the way of sages continues without interruption, thus all lands yield. Those who truly understand the Heavenly Dao and comprehend the sagely way act in accordance with spontaneous nature when it comes to the De (virtuous power) of rulership, maintaining inner tranquility.

The sage's stillness isn't deliberately sought quietude, but rather a natural serenity achieved because external things don't disturb their heart-mind. Just as calm water clearly reflects beard and eyebrows, serving as a standard for craftsmen—if still water can be so lucid, how much more transparent is the sage's purified heart-mind? The sage's mind is like a bright mirror, capable of reflecting all things between heaven and earth. Qualities like emptiness-stillness (mental clarity), blandness, solitude, and Wuwei (non-action) represent the very standards of heaven and earth and the highest realm of Dao and De.

When emperors and sames dwell in this state, mental emptiness can accommodate reality and comprehend principles; emptiness brings stillness, and from stillness naturally arises appropriate action. Maintaining stillness enables governing through Wuwei, allowing each person to fulfill their proper role. This state of non-action brings ease and contentment, free from worries and thus conducive to longevity. Emptiness-stillness, blandness, solitude and non-action form the root of all things.

Understanding this principle, one who rules in the south governs like Emperor Yao, while one who serves in the north assists like Emperor Shun. In high position, one manifests the De of emperors; in humble station, one demonstrates the way of sages. When withdrawing from public life, one gains the trust of mountain recluses; when serving in office, one pacifies the world and achieves merit. As Guo Xiang's commentary notes: the Heavenly Dao, imperial way and sagely way all follow the inherent nature of things without forcing anything—thus even while reaching everywhere, they maintain inner stillness. The water metaphor illustrates how only with a stilled mind can sages penetrate all phenomena. What's called "the balance of heaven and earth" means eliminating artificial contrivance. When governing through Wuwei—like Shun and Yu ruling the world—people of all talents naturally fulfill their proper functions.

This passage from Zhuangzi discusses the supreme state of Wuwei (non-action), where the fundamental laws governing the movement of heaven, earth, and all things are contained within this natural state of non-interference. Whether it's the emperor ruling from the southern throne or commoners serving their sovereign in the north, each finding their proper place exemplifies the ultimate manifestation of Wuwei.

Those who embody the Dao yet do not seek power or position are called "uncrowned kings" (those with royal virtue but no throne) and are naturally revered. Such individuals may live in seclusion like the ancient hermits Chao Fu and Xu You, or serve as ministers like the virtuous Yi Yin and Lü Wang. The profundity of Wuwei is vast—what in the world does not rely on it to function?

To elaborate: When rulers do not overstep their authority by interfering with their ministers' duties, wise ministers like Yi Yin and Lü Wang can fulfill their roles effectively. When ministers do not encroach upon the responsibilities of officials, governance proceeds smoothly. When officials do not forcibly alter the livelihoods of the people, they can live in peace. And when the people do not compete over abilities, everyone finds their rightful place. From the Son of Heaven to commoners—even down to the smallest insects—who among them succeeds through forced action? Thus, the less one acts, the more noble they become.

The "Way of Emperors" refers to the virtue of rulers, while the "Way of Sages" describes the realm of enlightened beings (mystic sages and uncrowned kings). The six directions (up, down, east, west, south, north) remain unobstructed, yet the mind remains as balanced as a master craftsman’s level (like the foundation measurements recorded in the Rites of Zhou). The state of emptiness, stillness, tranquility, and Wuwei is precisely the principle by which heaven and earth operate.

Maintaining a joyful and composed mind ensures that worries cannot disturb body or spirit, naturally leading to longevity. All things in the universe arise from stillness and emptiness—thus, stillness is the root of all existence. Understanding this principle allows one to know where to anchor one’s life.

Through stillness, one attains sagehood; through action, one becomes a king. Yet it is Wuwei that holds the highest nobility. Preserving one’s innate simplicity means nothing in the world can compare. Those who truly comprehend the virtue of heaven and earth grasp the fundamental Dao, harmonizing with nature. Only then can they balance and regulate the world, living in harmony with others.

Here Zhuangzi distinguishes between "Heavenly Joy" (天乐) and "Human Joy" (人乐). The happiness arising from harmonious human relationships is called Human Joy, while the bliss born of alignment with the Dao of nature is called Heavenly Joy.

Zhuangzi exclaims in admiration: "O my master! You harmonize all things without appearing domineering, shower blessings through all ages without claiming benevolence, exist before antiquity without calling yourself long-lived, bear heaven and earth while shaping all creatures without flaunting skill—this is Heavenly Joy." Those who understand Heavenly Joy live in accordance with nature's movements and die following the transformations of all things. In stillness, they share De (Virtue) with yin's softness; in action, they dance with yang's vigor.

Those who comprehend Heavenly Joy neither complain against heaven nor attract human criticism, remain unburdened by external things and unblamed by spirits. Their actions flow with heaven's spontaneity; their stillness grounds like earth's stability. With inner serenity, they govern the world undisturbed by spirits, their Shen (spirit) never wearied. When the mind is tranquil, all things return to it—extending this empty stillness to embrace heaven and earth constitutes Heavenly Joy. The sage's heart nurtures the world precisely with this Heavenly Joy.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: Moving when movement is due, resting when rest is needed—thus naturally revered by all things. Harmony with heaven means following the Heavenly De (Virtue) of Wuwei (non-action); understanding fundamentals prevents contradicting heaven and earth. Harmony with humans means responding to human affairs according to heaven's principles. When Heavenly Joy is realized, Human Joy naturally abounds. The myriad things' chaotic transformations are nature's manifestations, not heaven's cruelty; so-called benevolence is a human construct—the Dao favors none; longevity is temporal measurement—heaven knows no deadlines; skill is human judgment—all things perfect themselves spontaneously. This is Heavenly Joy: forgetting joy yet brimming with bliss.

The way of true rulers takes heaven and earth as foundation, Dao and De as guiding principles, and Wuwei as constant method. Through non-action, governing the world becomes effortless; through forced action, one becomes imprisoned by the world. Thus the ancients honored Wuwei—superiors ruled through non-action while ministers assisted through purposeful service.

This passage expounds on the Daoist political philosophy of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei). Zhuangzi uses the natural operations of heaven and earth as a metaphor for ideal governance:

Heaven and earth appear to do nothing, yet all things naturally grow and transform. Similarly, when ancient sage-kings (referring to ideal rulers like Yao and Shun) governed the world, their wisdom could encompass heaven and earth without exhausting their own spirit, their eloquence could describe all things without self-aggrandizement, and their capability could reach the four seas without personal intervention. They understood the principle that "the superior practices non-action while the subordinates take action" – the ruler maintains a state of serene Wuwei, while ministers fulfill their respective duties actively, just as a craftsman doesn't carve wood personally yet skillfully wields the axe, and the axe doesn't think yet accomplishes the carving.

Special emphasis is placed on the naturalness of division of labor: if a ruler oversteps to perform ministers' tasks, they cease to be a proper ruler; if ministers usurp the ruler's functions, they cease to be competent ministers. Just as the reigns of Yao and Shun appeared governed through non-action while those of Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou seemed more active, both were actually natural expressions suited to their respective historical contexts.

The worst scenario occurs when a ruler cannot maintain Wuwei and insists on doing subordinates' work. It would be like preventing the judge Gao Yao from settling legal cases or preventing the agricultural minister Hou Ji from teaching farming – not only would talents be unable to exercise their strengths, but the ruler would also become mired in toil. Therefore, wise rulers should maintain dignified serenity like wearing the hanging-beaded crown (the jade strands before ancient imperial ceremonial headdresses), entrusting specific affairs to suitable individuals.

The core of this governance method lies in: the ruler appears inactive yet achieves governance through properly employing talents; ministers take active roles, but all actions flow from their inherent nature. Just as heaven and earth don't intentionally produce yet nourish all things, emperors don't labor personally yet accomplish universal peace – this constitutes the eternal and unchanging great Dao of statecraft.

All things in heaven and earth operate naturally—this is the state of wuwei (non-action) that accomplishes everything. When both superiors and subordinates follow the Dao of wuwei, the ruler governs effortlessly by employing ministers effectively, while the people fulfill their duties naturally. Just as heaven and earth nurture all beings spontaneously, the emperor who practices wuwei sees the world naturally ordered and achievements realized without striving. This principle aligns perfectly with heaven and earth's way of wuwei.

The foundation lies with those above, while details belong to those below; the guiding principles rest with the ruler, and specific affairs are handled by ministers. Deploying armies and weapons represents the lowest application of Dao and De (Virtue/Power). Establishing rewards, punishments, and penal codes are secondary methods of education. Creating rituals and regulations serves as auxiliary tools for governance, while bells, drums, and dances are but surface expressions of music. Mourning garments and lamentations are merely outward manifestations of grief. These five secondary expressions all require the operation of shen (spirit) and mental activity to sustain them. Though the ancients employed these methods, they never prioritized them.

The world follows a natural hierarchy: rulers precede subjects, fathers precede sons, elder brothers precede younger ones, the aged precede the young, men precede women, and husbands precede wives. This order of precedence mirrors the natural pattern of heaven above and earth below, which the sages emulate. Spring and summer precede autumn and winter in the sequence of seasons; the growth and decline of all things follow the laws of transformation. Even the sacred operations of heaven and earth observe this precedence—how much more should human relationships? Ancestral temples honor kinship ties, courts respect rank, villages observe seniority, and affairs value capability—all these reflect the Dao's natural order.

Guo Xiang's commentary notes: Shen and the mind are the roots underlying these five secondary expressions. By following natural operation, these specific affairs accomplish themselves without forced effort. What is called "precedence" refers to the fundamental. Though the hierarchical relationships between ruler and subject, father and son pertain to human affairs, they originate from heavenly principles—not artificial constructs of the sages. Understanding that this order of precedence is inherent in all things reveals that the Dao's structure extends beyond human relationships. We follow the Dao precisely because of its inherent order.

Thus, the ancient masters who comprehended the great Dao first understood heavenly principles, and only then turned to Dao and De.

When one truly comprehends the meaning of "De" (natural virtue), only then can they understand "humaneness and righteousness" (moral principles). After grasping humaneness and righteousness, one can perceive their proper duties and roles.

With clear understanding of these duties, one may then discuss the external forms and names of things. When the relationship between form and name is clarified, considerations of assigning responsibilities according to individual capacities may follow. With proper assignments made, one can then examine the roots of conduct. After thorough examination, judgments of right and wrong become possible. When right and wrong are clearly distinguished, systems of reward and punishment can be properly implemented.

When the system of rewards and punishments is perfected, the foolish and the wise each find their proper place; the noble and humble remain content in their stations; and the virtuous and capable reveal their true qualities. Each person's abilities are appropriately distinguished, with names matching reality. Using this method to serve rulers, govern subordinates, handle affairs, and cultivate oneself requires no cunning schemes—everything follows natural principles. This represents the highest state of peaceful governance.

