《莊子翼》Vol. 5

Is there truly ultimate happiness in the world? Are there methods that can help people live better lives? What exactly are people pursuing and relying upon nowadays? What should they avoid, and where should they abide? What should they choose and what should they relinquish? What should they love and what should they despise?

What the world commonly esteems are wealth, status, longevity, and fame. People consider happiness to consist of bodily comfort, fine food, elegant clothing, beautiful sights, and pleasant music. They look down upon poverty, low status, short life, and ill repute, regarding suffering as the inability to attain bodily ease, delicious food, fine garments, beautiful sights, or harmonious music. When these things elude them, they become anxious and fearful—such treatment of one's own body is truly foolish.

The wealthy toil desperately, amassing great fortunes they cannot possibly exhaust, only to burden their bodies further. The powerful worry day and night about gains and losses, tormenting their very being. From birth, humans are accompanied by sorrow—those who live long remain muddled in prolonged anxiety—what meaning does such longevity hold? Martyrs may be praised by all under heaven, yet they cannot preserve their own lives. Is this kind of "goodness" truly good or merely its semblance?

When loyal advice is not heeded, one should withdraw and cease contention. Consider Wu Zixu, who was killed for his forceful remonstrations—had he not contended, he would not have achieved fame. Does genuine "goodness" really exist in this world?

The happiness pursued by worldly people—where crowds rush after it noisily as if unable to stop, all proclaiming it to be happiness—does not strike me as either happy or unhappy. Does happiness truly exist? I believe wuwei (non-action, or following nature's course) constitutes real happiness, yet this is precisely what the world most detests. Hence it is said: The greatest happiness is the absence of happiness; the highest honor is the absence of honor.

In this world, right and wrong fundamentally lack absolute determination. Yet wuwei can discern true and false. To attain perfect happiness and nurture life, one must approach the state of wuwei. Let me attempt an explanation: Heaven through wuwei achieves clarity; Earth through wuwei attains tranquility. When Heaven and Earth unite in wuwei, the myriad things spontaneously arise. Vaguely, indistinctly, we know not from whence they come; dimly, obscurely, we perceive no concrete forms. All things flourishing in profusion grow precisely from this wuwei.

The natural operation of heaven and earth appears effortless, yet accomplishes all things. How can humans achieve complete non-action (Wuwei)?

Guo Xiang, the Jin dynasty commentator, observed: Only by forgetting worldly pleasures can one attain true fulfillment; only through genuine fulfillment can life be preserved in its wholeness. Those who stubbornly pursue happiness ironically fail to reach its highest form, while those who recognize the absence of such pursuits maintain their lives free from anxiety. People become entangled in eight worldly concerns—approaching and avoiding, dwelling and moving, accepting and rejecting, loving and hating—yet none of these truly nourishes life. Only by relinquishing deliberate choice and accepting whatever comes can one preserve life's completeness.

Excessive pursuit of fine clothing, gourmet food, beautiful sights, and pleasing music may not harm the body when unattained, but their acquisition can damage one's essential nature. Modern people foolishly grieve over not obtaining these things. Those who truly value inner cultivation understand contentment; those who cherish themselves find fulfillment within. Only by transcending attachment to life and death can one forget sorrow, and only then can one enjoy life's pleasures, realizing that the body is one's true wealth and inner abundance the highest glory.

While martyrs' pursuit of virtue is admirable, it falls short of preserving life, as excessive virtue-seeking creates imbalance. One should maintain the moderate virtue of humility and non-contention, accepting both good and evil as they naturally arise. The world rushes headlong after what it deems pleasurable, even risking life itself. The truly wise neither deliberately pursue pleasure nor intentionally avoid it, but maintain their natural disposition in harmony with all things.

The joy of non-action is essentially a state free from sorrow. The worldly take clamor as pleasure and praise as glory, yet the standards of right and wrong in the world remain uncertain. By maintaining non-action and allowing people to judge for themselves, right and wrong naturally resolve. The highest joy and life preservation can only be approached through non-action. When all people are content, my life approaches complete preservation.

The purity and tranquility of heaven and earth are not human creations. Non-action aligns with the Dao (the Way), allowing all things to develop naturally. Deliberate action causes stagnation. All things arise spontaneously, uncreated by any being. Formless things need no artificial shaping. Naturally growing things propagate themselves. Through non-action, even without seeking joy, true happiness comes unbidden.