Ancient texts state: All things possess form and name. Though the ancients also spoke of form and name, they did not consider it primary. Those who discussed the Dao (the fundamental law of the universe) in ancient times would pass through five levels of reasoning before addressing form and name, and nine levels of contemplation before discussing rewards and punishments. To begin directly with form and name is to miss the root; to discuss rewards and punishments immediately is to misunderstand the origin. Those who reverse the Dao's priorities and bypass fundamentals in empty discourse can only be governed—how could they govern others?

Those who eagerly discuss penal codes and reward systems merely grasp the tools of governance without understanding its fundamental principles. Such methods may serve specific tasks but cannot govern all under heaven. Such individuals may be called specialists in debate. The ritual systems and form-name regulations of antiquity were tools for ministers to serve rulers, not the fundamental means by which rulers enlightened their subjects.

Guo Xiang (the commentator) explains: "Heaven" means nature. When one comprehends the Dao of nature, all things find their proper place. When all things are properly situated, harmony prevails; in harmony, none overstep their bounds; each maintaining its proper role, every name matches its reality. With form-name relationships clearly established, no further adjustments are needed—thus we proceed to consider assignments. When each person fulfills their duties competently, errors naturally diminish—hence we next examine the roots of conduct. What accords with innate nature is deemed right; what violates it is wrong—thus standards of judgment are established. As for rewards and punishments, they are merely responses to gains and losses.

The most perfect way of governance fundamentally lies in following nature, not in rigidly adhering to specific methods. "Fulfilling positions" means each person occupies a place suited to their abilities; "manifesting true qualities" means everyone expresses their genuine capacities; "necessarily distinguishing abilities" emphasizes non-interference in others' responsibilities; "necessarily following names" means names correspond to reality, allowing accurate understanding of essence through names. From comprehending the Dao of heaven to establishing form and name requires five levels; to establish rewards and punishments requires nine—all following the natural sequence of development.

On Governing the State and the Way of Heaven

In governing the people, one must first uphold “order”: first understand that the Way of Heaven does not disregard rewards and punishments; rather, rewards and punishments must not be applied out of sequence. Those who govern all under Heaven must understand the Way of Order and entrust particular affairs of government to capable people. This is how those in higher positions nurture and employ those below them.

In ancient times, Shun asked Yao, “What is in the heart of the Heavenly King?” Yao replied, “I do not neglect those who have no one to rely on, nor abandon the destitute. I pity the dead, cherish the young, and sympathize with women. This is where I place my heart.” Shun said, “That is good, but it is not yet broad enough.” Yao asked, “Then what should I do?” Shun said, “Align your virtue with Heaven’s and keep your heart at peace; let the sun and moon shine, the four seasons turn, and day and night follow their regular course, as clouds move and rain falls.” Yao said, “Then you are still busily involved in affairs. I accord with Heaven; you accord with people. Heaven and Earth have been vast since ancient times. What the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun all praised, and what the kings of old did, was simply to follow Heaven and Earth.”

Guo Xiang’s Commentary: Those with no one to rely on are what is meant by the destitute; “not abandoning” them means regularly showing them kindness. To accord one’s virtue with Heaven means that, though involved in worldly affairs, the heart remains still; hence the phrase “at peace beyond the world.” The sun and moon, clouds and rain, the four seasons, day and night—all act without action and arise naturally. To be busily involved is to consciously take up affairs and toil over them.

Confucius once wanted to store books in the royal archives of Zhou. Zilu suggested, “I have heard that Lao Dan, the archivist of Zhou, has retired from office and returned home. If you want to store your books, Master, you could try visiting him.” Confucius agreed and went to see Laozi, but Laozi refused. Confucius then expounded the Twelve Classics to persuade him. Partway through, Laozi interrupted: “You have said far too much. I would like to hear the essentials.” Confucius said, “The essentials are benevolence and righteousness.” Laozi asked, “Are benevolence and righteousness part of human nature?” Confucius replied, “Yes. Without benevolence, a noble person cannot establish himself; without righteousness, he cannot hold firm. Benevolence and righteousness are the nature of the true person—what else need one seek?” Laozi asked, “What do you mean by benevolence and righteousness?” Confucius said, “A sincere and generous heart, with universal love and no self-interest: that is the feeling of benevolence and righteousness.” Laozi said, “Alas! You have nearly turned things upside down. Is universal love not misguided? To proclaim oneself free of self-interest is already a form of self-interest. If you wish the people under Heaven not to lose their care and governance—‘care’ meaning to govern and nurture the people—Heaven and Earth already have their constant way: the sun …”

The moon naturally emits light, the stars arrange themselves in orderly patterns, animals instinctively gather in groups, and trees grow upright of their own accord. The true sage (fuzi) need only follow inherent nature and align with the movement of the Dao (the Way) to reach the highest state. Why deliberately flaunt benevolence and righteousness like beating gongs and drums to search for a lost child? Such efforts only disrupt humanity's natural disposition.

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: This passage criticizes the hypocritical benevolence and righteousness of worldly understanding, hence employing Confucius and Laozi to correct this deviation. True great benevolence (zhiren) contains no partial affection—what the ancients called "selflessness" meant relinquishing the self to care for others. But what the world calls "loving others" secretly harbors expectations of reciprocity, which constitutes the greatest selfishness.

Shi Chengqi traveled far to visit Laozi, having heard he was a sage, yet upon meeting him, thought otherwise. He accused Laozi: "Your granary has vegetables gnawed by rats yet you don't clean it (shu rang you yu shu), you lack familial kindness (qi mei bu ren), and though your food remains uneaten, you keep amassing goods." Laozi remained silent.

The next day, Shi Chengqi returned to apologize. Laozi said: "As for those so-called wise sages, I long ago cast off such empty titles. Yesterday you called me an ox—then I am an ox; you called me a horse—then I am a horse. If the reality fits, refusing others' labels would only invite misfortune. I maintain my original truth, not to make any display."

Shi Chengqi respectfully withdrew to seek advice on self-cultivation. Laozi described him: "Your face assumes artificial solemnity, your gaze pierces aggressively, veins bulge on your forehead, your mouth gapes wide like a tethered horse feigning calm. Your movements are studied affectations, your scrutiny of others overly shrewd, ever striving to display cleverness. Such people exist even on the borders—they're called 'thieves' (qie, hypocritical reputation-stealers)."

Finally, Laozi concluded: "The great Dao (Dao) knows no bounds between heaven and earth, treating all things equally. Vast and limitless, it embraces everything; unfathomably deep. External virtues, benevolence and righteousness—these are but trivial branches of the spirit. Who but the perfected person (zhiren) can perceive this truth? Those who attain the Dao possess the world yet feel no burden; when people scramble for power, they remain transcendent, having grasped the eternal, unchanging principle."

True wisdom does not lie in chasing profit. Those who can safeguard the fundamental source of life will not have their spirit confined, even if they transcend heaven and earth or forget all things. Those who comprehend the Great Dao (the highest truth in Daoism) and align with De (Virtue/Power) rise above the constraints of benevolence, righteousness, rites, and music, attaining the serene state of the "Perfected Person" (one who has reached the highest cultivation).

What the world treasures as the "Dao" is often recorded in books, yet words are merely vessels for speech, and the value of speech lies in conveying meaning. The true essence has a deeper origin—one that cannot be transmitted through language. Yet people prize words so highly that they copy books, a misplaced reverence—for what they value is not truly worth treasuring. The eyes can only perceive form and color; how could ordinary people grasp the truth within them?

There is a story: Duke Huan of Qi was reading in his hall while the wheelwright Bian worked below. Bian set down his tools and asked, "What are you reading?" The Duke replied, "The words of sages." Bian asked, "Are those sages still alive?" The Duke said, "They have passed away." Bian remarked, "Then what you're reading is merely the dregs left behind by the ancients." Enraged, the Duke said, "How dare a mere wheelwright criticize? Explain yourself, or you will die!"

Bian explained: "Take my craft of wheel-making. If the hub is too loose, the wheel won’t hold; if too tight, it won’t fit. The knack lies in making it neither too loose nor too tight—my hands know it, my heart understands it, yet I cannot put it into words. There is a subtle art to it. I can’t teach this to my son, and he can’t learn it, so at seventy I still make wheels. The ancients and their ineffable wisdom have vanished—aren’t you reading their dregs?"

Guo Xiang (a commentator on the Zhuangzi) notes: What is truly precious always lies beyond words and meaning; only by transcending language can one grasp it. This reflects the idea of abandoning forced learning and discarding reverence for authority. Bian’s inability to pass on his skill to his son shows that all things have their own innate nature, and forced teaching is meaningless. Ancient affairs have vanished with the ancients—even if records remain, how could they recreate antiquity today? The past is not the present; things have changed. Thus, one should relinquish imitation of the ancients, follow one’s nature, and move with the times to reach the highest state.

Chapter 14, The Movement of Heaven, continues the inquiry: Does heaven rotate? Is earth still? Do the sun and moon jostle for position? Who governs these? Who maintains order? Who idly sets all this in motion? Could it be some mechanism of nature at work?

This passage explores the relationship between the natural workings of heaven and earth and human nature. The shifting winds and clouds, the nourishing rain and dew—all occur spontaneously without deliberate manipulation. Just as clouds transform into rain or vapors rise in the southern skies, these follow natural patterns, not the direction of some divine controller.

Those who pride themselves on cleverness and cunning, constantly scheming and maneuvering, ultimately lose their innate nature. Like the ancient fable of Hundun (representing primal simplicity) who died when seven orifices were carved into him, this illustrates how excessive intellectual contrivance damages one's natural disposition. Though border guards may vigilantly man their posts, crafty individuals always find loopholes to exploit—such behavior is fundamentally no different from theft.

Zhuangzi teaches that the true Dao (the fundamental principle of the universe) embraces all things with unfathomable depth. Concepts like benevolence, righteousness, and ritual propriety are merely superficial manifestations of the Dao—only the "perfected person" (one who has attained the highest moral cultivation) can grasp its essence. These sages dwell in the world yet remain unburdened by worldly affairs; they face temptations of power without being swayed, preserving their original mind. Transcending the limitations of heaven, earth, and all phenomena, their spirit moves freely without obstruction, maintaining inner peace and composure.

Guo Xiang (the Jin Dynasty commentator on Zhuangzi) adds: The perfected person navigates life by harmonizing with nature while preserving authentic disposition. They regard external constructs like benevolence-righteousness and ritual-music as secondary to inner authenticity. This tranquility isn't achieved through forced effort but arises naturally from wuwei (non-action).

People often mistake written records for the Dao's true meaning, yet words are merely vessels conveying ideas. What's truly precious is the profound significance behind the words—a depth that language can never fully capture. Regrettably, most value superficial forms, names, and reputations, believing these reveal essential truths. In reality, such external trappings obscure the genuine nature within.

This passage contains two classic Daoist stories: the first is the dialogue between Wheelwright Bian and Duke Huan of Qi from the Zhuangzi's "Heavenly Dao" chapter, and the second is the opening meditation on celestial movements from Zhuangzi's "Heavenly Revolutions."

Wheelwright Bian said to Duke Huan of Qi: If sounds and words cannot convey true principles, then those who truly understand don't speak much, while those who chatter endlessly don't truly comprehend. How could ordinary people grasp this truth? When Duke Huan was reading in his hall, the wheelwright Bian put down his tools and asked, "What are you reading?" The Duke replied they were the words of sages. Bian inquired whether the sages were still alive, and upon learning they had died, remarked: "Then what you're reading is merely the dregs left behind by ancient people."

Bian explained through his wheel-making experience: When carving a wheel, working too slowly makes it loose and unstable, while going too fast makes it too tight to assemble. Only at the perfect pace can one achieve mastery. This subtle feeling cannot be fully expressed, yet it contains true artistry. I cannot completely teach this to my son, nor can he fully comprehend it. That's why I'm still making wheels at seventy. The true essence of ancient sages and what they couldn't transmit verbally died with them. So what you're reading now is indeed just the dregs of antiquity.

Guo Xiang's commentary notes that truly precious things often transcend verbal expression. Only by surpassing the constraints of words can one grasp the truth—this advocates abandoning deliberate study. That Bian couldn't teach his son demonstrates all things follow their innate nature; forced instruction brings no benefit. Ancient events have vanished—even if recorded, they can't make antiquity reappear today. Thus we should relinquish forced learning, follow our nature, and move with the times.

The opening of "Heavenly Revolutions" poses a series of questions: Does heaven revolve? Is earth stationary? Do the sun and moon jostle for position? Who governs these? Who sustains them? Who does nothing yet propels everything? Is there some mechanism forcing this motion? Or once moving, can it not stop? Do clouds become rain, or rain become clouds? Who summons clouds and spreads rain? Who takes idle pleasure in these phenomena? The north wind rises, suddenly east then west, whirling through the void—who breathes this? Who idly fans these gusts? The ancient shaman Xian Zhao replied: "Come, I shall tell you. Heaven and earth have the Six Directions (up-down, left-right, front-back) and Five Constants (the laws of the Five Phases). When rulers accord with them, the world finds peace; when opposed, disaster follows. Govern the affairs of the nine provinces properly, and virtuous governance will be achieved."

This passage primarily discusses the Daoist concepts of "natural non-action (Wuwei)" and the ethical perspective of "supreme benevolence without partiality."

Regarding the movement of heaven and earth, Guo Xiang (a Xuanxue philosopher of the Western Jin Dynasty) explains: Heaven rotates without needing to be pushed, earth remains still without requiring fixation, and the sun and moon alternate without contending for position. There is no controlling master behind these phenomena—they all arise spontaneously. All things follow their inherent patterns of existence without external forces compelling their operation. Clouds and rain cannot substitute for each other, as both emerge naturally. If one seeks the fundamental cause of these phenomena, one ultimately discovers they simply are as they are, with no deeper reason. Harmony with natural patterns brings stability, while violation invites calamity. While acquired learning can modify human behavior, innate nature cannot be contravened.

The Grand Steward of Shang State asked Zhuangzi about the meaning of "benevolence." Zhuangzi replied that even tigers and wolves possess benevolence, as evidenced by their familial affection. When pressed about the highest form of benevolence, Zhuangzi answered "supreme benevolence recognizes no partiality (zhiren wuqin)." The Grand Steward objected that this would negate filial piety, to which Zhuangzi explained: Supreme benevolence far transcends filial piety, just as travelers heading south to Ying Capital cannot see the Dark Mountains to the north due to the great distance. Performing filial duties through reverence is easy, through love is harder; acting through love is easier than forgetting kinship ties; having one's family forget oneself is simpler than making the whole world forget me.

True virtue (De) surpasses the achievements of Yao and Shun yet involves no deliberate action; its blessings flow through ten thousand generations yet remain unrecognized—why then dwell on empty discussions of benevolence and filial piety? Conventional virtues like filial piety, fraternal duty, humaneness, righteousness, loyalty, trustworthiness, chastity, and integrity all represent forced behaviors that constrain innate nature, unworthy of excessive praise. Thus, what is truly precious renders official ranks superfluous; true abundance makes state wealth unnecessary; the highest aspiration transcends reputation. This is the eternal principle of the great Dao (Daode).

Guo Xiang clarifies: "Without partiality" does not imply harsh indifference, but rather the realization that all things are fundamentally one.

Here Zhuangzi expounds a natural Dao (the Way) that transcends worldly ethics. He begins with anatomical metaphors: the head above, feet below; organs within, skin without—these natural arrangements show no partiality. The highest "perfect benevolence" (zhiren) operates similarly, where all kinship relations find their proper place without forced distinctions.

He argues that consciously promoting "filial piety" actually diminishes its value. Only by transcending concepts like "humaneness" and "filiality" can one reach higher realms. Like viewing Southern Mountain from the North Pole—the greater the distance, the clearer the vision—overemphasizing the labels of benevolence takes us further from truth. The truly humane are like a comfortable body unaware of its joints; sage-kings govern by letting all things follow their natural course without interference.

When people attain innate contentment, they forget their own existence—this is the state of "complete forgetting" (jianwang). Even sage-emperors like Yao and Shun must forget their own virtue to achieve true fulfillment. Those who constantly preach benevolence resemble fish stranded on land, desperately moistening each other with spit—a pitiful sight.

The noblest forget even their physical form, let alone worldly titles; the wealthiest find sufficiency in their original nature; the most perfect state is spontaneous ease, needing no labels of benevolence. The essence of the great Dao lies in stripping away ornamentation to return to authenticity.

Later, the dialogue between Beimen Cheng and the Yellow Emperor discusses musical principles: When the Emperor performed the "Xianchi" melody in the wilderness of Dongting, Beimen Cheng experienced emotional shifts—"awe → detachment → wonder." The Emperor explains that supreme music aligns with human affairs, follows celestial patterns, embodies the Five Virtues (humaneness, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness), and ultimately resonates with nature, harmonizing yin-yang (the complementary cosmic forces) through the seasons to achieve "grand harmony" (taihe) in all things. This allegory of music illustrates governance through accordance with natural law.

The cycle of the four seasons turns without cease, as all things wax and wane in their perpetual growth—such is the rhythm governing both civil governance and martial affairs. The clear and turbid breaths (Qi) harmonize with each other, yin and yang intermingle, their luminous flow producing resonant tones. When hibernating insects first stir from dormancy, I awaken them with the voice of thunder—a sound that comes without trace, departs without shadow, having neither beginning nor end. The rise and fall of life and death are but the natural order, endless and unbroken, yet you tremble in fear before this ceaseless transformation.

Again, I play melodies tuned to the harmony of yin and yang, illuminated by the radiance of sun and moon. These tones may stretch long or snap short, soften or harden, infinitely mutable yet ever harmonious, unconstrained by fixed form. They fill mountain valleys and gullies, sealing every crevice. Clearing my mind to preserve the primordial spirit (Shen), I follow the innate nature of all things. This music resounds vast and lingering, its name lofty and bright, resonating with spirits in the netherworld while keeping sun, moon and stars on their celestial paths. The composition pauses where boundaries exist, yet flows boundless where none remain. You strain to comprehend but grasp nothing, peer intently but see nothing, chase desperately but catch nothing. Standing bewildered at the crossroads, you lean against a withered parasol tree and sigh: "Vision fails when fixed on objects, strength exhausts when chasing goals. Since catching up proves impossible, better to empty the physical form and attain alignment with spontaneous nature (Wuwei)." Yet in this alignment, you find only weariness.

Once more I perform awakening harmonies, attuned to the Dao of nature. These sounds resemble the chaotic growth of all things—forests rejoicing without visible form, scattering freely yet never dissipating, dim and obscure yet never silent. They move without fixed position, dwell in profound darkness. Some call this death, others call it life; some name it fruit, others name it blossom. Flowing and spreading, they refuse stagnant regularity. Perplexed, people turn to sages for answers. The so-called sage is one who understands the nature of all beings and follows celestial destiny (Tianming). When the mechanisms of heaven remain hidden, all faculties of perception are already complete—this is "heavenly music." Wordless, it gladdens the heart. Thus did the Divine Farmer (Emperor Yan) praise it: "Listen—yet no sound is heard; look—yet no form is seen. It fills heaven and earth, envelops the six directions." You long to hear it but find nothing to grasp, hence your confusion.

The way of music begins with awe—awe brings solemnity; then shifts to weariness—weariness seeks escape; finally resolves in perplexity—perplexity reveals simplicity. This very simplicity constitutes the realm of the great Dao (Da Dao), which carries all things forward in shared journey.

Guo Xiang (Jin Dynasty commentator on Zhuangzi) explains: "Not attaining self-contentment" refers to the state of sitting-in-forgetfulness (Zuowang) where self and objects dissolve. Supreme joy is not about specific sounds, but first aligning with heavenly principles and human sentiment, ultimately becoming one with the inner heart.

This passage elucidates the Daoist understanding of "supreme joy" (至乐). The perfection of the Yellow Emperor's "Xianchi" musical composition lies in its alignment with the natural rhythms of Yin-Yang transformation. True joy resembles the spontaneous sounds echoing through mountain valleys—it requires no forced pursuit, only harmonious accord with the intrinsic patterns of all things.

The cosmic harmonies (律吕) of heaven and earth exist everywhere inherently. When we refrain from artificial interference, perfect joy manifests completely of its own accord. This joy has neither beginning nor end, eternally flowing like the transformations of Yin-Yang. Initially encountering this boundless mutability, people may feel awe, for it defies singular measurement. Yet through true understanding, one can employ the Dao's principles as naturally as the sun and moon traverse their courses.

Authentic joy resides in: settling the Shen (spirit) without clinging to particular objects. Like deities content in their stations, or celestial bodies moving in orderly procession, it pauses when pausing is natural and flows when flowing is appropriate. Forced pursuit only creates grasping—better to release attachments and follow the transformations. Those attaining this state stand as if in boundless emptiness, with body and mind in complete relaxation.

Human wisdom and capability have limits, yet relinquishing bodily fixation brings unimpeded expansion. Fear naturally dissipates, and even the notion of "not fearing" is released—this constitutes the supreme state. All phenomena in life arise spontaneously, requiring no deliberate action. True joy is precisely appropriate comfort, existing within yet formless, manifesting naturally without ostentation.

This supreme joy stirs in stillness and dwells in profundity. Facing life-death transitions, gain-loss fluctuations, and gathering-dispersing changes, it clings to no fixed condition but adapts with circumstances. When worldly people raise doubts, sages (those who have attained the Dao) respond according to situational needs. Genuine joy needs no forced display—when the heart is naturally at ease, it suffices. The ancient hymns of the Youyan clan perfectly embodied this "joy beyond joy" as the highest state.

Initial pursuit may evoke reverence—this isn't yet complete harmony; next comes relaxation as attachments gradually diminish; finally one reaches what appears as dullness, yet this ignorance-as-ultimate-wisdom constitutes true Dao.