When Zhuangzi's wife died, his friend Huizi came to offer condolences, finding Zhuangzi sitting with legs outstretched, drumming on a bowl and singing. Huizi protested: "After living with your wife for years, raising children until her old age and death, isn't it excessive to not weep but instead sing while drumming?" Zhuangzi replied: "Not so. When she first died, how could I not grieve? But contemplating life's origin, I realized she had never truly been born."

This passage presents Zhuangzi's profound reflections on life and death through several allegorical stories that reveal the Daoist transcendent attitude toward mortality.

The first section describes the natural cycle of existence: initially there is nothingness without form; then Qi (vital energy) emerges from chaos, condenses into physical form, and animates with life; now this life returns to death - a process as natural as the rotation of spring, summer, autumn and winter. Humans peacefully rest within the great house of heaven and earth, yet we weep and wail, demonstrating our failure to comprehend life's true essence.

Next comes the dialogue between Zhi Lishu and Gu Jieshu. When Gu Jieshu develops a sudden tumor on his left elbow and expresses disgust, Zhi Lishu reminds him that life itself is borrowed, with birth and death alternating like day and night. As they observe the transformations of all things together, why should one resent changes occurring to oneself? Guo Xiang's commentary notes we should first acknowledge emotional responses, then resolve them through understanding rather than feigning indifference.

Finally, Zhuangzi converses with a skull. Tapping it with his horsewhip, he asks whether its owner died from worldly attachments, lost kingdoms, wicked deeds, hunger and cold, or natural lifespan. That night, the skull appears in a dream explaining how the dead experience no hierarchical relationships or seasonal toil, enjoying perfect freedom surpassing even a king's happiness. Skeptical, Zhuangzi proposes asking the Director of Fate (Si Ming Shen) to restore its life.

These stories collectively convey: life and death follow natural laws requiring no excessive grief; existence is temporary lodging where gains and losses should be viewed with detachment; death may represent liberation rather than something to fear. Guo Xiang's annotations emphasize resolving emotional distress through wisdom rather than forcibly suppressing feelings.

This passage illustrates Zhuangzi's core philosophy of "following nature's course" through several parables.

First comes the story of the skull: Zhuangzi asks a skull if it wishes to be revived, to regain its body and return to human relationships. The skull frowns and replies, "How could I abandon my kingly happiness in death to resume life's toils?" Guo Xiang's commentary clarifies that Zhuangzi isn't simplistically advocating "death is better than life," but rather that both life and death should be accepted naturally—living peacefully while alive, accepting death serenely when it comes. This embodies true "equality of life and death."

Next is the story of Confucius and Yan Hui: When Yan Hui prepares to visit Qi, Confucius appears worried. Zigong inquires why, and Confucius quotes Guanzi: "A small bag can't hold large objects; a short rope can't reach deep well water." This illustrates all things have their inherent nature that shouldn't be forcibly altered. Confucius fears Yan Hui expounding the Dao of Yao, Shun, and the Yellow Emperor to Qi's ruler might confuse him and endanger Yan Hui.

Finally, the "death of the seabird" parable shows: The ruler of Lu entertained a seabird with the Nine Shao music and grand sacrificial offerings reserved for honored guests, yet the bird died of fright within three days. The proper way to keep birds is letting them roost in forests, play on sandbars, and eat small fish and loaches. Just as refined music like the Xianchi and Nine Shao makes birds and beasts flee while humans gather to listen. Fish thrive in water where humans would drown—all creatures have different natures.

Thus ancient sages never demanded universal capabilities or uniform actions, only that names match realities and all things find their proper place. This is called "when principles flow unimpeded, blessings endure." Through these stories, Zhuangzi teaches us: True wisdom lies in respecting each thing's inherent nature, never imposing human standards on others.

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: The Great Dao (referring to natural laws) is inherently perfect and complete, requiring no artificial addition or subtraction. Therefore, one should follow its natural course. If the mind fails to comprehend this truth and instead seeks externally, this constitutes the delusion of neglecting the root while pursuing the branches. Each person's innate capacities differ, and all should develop according to their inherent nature. By maintaining authentic nature, life flows smoothly; by preserving one's essence, blessings naturally endure.