When Confucius traveled through the various states and arrived in Wei, his disciple Yan Yuan asked Master Jin (the Grand Preceptor of Lu): "How will this journey fare for our teacher?" Master Jin sighed and said, "Alas, I fear your teacher will encounter hardship." When Yan Yuan pressed for an explanation, Master Jin offered this analogy:

Before the ritual, straw dogs (sacrificial offerings made of grass) are reverently placed in bamboo containers, covered with embroidered cloth, and priests fast and purify themselves to receive them. Yet after the ceremony, passersby trample on their heads and backs, and woodcutters gather them for kindling. If someone were to place these used straw dogs back in their containers and keep vigil beside them, it would not bring auspicious dreams but rather nightmares.

Now, the ancient rituals Confucius venerates are like these used straw dogs. He and his disciples cling stubbornly to these outdated practices, which is why he was driven out of Song by men who sought to cut down the tree he rested under (referring to the threat from Sima Huan Tui), barred from staying in Wei, and met with rejection in the lands of the former Shang and Zhou dynasties—are these not nightmares? When he was trapped between Chen and Cai for seven days without hot food, nearly starving to death—was this not calamity?

For crossing water, nothing beats a boat; for traveling on land, nothing beats a cart. If you insist on dragging a boat across land, you won’t get far in a lifetime. The difference between ancient and modern times is like that between water and land; the distinction between the Zhou and Lu states is like that between a boat and a cart. To impose Zhou’s ways on Lu is like pushing a boat on land—a futile effort inviting disaster.

Consider the well-sweep (an ancient water-drawing device): it lowers when pulled by the rope and rises when released. It follows human action without resistance, thus offending no one. The rituals and systems of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors were not about identical forms but effective governance. Just as pears, oranges, and pomelos differ in taste but are all delicious, rituals and institutions must adapt to their times.

Dress a monkey in the ceremonial robes of the Duke of Zhou, and it will surely tear them apart to feel comfortable. The gap between ancient and modern is as vast as that between a monkey and the Duke of Zhou. When Xi Shi (the legendary beauty) frowned from heartache, an ugly village girl thought it charming and imitated her, only to frighten the rich into shutting their doors and the poor into fleeing with their families—she knew the frown was beautiful but not why. Your teacher, too, will suffer for this!

This passage presents Zhuangzi's profound insights on ritual systems and methods of seeking the Dao. It begins with the analogy of Xishi (an ancient beauty): timely rituals are like the beautiful Xishi, while outdated rituals resemble an ugly person. The systems of rites established by the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors were originally meant to suit their times—if one stubbornly clings to old institutions when times have changed, they become harmful instead.

The narrative then recounts how Confucius, still unenlightened at fifty-one, traveled south to visit Laozi (Lao Dan). When Laozi asked how Confucius sought the Dao, Confucius replied he first spent five years studying ritual systems without success, then twelve years researching Yin-Yang theory to no avail. Laozi pointed out that the Dao cannot be given like a material gift, for true Dao requires inner realization (what cannot be retained without an inner anchor) and cannot be forced through external forms (what cannot progress without proper outward correspondence). When sages transmit the Dao, it isn't through external instruction—the key lies in the practitioner's own awakening.

Finally, the "temporary lodge" (qúlú) metaphor illustrates the treatment of benevolence and righteousness: the ancient perfected ones (those who attained the Dao) treated these virtues as mere waystations, dwelling instead in the realm of carefree wandering. Genuine cultivation should be simple and unadorned (plain and easily sustained), free from dependence on externalities (neither borrowing nor expending), maintaining a state of emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei (non-action). This embodies the core Daoist principle of "the Dao follows nature," emphasizing that inner awakening far outweighs external forms.

Those who pursued wealth and high status in ancient times would never yield their emoluments to others; those who sought fame would never relinquish their reputation; those obsessed with power would never surrender their authority. Clutching their privileges with trembling hands, they grieve bitterly when losing them. Blind to their insatiable desires, they become pitiable souls punished by heaven.

Resentment and favor, taking and giving, admonishment and instruction, granting life or death—these eight are legitimate means of governing the world. Yet only those who follow the natural patterns of the Dao (the Way) and remain unclouded by selfish desires can wield them properly. Thus, "rectitude" means aligning one's heart. If the mind does not embrace this principle, the gate to heavenly Dao will never open.

Guo Xiang (the commentator) uses the dialogue between Confucius and Laozi here to illustrate that true profound knowledge transcends worldly understanding. Without an inner master (realization of Dao), even hearing the truth cannot be genuinely accepted; lacking proper external guidance while being inwardly unanchored, external things cannot help one comprehend truth. What flows naturally from within constitutes the way of sages—this manifests only when met by receptive individuals externally.

Those who cultivate their nature through external learning rely on study for self-improvement, yet the key lies in possessing the innate capacity to realize Dao. Without this fundamental inner quality, one cannot truly grasp the sages' way. Fame is what all under heaven pursue, but excessive craving for empty reputation leads to social chaos. Benevolence and righteousness are like temporary shelters—part of human nature, yet human nature changes with the times. Ancient and modern differ, so we must adapt flexibly. Clinging stubbornly to one extreme breeds hypocrisy, and excessive hypocrisy invites censure.

The true Dao should shift like borrowing a path or lodging temporarily—it leaves no fixed tracks. Carefree non-action (Wuwei) is the right path; deliberate effort violates benevolence and righteousness. Simple living is easily sustained; those who "borrow nothing" (refraining from compromising their true nature) preserve their authentic selves. Those maintaining genuineness wear no false expressions. Most people suffer from opposing what they dislike while desperately chasing what they deem correct. This obsessive pursuit instead costs them their lives, for they fail to stand where their nature remains unharmed.

Those who cling to power grieve when letting go yet tremble while holding on. Blind to their boundless cravings, knowing only to advance without stopping, they ultimately forfeit their lives. When heaven's gate closes, it signifies that clinging stubbornly to outdated views makes one lose the true path.

When Confucius spoke of benevolence and righteousness to Laozi, the latter said: "Chaff blown about will blind your eyes" (meaning obsession with virtues obscures the great Dao).

This passage comes from the Zhuangzi·Tiān Yùn chapter, exploring through a dialogue between Confucius and Laozi the relationship between the natural Dao and artificial human virtues.

The text describes: When heaven and earth lose their proper alignment and mosquitoes bite one's skin, people cannot sleep through the night. Similarly, forcibly promoting humaneness and righteousness (renyi) is like agitating our inner being - nothing creates greater disturbance. You (referring to Laozi) advocate letting the world maintain its natural, simple essence, moving freely like the wind and standing firm in De (Virtue). Why must we beat drums searching for fugitives while conspicuously displaying human virtues? Swans need not bathe daily to remain white; crows need no daily dyeing to stay black—their fundamental natures clearly distinguish them without artificial discrimination. The empty glitter of reputation isn't worth pursuing. When springs dry up, fish on land moisten each other with spit, but this cannot compare to forgetting each other while swimming freely in rivers and lakes.

After meeting Laozi, Confucius remained silent for three days. When disciples asked what advice he'd received, he sighed: "Now I have seen the dragon! When gathered, it forms perfect unity; when dispersed, it displays magnificent patterns. Riding clouds and mist, it nurtures yin and yang. My jaw hangs open in awe—what advice could I possibly offer?" Guo Xiang's commentary notes: External impositions injure innate nature; forced displays of virtue disrupt natural harmony. Preserve simple authenticity, and human virtues manifest spontaneously. Like the swan's natural whiteness or crow's inherent blackness, those perfectly content care nothing for reputation. The "humaneness" of fish spitting moisture in drought pales before their natural state of mutual forgetting in vast waters. Laozi, dragon-like in his transformations, has attained perfect natural fulfillment.

Zigong asked: "Can there truly be one who appears still as a corpse yet moves like a manifesting dragon, silent as deep abyss yet thundering when speaking, whose movements mirror heaven and earth?" He then imitated Confucius' manner to request audience. Laozi sat quietly in his hall, remarking lightly: "My years have grown long—what warnings would you give me?" Zigong replied: "The Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed differently, yet equally sought fame..." (The subsequent content remains incomplete). This dialogue continues revealing Daoism's critique of deliberate reputation-seeking, emphasizing the supreme state of natural wuwei (non-action).

This dialogue takes place between Laozi (Lao Dan) and a young man discussing the governance methods of ancient sage-kings. The young man argues that the approaches of sages like Yao, Shun, and Yu differed significantly: Yao passed his throne to Shun, Shun to Yu; Yu governed through military force, Tang of Shang used armies to overthrow Jie, King Wen of Zhou submitted to Tyrant Zhou while King Wu resisted—thus their methods varied.

Laozi urges the young man to reconsider more carefully, then elaborates on the distinctive characteristics of each sage-king's rule: During the Yellow Emperor's era, people's hearts were pure and simple—no one was blamed for not weeping when relatives died. In Yao's time, people began valuing familial bonds, yet observing mourning rites wasn't criticized. Under Shun, competitiveness emerged—infants could speak at five months and recognize people before growing up. By Yu's reign, human hearts had changed: selfishness appeared, killing became normalized, and executing thieves wasn't considered murder.

Laozi then critiques the rule of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors (legendary ancient sage-kings), arguing their so-called governance actually created great chaos. Their wisdom violated natural law: above, it contradicted the radiance of sun and moon; below, it disrupted the essence of mountains and rivers; in between, it damaged the operation of the four seasons. Such wisdom proved more venomous than a scorpion's sting, leaving even wild beasts unable to live in peace. Laozi rhetorically asks: Shouldn't such men feel ashamed to call themselves sages?

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: When no one was blamed for not weeping at a relative's death, it was because forced weeping would be hypocritical; "killing their killings" refers to hierarchical differences in mourning rituals; five-month-old infants speaking results from excessive haste in education; "recognizing" implies distinguishing self from others; identifying people prematurely shows overeager moral indoctrination. Once human hearts begin discriminating between intimacy and distance, fulfilling one's natural lifespan becomes difficult. With the world already unstable, killing thieves was deemed justified—yet this prevents true equality among all things, instead deepening divisions between people.

Laozi concludes: What these so-called sages called governance actually inherited accumulated malpractices across generations, now converging into greater problems in the present age.

This passage explores the relationship between Confucian classics and the natural Dao through a dialogue between Confucius and Laozi (Lao Dan).

Laozi points out that the Six Classics (The Book of Songs, Documents, Rites, Music, Changes, and Spring and Autumn Annals) are merely outdated traces left by ancient kings—like footprints that show where shoes have been, but are not the shoes themselves. He uses natural phenomena as metaphors: egrets reproduce through eye contact, insects mate through chirping—these are all examples of spontaneous "wind transformation" (feng hua). The true Dao operates through such natural resonance, requiring no deliberate action (Wuwei).

Initially, Confucius persisted in using the Six Classics to persuade feudal lords, yet none of the seventy-two rulers adopted his teachings. Laozi remarked this was actually fortunate, as the classics represent artificial conventions rather than natural authenticity (zhen xing). After three months of reflection, Confucius realized: crows and magpies naturally feed their young, fish reproduce through mouth bubbles, and parasitic wasps transform other insects—all examples of natural resonance. If humans cannot synchronize with nature's transformations, how can they hope to educate others?

Guo Xiang's commentary further explains that "authentic nature" means conforming to each thing's inherent characteristics. The Six Classics are merely external manifestations of this nature. Just as birds use eye contact and insects use sounds to communicate—all achieving reproduction without deliberate union—different species have unique ways of resonance, infinitely varied. Imposing fixed norms (like the Six Classics) as constraints would obstruct the natural operation of Dao.

This dialogue embodies the Daoist critique of Confucian ritualism, emphasizing the importance of emulating nature's spontaneous, non-coercive way of resonance rather than clinging to human-made rules and institutions.

This passage from Zhuangzi Yi elucidates the principle of harmonizing with natural transformation. Those who comprehend the fundamental patterns of existence encounter no difficulty in resonating with the myriad changes of all things. Like the wind that stirs all beings to spontaneous response, the perfected person (one of supreme Daoist cultivation) aligns with the Dao's natural rhythms, thus embodying boundless capability.

To discuss "transformation" itself admits no fixed formula, for all phenomena undergo natural metamorphosis; yet those who lose their innate nature forfeit even the capacity for discourse. Consider how fish blowing bubbles manifests their spontaneous essence, or how a brother's tears flow when his sibling receives favor—each expresses intrinsic nature. Those truly unified with transformation become the very process that allows things to change naturally. Forcing Confucian Six Classics to explain such phenomena only reveals pedantry.

Chapter 15, "Deliberate Action," enumerates five pursuits: recluses flaunting purity while critiquing others under the guise of discussing virtue; moralists propagating benevolence and loyalty to reform society; fame-seekers fixated on statecraft; lakeside hermits indulging in idle non-action (Wuwei); and practitioners of daoyin (ancient longevity techniques) emulating Pengzu (the legendary 800-year-old sage).

Yet the perfected person needs no deliberate striving: nobility arises without posturing, virtue flourishes without moralizing, governance succeeds without seeking office, serenity persists without seclusion, and longevity endures without breath-control. Forgetting all yet possessing all, their mind attains ultimate tranquility while spontaneously embodying every excellence. This constitutes the Dao of heaven-earth and the virtue (De) of sages.

Thus it is said: serenity, stillness, emptiness, and non-action (Wuwei) form the root of cosmic order and the essence of true virtue. Guo Xiang (Jin dynasty commentator) observes: while all five types achieve partial freedom, each remains confined to their domain, unlike sages who let all things fulfill their nature. "Non-deliberation" means following spontaneity; "forgetting yet possessing all" means embracing totality through self-effacement.

When one deliberately clings to the concept of "being" (you), one actually fails to grasp its true essence. What we call "being" does not come through forced pursuit, but naturally manifests when we relinquish attachment. If one strives compulsively, one becomes entangled in endless vexations. Heaven and earth never deliberately create the myriad things, yet all beings grow naturally; the sage does not consciously regulate various actions, yet all virtues (De) become complete. This is the fundamental state of heaven and earth and the essential characteristic of Dao and De—only by maintaining emptiness, stillness, and non-action (Wuwei) can this authentic condition be preserved.

Thus, when the sage abides in emptiness and stillness, harmony is maintained; when the mind is balanced, it becomes serene and detached. Once this state is attained, sorrow cannot penetrate, and perverse Qi cannot invade. Therefore, one preserves one's virtue (De) and keeps the spirit (Shen) undiminished. The sage's life follows the natural course of things, and death is like the transformation of all beings. In stillness, one shares the virtue of yin; in movement, one aligns with the rhythm of yang. One does not actively seek blessings, nor does one invite misfortune—responding only when stimulated, acting only when moved, rising only when compelled. Abandoning cleverness and artifice, one follows the natural order, thus avoiding heavenly calamities, worldly entanglements, human censure, or ghostly reproach. To live is like floating, to die is like rest—without scheming or forethought. Radiant yet not dazzling, sincere yet not seeking reward. One sleeps without dreams, wakes without worries, with a spirit pure and undiminished. This state of emptiness and tranquility is what accords with the Dao of heaven.

Therefore, sorrow and joy are deviations of virtue (De); delight and anger are transgressions of the Dao; preferences and aversions are deficiencies of De. To have neither sorrow nor joy in the heart is the perfection of De; to remain unwavering is the perfection of stillness; to encounter no resistance is the perfection of emptiness; to avoid entanglement with external things is the perfection of detachment; and to have no opposition is the perfection of purity.

Guo Xiang's commentary: Abiding in tranquility and solitude, resting in emptiness and non-action (Wuwei), even when facing danger and change, one remains steady and free from calamity. Calamity arises from deliberate action, and deliberate action also invites calamity—thus, simplicity and tranquility complement each other. That sorrow cannot invade and perverse Qi cannot penetrate is because one walks entirely in accord with the true Dao. If the mind is neither balanced nor detached, not only will the body suffer harm, but the inner spiritual virtue (De) will also be lost. To follow the natural course is to move in accordance with one's nature; the transformation of all things is their natural fading and dissolution. Without conscious intent in movement or stillness, one fully aligns with the principles of yin and yang, responding only after being stimulated.

This passage expounds the Daoist principles of cultivating one's mind and nature. Zhuangzi believed that humans should act in accordance with natural principles, just like singing when compelled—a spontaneous response rather than deliberate action. Going against natural laws invites disaster, while opposing the inherent nature of things creates burdens.

Those who have truly attained the Dao share much in common with ordinary people because they follow nature's course. What sets them apart is their inner contentment and ease, which shields them from censure by spirits. They view life and death with the detachment of floating on water, entrusting everything to natural laws without premeditation, responding only when principles manifest. They radiate light without dazzling, for they employ the world's inherent illumination; they maintain sincerity without compulsion, for they embody the world's intrinsic trustworthiness.

Such individuals harbor no desires, dreamless in sleep and untroubled upon waking. With purified Shen (spirit) and unweary Hun (ethereal soul), they harmonize with heaven and earth's tranquil De (Virtue). The highest virtue lies in maintaining constant equanimity, where emotions remain unswayed by external things. A mind serene and unified becomes immutable; when emptiness reaches its zenith, it encounters no resistance from the myriad things.

The water metaphor illustrates: physical exhaustion leads to decay, while overusing one's Shen results in fatigue, and fatigue brings depletion. Water stays clear when unmixed and calm when undisturbed, yet if stagnantly confined without flow, it cannot maintain clarity—this symbolizes heavenly De. Hence the teaching: remain purely unadulterated, quietly focused, detached and practicing Wuwei (non-action), moving in accordance with heaven's Dao—this constitutes the method for nurturing Shen.

Like treasured Wu-Yue swords kept sheathed and seldom drawn, our most precious Shen should flow freely—reaching heaven above and earth below, nurturing all things without revealing form. This state is called "being equal to the Divine Emperor." The Way of pristine simplicity lies in guarding one's Shen, preserving it unspoiled, and uniting with it completely. This purity represents harmony with heaven's Dao.

A folk saying observes: common people value profit, the principled cherish reputation, the worthy esteem aspirations, while sages treasure Shen. What is called "plainness" means being unadulterated; "purity" means keeping one's Shen unharmed. Those who comprehend the Way of pure simplicity may be called "zhenren" (true humans).

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: Without rest comes decay, without cessation comes fatigue, and fatigue leads to exhaustion—this universal principle governing all things cannot be violated. Water's nature symbolizes heavenly De because it selflessly harmonizes with all existence.

This passage from The Wings of Zhuangzi expounds the principles of self-cultivation. It begins by describing the state of "union" (referring to harmony with the Dao) as one of purity, free from adulteration, maintaining stillness and single-minded focus. Action should follow natural laws; if one chases external objects, it becomes artificial effort. Just as a sword connoisseur carefully preserves their blade, practitioners should cherish their spiritual energy (Shen) even more.

A truly enlightened spirit can ascend to the heavens and descend to the earth, resonating with the patterns of all things in the universe. Those capable of nurturing and transforming myriad beings do so by aligning with nature’s operations, not by arbitrarily wielding spiritual power. Such a state resembles the Celestial Emperor’s (Tian Di) wuwei (non-action), effortlessly fostering all creation.

"Purity and simplicity" (chun su) are the essence of cultivation. Preserving one’s innate purity without being swayed by external things leads to unity with the Dao. Spirit (Shen) is the fundamental nature of things—there is no need to deliberately guard it, nor to excessively emphasize vital essence (Jing) or energy (Qi). The key lies in not depleting one’s inherent nature. True purity means maintaining authenticity despite all transformations; true simplicity means possessing the grace of dragons and phoenixes yet remaining unadorned. Losing one’s natural disposition in pursuit of external embellishment is like draping dogs and sheep in lavish furs—how could that be called purity and simplicity?

In the chapter "Mending Nature" (Shan Xing), the text critiques using worldly knowledge to cultivate one’s inherent nature, arguing that this instead obscures innate qualities. Ancient Daoist practitioners nurtured wisdom through tranquility, born without striving for cleverness. Wisdom and serenity nourished each other, allowing harmony to manifest naturally. Virtue (De) that embraces all is benevolence (Ren); the Dao that encompasses everything is righteousness (Yi). When principles are clear, all things draw near; when the heart-mind is genuine and returns to its nature, joy arises. Sincere words and measured actions align with ritual propriety (Li). Yet excessive enforcement of ritual and music leads to chaos in the world. True cultivation means rectifying oneself without imposing on others—otherwise, all things lose their inherent nature.

Guo Xiang’s commentary notes: Those who have already cultivated their nature through worldly methods and then seek to restore their original nature through worldly learning are fundamentally mistaken. When the mind is already disturbed by mundane concerns, yet one still uses worldly thinking to seek clarity, the more refined the calculations, the further one strays from the Dao.

To awaken the obscured mind, one must first distance oneself from worldly desires to approach the realm of Dao. Only by maintaining inner tranquility can one truly perceive things without delusion; perceiving without delusion preserves one's original nature. There's no need to deliberately pursue knowledge—knowing things naturally while remaining serene and unperturbed is true wisdom even when comprehending all things.

Genuine wisdom does not arise from forced action and thus does not disrupt inner peace; acting naturally from a peaceful mind does not impair one's capacity for understanding. These two nourish each other, and the principle of harmony manifests spontaneously—why seek it externally? Therefore, those who attain Dao embrace all things effortlessly. This is not deliberate benevolence, yet De (Virtue) naturally emerges; they harmonize all without conscious righteousness, yet righteous conduct shines forth.

If one pursues superficial morality without sincerity, they drift further from the true nature of things. When benevolence and righteousness arise from the heart and return to authenticity, aspirations are fulfilled. Fulfilled aspirations manifest outwardly as joy; words and deeds aligned with natural rhythms manifest as propriety. Imposing personal standards and preferences upon the world satisfies only one aspect while losing myriad others.

Each person should cultivate their own nature and perfect their own De (Virtue), never imposing their standards on others. Forcing others to conform to one's own measures—how could this not cause them to lose their true nature?

Worldly learning and thinking only disturb one's inherent nature. Nature must be restored through cultivation, yet conventional knowledge cannot restore it; wisdom must be attained through reflection, yet ordinary thinking cannot grasp true wisdom. What is called "worldly" exists in contrast to the "authentic." Deliberate artifice already deviates from Dao—how much more so does imitation? A cluttered mind is already mistaken—how much more so forced contemplation? Such approaches not only fail to dispel obscurity but add further obstructions.

Nourishing wisdom through serene detachment is the key to restoring one's nature and attaining genuine knowledge. Wisdom is human awareness—this nature can be cultivated through serenity but cannot be adorned with worldly knowledge or disturbed by chaotic thinking. The awakened follow spontaneity, practicing Wuwei (non-action). What is called "nourishing wisdom" may appear to cultivate understanding, yet wisdom's essence is originally empty and unattached. It seems like knowing, yet in truth, it does nothing.

Similarly, using wisdom to nourish serenity—serenity resembles what Chan Buddhists call "non-knowing," while wisdom resembles their "knowing non-being." In serenity, wisdom resides within serenity; in wisdom, serenity resides within wisdom. Thus, wisdom and serenity mutually nourish each other. In this way, Dao, De (Virtue), benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, propriety, and joy all interpenetrate seamlessly, like the natural grain of wood.

This passage explores the process of moral evolution and how human-imposed rituals and music education damage natural instincts.

All things must have roots to flourish with branches and leaves—this is the natural order and cannot be called biased. When actions do not arise from innate nature but merely pursue the forms of ritual and music, it is abandoning the root for the branches, becoming fragmented by worldly learning, leading to great disorder under heaven. When the understanding of the Dao of serenity and the nourishment of knowledge coexist, humaneness, righteousness, rituals, and music merge into complete Virtue (De). When they separate, Virtue fractures into superficial displays of humaneness and righteousness. This is the fundamental distinction between true learning and vulgar learning.

The people of high antiquity lived in a state of primal simplicity, when the entire era maintained tranquility and detachment. At that time, Yin and Yang were harmonized, spirits caused no disturbances, the four seasons followed their order, the myriad beings suffered no harm, and all creatures lived out their natural lifespans. Though people possessed wisdom, they had no use for it—this was the state of "utmost oneness" (zhiyi). Everything followed Wuwei (non-action) and operated spontaneously. Later, the Dao and Virtue gradually declined:

When Suirenshi and Fuxishi governed the world, people were compliant but not unified. By the time of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor, society was stable but no longer natural. When it reached the eras of Yao and Shun, the great flourishing of education caused the dissipation of pristine simplicity and a departure from the Dao. People used "goodness" to promote themselves and "virtuous conduct" to constrain behavior, gradually losing their innate nature and following the dictates of intellect. When intellect began calculating against intellect, it could no longer bring stability to the world, so embellishments were added and erudition expanded. As a result, ornamentation obscured essence, and erudition drowned out the original mind. The common people became confused and chaotic, unable to return to their authentic state.

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: In high antiquity, wisdom had no use because everything followed nature completely. The root of the decline of the Dao and Virtue lies in later sages failing to maintain the tradition of governing through Wuwei (non-action). Rulers admired the appearance of non-action but could not achieve its true practice. "Compliant but not unified" means people had already lost the state of pure oneness; "stable but not compliant" refers to forcibly accepting circumstances. True sages have no intention to interfere, allowing affairs to develop spontaneously. Though the governing methods of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors changed with the times, the Dao of the sages remained complete. "Goodness" is actually the result of excessive pursuit of suitability—thus having good deeds ironically makes the Dao incomplete; "conduct" violates innate nature—thus establishing norms ironically makes Virtue unbalanced. Abandoning one's nature to be driven by intellect is enslaving oneself with the mind.

(Note: "Utmost oneness" refers to the highest Daoist state where all things exist in undifferentiated unity; "Suirenshi," "Fuxishi," etc. are legendary rulers of high antiquity; "Guo Xiang" was a Western Jin dynasty Neo-Daoist philosopher who annotated the Zhuangzi.)

This passage explores the relationship between the Dao (the Way) and the mundane world, as well as the true meaning of reclusion.

When people become obsessed with debating right and wrong or measuring gains and losses, they lose their natural essence. True wisdom lies not in using knowledge to rule the world, but in forgetting these artificial constructs and returning to one's innate nature. Flowery rhetoric merely adorns the mind, while original nature remains the fundamental root of life.

Here we see how the mundane world and the great Dao stand in opposition. The Dao exists precisely because it isn't valued by the mundane world—the moment worldly people prize it, the Dao is lost. Those who truly attain the Dao cannot prevent the world from valuing it, nor can the worldly refrain from valuing it, thus creating this mutual contradiction. Only when neither side deliberately emphasizes it can they actually complement each other.

The ancient so-called recluses didn't hide from human contact, didn't seal their lips in silence, nor did they conceal their wisdom—they simply responded to unfavorable circumstances. When times were favorable, they spread the Dao throughout the world; when times were adverse, they cultivated stillness while awaiting opportunity. This represents the correct method for preserving one's essential being.

Guo Xiang's commentary observes: The Dao exists precisely because it isn't treasured. Deliberately pursuing reclusion would only attract worldly attention instead. True recluses don't need to hide intentionally—they follow nature's flow, maintaining inner peace even in turbulent times while awaiting the proper moment. When such people exist, the world naturally flourishes.

Those in ancient times skilled at self-preservation never used clever debate to flaunt wisdom, nor employed intellectual tricks to transform the world. They understood that excessive pursuit of external display leads to loss of essence—the more one chases superficial phenomena, the farther one strays from the fundamental root.

Do not use cunning intelligence to deliberately pursue Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue). Abide serenely in your inherent role and return to your natural disposition—what need is there for forced effort? The Dao does not manifest in trivial actions, nor does De reveal itself in petty knowledge. Fragmentary understanding damages true virtue, while minor deeds injure the fundamental Dao. Thus, simply rectify yourself—when emotions are whole and complete, that is true attainment.

What the ancients called "attainment" was not high positions or lavish emoluments, but rather the fullness of inner joy requiring no addition. What modern people call "attainment" refers solely to official rank and ceremonial caps. These trappings are not intrinsic to life—they are merely external things temporarily lodged with us. When such things come, we cannot refuse them; when they depart, we cannot retain them. Therefore, do not let your heart run wild because of office, nor conform to vulgar customs because of poverty. Whether in wealth or destitution, joy remains the same—it is enough to be free from care.

Nowadays, people lose their joy when deprived of external things. From this we see that what they call joy has never truly escaped agitation. Thus, those who lose themselves in objects and forfeit their nature to worldly ways are like confused people who mistake the branch for the root.

(Guo Xiang's commentary adds:) Do not adorn wisdom with clever rhetoric—preserve genuine understanding instead. Do not force Dao and De through cunning—simply guard what comes naturally. "Serenely" describes the posture of standing upright and independent. The great Dao does not manifest in trivial actions but flows smoothly along level paths; great De does not appear in minor knowledge but permeates all things seamlessly. Those who attain their true aspiration maintain inner equanimity, free from the fluctuations of sorrow and joy—this is the fullest state of emotion.

The phrase "requiring no addition" means being inwardly complete and self-sufficient. The coming and going of external things lies beyond human control; gain and loss are not ours to determine. To dwell in detachment, unaware of external things lodged with us; to abide in expansive freedom, unconcerned whether hardship belongs to us—this is seeing through the nature of wealth and poverty.

To be "free from care" is to lack any special excitement. Those who lose joy when deprived of external things reveal that their hearts were already barren even when possessing them—they have substituted the outer for the inner. When externals overflow while internals are depleted, that is indeed mistaking the branch for the root.

Chapter 17 of Autumn Floods recounts:

When the autumn floods came, hundreds of streams poured into the Yellow River, swelling its waters so wide that one could not distinguish oxen from horses on opposite banks. Thereupon the River God (He Bo) swelled with pride, believing all beauty under heaven belonged to him alone. But when he followed the current eastward to the North Sea and gazed eastward without seeing its limits, he turned his face to the Sea God (Ruo) and sighed: "The proverb says, 'He who has heard many truths thinks no one equals himself'—it speaks of me!"

(He then realizes his former shallow understanding, like summer insects that cannot comprehend ice, or a frog in a well that cannot imagine the ocean. He sees that Bo Yi's righteousness, though seemingly noble, was actually limited, and Confucius's learning, though seemingly vast, remained insufficient.)

The Sea God Ruo of the Northern Sea (the Daoist deity of the North Sea) said to the River Earl: "One cannot speak of the ocean with a frog at the bottom of a well, for it is confined by narrow space. One cannot discuss ice and snow with summer insects, for they are bound by seasonal limitations. Nor can one discourse on the great Dao with those of shallow understanding, for they are constrained by conventional teachings. Now that you've stepped beyond your riverbanks and witnessed the vast sea, realizing your own insignificance, we may finally speak of heaven and earth's ultimate principles."

No body of water under heaven compares to the sea's immensity. Countless rivers flow into it ceaselessly, yet its waters never overflow. Though the mythical Weilu drain continuously discharges them, the sea never runs dry. Unaffected by seasonal changes or droughts and floods, it remains eternally constant. While its capacity far surpasses rivers and streams, it never grows arrogant, for it understands itself as but a speck between heaven and earth, born of the interplay between Yin and Yang Qi. My existence between heaven and earth resembles small stones and saplings upon Mount Tai—precisely when feeling my insignificance, how could I possibly become conceited?

The Four Seas within heaven and earth are like anthills in vast marshland; the Central Plains within the Four Seas resemble a single millet grain in a great granary. When people speak of "the myriad creatures," humanity is but one among them. Across the Nine Provinces, humans cluster where crops grow and boats travel—compared to all existence, we're like a single hair on a horse's body. The empire ceremoniously passed down by the Five Emperors (legendary sage rulers), the kingdoms contested by the Three Kings (founders of Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties), the affairs that consumed benevolent scholars—all are but motes of dust. Boyi relinquished his throne to seek fame; Confucius traveled between states to display erudition—was their self-satisfaction not akin to your earlier pride in your river's waters?

Guo Xiang (the Jin dynasty commentator) annotates: The phrase "unable to distinguish ox from horse" illustrates the sea's boundless expanse. Those truly illuminated by the Dao are often mocked by the widely learned, for recognizing their own smallness prevents arrogant self-importance—this constitutes genuine understanding of heaven's principle. All creatures find contentment in their proper places, each with inherent limits. Only by recognizing one's fundamental nature can one discuss the great Dao. Compare the hundred streams to the Yellow River, the Yellow River to the sea, the sea to heaven and earth—thus comprehending each has its measure. These words may seem to understand smallness through observing greatness, yet contain deeper meaning: worldly people suffer from discontent, hence vast things feel melancholy loss while tiny things remain complacent—thus high and low forever compare and boast.

People often seek the right path in their confusion, yet nothing points the way more clearly than returning to the natural state of things. What we call "greatness" (referring to the boundless realm) is a state of complete self-sufficiency, where even something as tiny as the tip of an autumn hair cannot burden heaven and earth. What we call "smallness" (referring to the most subtle existence) is a state of perfect adequacy, where heaven and earth are no more complete than that autumn hair. When those who are lost understand this truth, they return to their original nature, each abiding in their proper place, wandering freely in self-contentment. This is the true essence Zhuangzi sought to convey.

If one values only greatness and dismisses smallness, or mistakes the few for the many, they fall into the trap of comparative judgments, fueling a competitive mindset—utterly contrary to Zhuangzi's intention. Greatness and smallness each have their own inherent logic and cannot be compared. Just as the actions of ancient sages were confined to specific spheres—all things have their limits, and even the wisest cannot transcend them. The distinction between great and small is proposed precisely to illustrate that the highest truth lies beyond such dualities.

He Bo (the Yellow River deity) asked: "Then may I consider heaven and earth as great and the tip of a hair as small?" Ruo of the Northern Sea replied: "No. For the measures of all things are boundless, time never ceases, gain and loss have no fixed pattern, and beginnings and endings follow no set model. Those with true wisdom see through near and far—thus the small does not seem lacking, nor the great excessive. Understanding the infinity of time and space, they neither fret over distance nor grasp at what is near. Perceiving the cycles of rise and fall, they neither rejoice excessively in gain nor grieve over loss. Knowing the impermanence of fate, they regard life and death as ordinary paths—neither overly pleased with life nor considering death a calamity."

What humans know will always pale before the unknown, and the span of life is far shorter than the time before birth. To use finite existence to exhaust the infinite realm only leads one astray. Given this, how can we use the tip of a hair to define the limits of the smallest, or heaven and earth to measure the boundaries of the greatest?

Guo Xiang (the Jin dynasty commentator) annotates: "'The measures of things are boundless' means each thing has its own standard; 'time never ceases' means life and death are manifestations of time's flow; 'gains and losses are impermanent' means they are arranged by fate; 'beginnings and endings have no fixed cause' means all things renew themselves daily; 'neither lacking nor excessive' means all things are inherently self-sufficient."

Through the dialogue between He Bo and Ruo of the Northern Sea, this passage elucidates the core idea of Zhuangzi's "Equalizing All Things": transcending attachments to relative concepts like great/small, many/few, and gain/loss to recognize the inherent completeness of all things' nature. Only by moving beyond such distinctions can one attain the realm of carefree wandering.

This passage explores the Daoist perspective on the relativity of perception and the essence of life. The general meaning is as follows:

All things have their inherent limits—distance and proximity, largeness and smallness, past and present, length and brevity are all relative. Understanding that time never ceases allows one to see through the transformations of life and death as mere natural patterns. One neither becomes arrogant over a long lifespan nor distressed over a short one. Observing the cyclical changes of prosperity and decline, fullness and depletion, one realizes that gain and loss are impermanent, thereby transcending the emotions of sorrow and joy.

Life and death are as natural as the alternation of day and night. Recognizing this truth means neither marveling at birth nor fearing dissolution. In essence, life and death are part of the same cycle. Every being has its allotted time, and wisdom lies in accepting one's natural place. If one measures grand principles by small standards, ultimate understanding remains elusive. When each thing abides by its own nature, both the great and the small find their proper place. Just as the tip of an autumn hair (something extremely fine) need not aspire to the functions of heaven and earth, neither does heaven and earth despise the autumn hair for its minuteness.

The River Earl (deity of the Yellow River) once asked, "People often say that the most refined things have no form, and the grandest things cannot be measured. Is this true?" The Count of the Northern Sea (deity of the North Sea) replied, "Viewed from the minute, the vast cannot be fully grasped; viewed from the vast, the minute cannot be clearly discerned. Fineness and coarseness pertain only to what has form—what is truly formless transcends quantitative concepts. What can be described in words is merely the surface of things; what can be grasped with the mind is their essence. But what lies beyond words and thought cannot be divided into fine or coarse."

Thus, the conduct of those who have attained the Dao (the Way) is as follows: they neither harm others nor deliberately bestow favors; they neither pursue personal gain nor despise servants; they neither contend for possessions nor feign modesty; they neither depend on others nor disdain labor; they neither strive for novelty nor blindly follow trends. The ranks and emoluments of the world cannot tempt them, nor can punishments and humiliations shake them, for they understand that right and wrong have no absolute standards, and that great and small have no fixed boundaries.

This passage explores the realm of the Dao and the state of those who have attained supreme virtue (De). Guo Xiang's commentary observes that human vision has limitations—our eyes cannot encompass all things great and small. The true Dao is formless and transcends distinctions between size, refinement, or coarseness.

Those who reach the highest state (the Great Person) follow nature's course without deliberately pursuing gain. Their steps naturally land on auspicious ground, never straying into harmful paths. They don't despise those of low status, but assign each person appropriate positions according to their capacities; they don't contend for possessions, allowing everyone their rightful share; they practice moderation without forced humility; they rely on themselves rather than others; they take only what suffices without excessive desire; and they don't scorn the greedy or corrupt, understanding that true wisdom naturally dissolves such cravings.

Their conduct differs from worldly norms precisely because they hold no fixed standards of right and wrong, thus distinguishing themselves from conventional society. They don't strive for novelty, yet their naturalness sets them apart; though moving with the crowd, they never stoop to flattery. Neither rank nor rewards can motivate them, nor can punishments shame them, for external matters cannot disturb their inner peace. Recognizing that distinctions between right/wrong or great/small are ultimately inseparable, they attain the mystical state of unity.

The genuine Dao-realized person (Daoist adept) doesn't seek fame, because the very concept of "attainment" stems from "loss." If nothing in creation were lacking, there would be nothing to attain. Those of supreme virtue let all things follow their natural courses, thereby dissolving ego-consciousness. When restraint reaches its ultimate expression, one merges with the Dao in silent communion. Only by achieving the formless, boundless state can one truly embody the Way.

Finally, the River Earl (deity of the Yellow River) asks: "By what standard do we distinguish nobility from baseness within and beyond the realm of things?" This probes the fundamental question of value judgment itself.

The Spirit of the Northern Sea (from the Zhuangzi) says: From the perspective of the Dao, all things are fundamentally equal without distinctions of nobility or baseness. Yet from the individual perspective of each thing, everything considers itself noble while looking down upon others. From the conventional worldly viewpoint, nobility and baseness are not determined by oneself.

When examining differences: if we regard what is large as large, then all things can be called large; if we regard what is small as small, then all things can be called small. When one understands that heaven and earth can be as small as a grain of rice while the tip of a hair can be as large as a mountain, then the relativity of distinctions becomes clear.

From the perspective of function: if we consider what is useful as useful, then all things have use; if we consider what is useless as useless, then all things are useless. When one realizes that east and west, though opposite directions, cannot exist without each other, then the boundaries of functionality become apparent.

From the perspective of preferences: if we approve what we consider right, then all things contain rightness; if we disapprove what we consider wrong, then all things contain wrongness. When one understands that both the sage-king Yao and the tyrant Jie each considered themselves right while condemning the other, then the relativity of preferences becomes evident.

In ancient times, Yao and Shun abdicated their thrones to establish imperial rule, yet when King Kuai of Yan abdicated, it led to the destruction of his state. Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou seized power to become kings, yet when Lord Bai of Chu struggled for power, it brought about his downfall. Thus we see that whether through abdication or seizure of power, whether following Yao's virtuous ways or Jie's tyrannical acts, standards of nobility and baseness shift with the times—none can be taken as eternal constants.

Guo Xiang's commentary: All things originally have neither nobility nor baseness—each is complete in itself. The narrow view that exalts oneself while despising others is precisely what the Dao reconciles and equalizes. When nobility and baseness are not self-determined, this is putting the cart before the horse. What we call "great" refers to the fulfillment of inherent nature, while "small" indicates insufficiency. Therefore, if we define "greatness" as the fulfillment of inherent nature, then there's no difference between a hair's tip and a mountain; if we define "smallness" as insufficiency, then heaven-earth and a grain of rice are the same. If one doesn't follow this principle when observing differences, one becomes trapped in endless comparisons.

All things under heaven exist as opposites to each other, and both sides of any opposition seek to preserve themselves—just as east and west are opposite directions. Yet in reality, opposing sides are like lips and teeth: though they appear unrelated, without lips the teeth grow cold. Thus the self-preservation of the opposite side actually contributes to one's own existence.

This passage discusses how all things possess their own inherent nature that cannot be forcibly standardized. Zhuangzi illustrates this through vivid analogies: A massive beam can batter down city gates but cannot plug small holes—this shows different uses for different tools. A fine steed can travel a thousand leagues in a day but catches mice less skillfully than a wildcat—this demonstrates differing abilities. An owl can catch fleas at night yet stares wide-eyed without seeing mountains by day—this reveals innate disposition. Thus, to exclusively venerate "right" while negating "wrong," or pursue "order" while rejecting "chaos," demonstrates ignorance of the natural patterns of heaven, earth, and the myriad things.

The author observes that the legendary rulers Yao and Jie represent diametrically opposed governing methods, yet both followed their inherent nature. Just as heaven and earth or yin and yang must coexist, there are no absolute standards of right and wrong in the world. To stubbornly insist that only one's own view is correct while all others are wrong is either folly or deception.

The text concludes by examining historical change: different dynasties developed distinct systems of abdication and succession. What aligned with its era's momentum was deemed righteous; what contravened it was considered usurpation. Like the River Earl (deity of the Yellow River) who comprehends no distinctions between nobility and baseness or greatness and smallness, we should not judge all things by fixed standards. Guo Xiang's commentary emphasizes that true Dao lies in following each thing's inherent nature, allowing all to find their proper place. Viewed through the lens of Dao, all distinctions between right and wrong become relative.

This passage elucidates Zhuangzi's philosophical perspective on the fundamental equality of all things and harmonizing with nature's flow.

The Spirit of the Northern Sea explains to the River Earl that from the Dao's perspective, all beings in the world are inherently without distinction between noble and base. What is called "reverse transformation" means that nobility and baseness mutually transform—one should not cling stubbornly to personal views and thereby violate the Great Dao. The concepts of "much" and "little" are likewise relative, termed "mutual bestowal." Just as a state may have rulers without partiality, or sacrificial rites honor the Earth God without monopolizing blessings, the Dao extends boundlessly, embracing all things without discrimination.

All beings are essentially equal, without inherent distinctions of long or short. The Dao remains eternally constant while the myriad things undergo birth and death. One should not fixate on any particular state of affairs, for emptiness and fullness, success and failure, are in constant flux. Time cannot be detained—the cycles of waxing and waning, increase and decrease, continue endlessly according to the universe's natural rhythms.

The growth of all things resembles galloping steeds, transforming ceaselessly at every moment. Therefore, one need not deliberately pursue what should or shouldn't be done, for all things evolve naturally. Guo Xiang's commentary further explains: the ways of nobility and baseness transform into each other, and stubborn attachment to personal views leads one astray from the Dao; one should follow nature's course without leaning to either side; the Dao embraces all things without deliberately supporting particular ones; life and death are but links in endless transformation, not true beginnings or endings; one should not cling to any fixed form, for all is in perpetual change.

This passage embodies Zhuangzi's "Equalizing All Things" philosophy, advocating an open and inclusive mindset toward the world—flowing with nature's transformations without forceful interference.

This passage explores the precious value of the Dao through the dialogue between the River Earl and the Count of the Northern Sea. The core teaching states: Those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) necessarily comprehend the patterns of all things in transformation; those who comprehend these patterns know how to adapt to circumstances. People who attain the highest De (Virtue/Power) cannot be harmed by external calamities—whether fire, water, extreme temperatures, or wild beasts—not because they can forcibly resist these dangers, but because they clearly perceive safety and peril, serenely face fortune and misfortune, and cautiously choose when to advance or withdraw. Thus external things cannot harm them.

The text distinguishes between "heaven" (natural endowment) and "human" (artificial intervention): Oxen and horses are naturally born with four legs—this is heaven's doing; putting bridles on horses and nose rings on oxen—this is human doing. It advocates not using human artifice to damage what is natural, not deliberately trying to alter fate, and not losing one's innate nature in pursuit of reputation. Carefully maintaining these principles means returning to one's original genuineness.

Guo Xiang's commentary further explains: Those who understand the Dao know that all things arise spontaneously—limbs and bones, internal organs and vital Shen (spirit) all form naturally without requiring human interference. Those who penetrate this principle can abandon excessive cleverness and follow transformations, thus preventing external things from injuring their inner selves. When the mind is settled, danger cannot truly threaten; when thoughts are peaceful, suffering cannot cause pain. Yet this doesn't mean deliberately courting peril, but rather understanding when certain things are unavoidable and thus accepting fate's arrangements with equanimity.

This passage, through dialogues between Zhuangzi and various creatures, reveals the core concept of "following natural spontaneity."

It first points out that true De (Virtue) lies in conforming to natural laws. When artificial cleverness runs rampant, one loses their authentic nature. Natural wisdom operates spontaneously without overstepping its inherent bounds. Thus, even when external actions vary endlessly, maintaining the fundamental essence preserves the integrity of one's innate nature.

The text then employs oxen and horses as metaphors: Human life necessitates using these animals, and harnessing them with reins is appropriate because it aligns with their nature. But excessive coercion violates cosmic principles. All things should follow their spontaneous tendencies—forced human intervention only severs them from their roots.

Through subsequent conversations between the mythical one-legged Kui, the millipede, the snake, the wind, the eye, and the mind, the text progressively illustrates how each lifeform possesses unique modes of existence, all manifestations of natural mechanisms. The millipede moves with countless legs, the legless snake travels faster, and the formless wind topples withered trees. None consciously pursue anything; they simply express their inherent natures spontaneously, thereby achieving "small apparent losses becoming great victories."

Guo Xiang's commentary ultimately clarifies: The growth of all things isn't achieved through forced effort—life's movement is inherently a spontaneous process. The sage's wisdom lies in understanding this truth, not clinging to superficial gains or losses, but aligning with natural rhythms to attain higher accomplishments.

The passage conveys two main ideas: first, the carefree state of following one's natural disposition, and second, the sage-like courage Confucius demonstrated in adversity.

The first part explains that those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) walk without consciously thinking about each step, see without deliberately focusing their gaze, and think without forced contemplation. They act spontaneously, their pace naturally balanced, neither straining for cleverness nor feigning ignorance. Some people obsess over self-preservation or flaunting their talents, but this only violates natural principles and damages their innate nature. Those who have attained the Dao recognize that natural laws cannot be altered, so they relinquish contrived wisdom, abandon forced action, and allow their nature to unfold effortlessly. In this state, everything they do flows with ease. By letting all things find their rightful place and talents fulfill their proper roles, the whole world can achieve this carefree harmony—this is the true victory of a sage.

The second part recounts Confucius being besieged in the state of Song. Surrounded by hostile forces, he continued playing his zither and singing undeterred. His disciple Zilu, bewildered, asked why he could remain so composed. Confucius explained: "I’ve long known that hardship is a matter of fate, while success depends on timing. In the eras of Yao and Shun, no one suffered hardship—not because they were especially wise. Under Jie and Zhou, no one found success—not because they were foolish. These outcomes were shaped by circumstance. A fisherman dares to brave waters without fearing dragons; a hunter walks the wilds unafraid of fierce beasts; a martyr faces swords without flinching. Each displays courage in their own way. But to recognize hardship as fate, success as timing, and confront great peril without fear—this is the courage of a sage." Later, the besieging commander apologized, admitting they had mistaken Confucius for the notorious Yang Hu. Once realizing their error, they withdrew.

Guo Xiang’s commentary adds that this illustrates how destiny follows its own course, making it unnecessary to fret over fortune or misfortune. The fisherman, hunter, and martyr each embody courage suited to their path, but the sage remains at peace in all circumstances. Understanding that fate lies beyond one’s control, they need not obsess over it. Those who accept destiny dwell in carefree freedom wherever they are—whether besieged in Kuang or Chen, or confined in Meili, to a sage, it is no different from residing in a palace hall.

Finally, the passage briefly mentions Gongsun Long consulting Wei Mou, claiming that in youth he studied the ways of ancient kings and in maturity came to understand righteous conduct. Though their dialogue isn’t expanded here, it hints at a deeper exploration of the relationship between the Dao and human virtues like benevolence and righteousness.

This passage vividly contrasts limited cognition with the vast realm of the Dao through the fable of the frog in the well and the turtle from the Eastern Sea.

The well frog boasts to the sea turtle about its tiny world: leaping upon the well curb, resting by broken bricks, floating with water supporting its chin, rolling in mud that barely covers its feet. It believes exclusive possession of this puddle and dominion over a shallow well represent ultimate happiness, even inviting the turtle to visit. Yet when the turtle attempts to enter, its left foot barely crosses the rim before its right knee gets stuck. Withdrawing, the turtle explains: "A thousand miles cannot describe the Eastern Sea's breadth, a thousand fathoms cannot measure its depth. During Yu the Great's reign when nine of ten years brought floods, its waters didn't rise; in Tang of Shang's time when seven of eight years saw droughts, its level didn't fall. This constancy beyond temporal changes and quantitative fluctuations constitutes the Eastern Sea's true joy." Hearing this, the frog becomes terrified, suddenly realizing its insignificance.

Three subsequent analogies satirize those who judge Zhuangzi's thought with narrow perspectives: like asking a mosquito to carry mountains or a mayfly to ford rivers—doomed to fail; like viewing heaven through a bamboo tube or measuring earth with an awl—utterly ridiculous. Finally, the cautionary tale of "learning to walk in Handan" warns: just as the youth from Shouling forgot his original gait after failing to imitate Handan's fashionable walk—crawling home in disgrace—so too will those attempting to comprehend Zhuangzi's teachings with limited understanding meet similar failure.

Zhuangzi's allegory reveals: those confined by parochial cognition (the well frog) cannot comprehend the Dao's (Eastern Sea) magnificent realm. Those employing worldly debate and logical analysis ("scrutinizing through argumentation") to interpret Zhuangzi's philosophy resemble people measuring heaven with tubes and earth with awls—laboring in vain. True wisdom transcends boundaries of right/wrong ("frontiers of judgment"), achieving a carefree state where north/south distinctions dissolve ("neither south nor north") and profound mysteries interpenetrate ("beginning in dark mystery, returning to great thoroughness").

When Zhuangzi was fishing by the Pu River, the King of Chu sent two ministers to invite him to take office. Without turning his head, Zhuangzi said: "I heard there was a sacred turtle in Chu that died three thousand years ago, yet its shell is still enshrined in the ancestral temple. Tell me—would that turtle prefer to have its bones worshipped after death, or to be alive wagging its tail in the mud?" The two ministers replied: "It would certainly prefer to be alive wagging its tail." Zhuangzi said: "Then you may return—I too shall keep wagging my tail." Guo Xiang's commentary explains that this sacred turtle parable illustrates how all things have their own innate nature of contentment.

When Hui Shi served as prime minister of Liang, Zhuangzi went to visit him. Someone warned Hui Shi: "Zhuangzi has come to replace you as prime minister." Terrified, Hui Shi ordered a nationwide manhunt for Zhuangzi lasting three days and nights. When Zhuangzi finally met him, he said: "In the south there's a bird called the yuanchu (phoenix) that flies from the Southern Sea to the Northern Sea—resting only on parasol trees, eating only bamboo seeds, and drinking only from sweet springs. An owl that had caught a dead rat once screeched at the yuanchu as it flew past. Are you now screeching at me with your premiership of Liang?" Guo Xiang's commentary notes that the yuanchu metaphor shows how aspirations differ according to one's nature.

As Zhuangzi and Hui Shi were strolling on Hao Bridge, Zhuangzi remarked: "See how the fish dart about so freely—what joy they take in this!" Hui Shi retorted: "You're not a fish—how do you know they're joyful?" Zhuangzi replied: "You're not me—how do you know I don't know the fish are joyful?" Hui Shi said: "True, I'm not you, so I can't know your mind; but since you're certainly not a fish, my point stands that you can't know the fish's joy either."

Zhuangzi was debating with Huizi about "the joy of fish" on the Hao River bridge. Huizi challenged him: "You're not a fish—how do you know they're happy?" Zhuangzi deftly countered: "By asking 'how do you know the fish are happy,' you've already admitted that I know their joy. I knew it right here on the Hao River bridge."

Guo Xiang's commentary observes: Zhuangzi inverted Huizi's logic—"you're not me, yet you claim to know what I don't know about the fish"—to prove that "though I'm not a fish, I can know their happiness." Huizi abandoned the essence of the question, using sophistry to corner Zhuangzi. Yet when Huizi said "you're not a fish," he inadvertently acknowledged mutual understanding between different beings—if you can comprehend my non-fish perspective, then humans understanding fish's joy becomes possible without physically transforming into one.

Zhuangzi emphasizes: All things follow their inherent nature. Land creatures belong on land, water dwellers in water—this principle remains unaltered by Heaven-Earth or Yin-Yang dynamics. Therefore, judging aquatic joy through terrestrial perspectives reflects limited cognition.

This passage concludes with a colophon: Published on the 15th day of the first lunar month in 1607 (Wanli 35 reign year) as Volume 4 of the Zhuangzi Yi, edited under imperial decree by Zhang Guoxiang—the 43rd Celestial Master (Tianshi) of the Orthodox Unity (Zhengyi) tradition. His official title was "Great Perfected Being of Orthodox Succession, Concentrated Sincerity, Dao-Realization, and Mystical Teaching Propagation," overseeing nationwide Daoist affairs.