The Liezi records: When Liezi was eating by the roadside, he saw a century-old skull. Brushing aside the weeds, he pointed at it and said: "Only you and I understand that there's truly no distinction between life and death. Have you indeed found rest? Am I truly living joyfully?" All things evolve from minute seeds ("ji"): encountering water, they become algae; at the water-earth boundary, they transform into frogs; on hillocks, they turn into plantains. The plantain meeting manure becomes crowfoot grass, its roots becoming scarab larvae while its leaves become butterflies. The butterfly soon transforms again into insects that dwell below stoves, molting creatures called quduo. After a thousand days, the quduo becomes a bird named ganyugu, whose saliva produces simi insects, which encountering vinegar generate yilu insects... until finally horses give birth to humans, who return again to the transformative mechanism of creation (referring to nature's cycle). All things originate from this creative mechanism and ultimately return to it.

Guo Xiang comments: Without true distinction between life and death, all things find contentment according to their circumstances. What we call joy and rest actually have no fixed standards. The varieties of seed transformations are endless—from becoming algae in water to ultimately returning to nature—demonstrating that all things are different manifestations of the same primal Qi (fundamental substance), with no genuine life or death in essence.

Chapter 19 of Mastering Life states: Those who truly comprehend life's essence don't pursue what life doesn't require; those who understand destiny's truth don't force what intelligence cannot achieve. Nourishing the body requires material goods, yet many with abundant goods fail to maintain health; preserving life first demands maintaining physical form, yet some with intact forms lose their lives. Life's arrival cannot be refused, nor its departure detained. Pitiable are those who believe maintaining physical form guarantees life's preservation—this falls far short. Though life-nourishing methods remain imperfect, humans must still practice them, for we must inevitably make some provisions for the body.

This passage from Zhuangzi Yi elucidates the core philosophy of Daoist self-cultivation. The ultimate liberation lies in relinquishing worldly attachments—when external things are released, burdens dissolve, and the heart returns to stillness. With inner tranquility, one renews life in harmony with the Dao (the Way), and this renewal approaches the true essence of Dao.

Why cling to external things? Why crave longevity? Abandon mundane affairs and the body avoids exhaustion; view life and death with equanimity and the spirit (Shen) remains undiminished. Preserve physical wholeness and spiritual vitality to unite with nature. Heaven and earth are parents to all things—convergence gives form to life; dispersion returns to the source. When form and spirit remain unbroken, one flows with natural transformation; as the spirit ascends continuously, it aids the workings of nature.

Guo Xiang's commentary notes: What life cannot control belongs to the external; what wisdom cannot alter is heavenly mandate (tianming). Knowing one's proper role and letting all things follow their natural course is enough—excessive pursuit brings harm. Forcing bodily preservation may forfeit life; the harder one strives to nurture life, the closer one approaches death. Better to follow spontaneity, allowing innate nature to unfold freely—this is the supreme truth.

Liezi once asked Guan Yin: "Why can those who attain the Dao (de Dao zhe) dive without drowning, tread fire unharmed, and walk heights without fear?" Guan Yin replied: "This comes from abiding in pristine Qi (vital energy), not through cleverness or courage. All that has form and sound belongs to the material world—how much difference can matter make? Those who attain the Dao reach the formless realm, abiding where nothing changes. Mastering this principle, how can external things disturb them? They remain in perfect equilibrium, hidden in the endless rhythm of Dao, wandering the root of all creation and destruction, unifying their nature and nurturing their Qi."

This passage discusses the Daoist cultivation state of "preserving wholeness of spirit and abiding in Heaven." Zhuangzi uses the example of a drunkard falling from a carriage to illustrate that when one's Shen (spirit) remains complete and undivided, external things cannot harm them. Though the drunkard may sustain injuries from the fall, he doesn't die, because in his intoxicated state he's completely relaxed, free from the awareness of life-and-death fears.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) operates at a higher level of cultivation. They don't rely on temporary states like drunkenness, but achieve spiritual wholeness through "abiding in Heaven" - merging with the natural Dao. Just as an avenger wouldn't break his enemy's sword, and people don't resent tiles that happen to fall on them (since these are all无心之物 - things without intention), the key to universal peace lies in eliminating artificial selfish thoughts and distractions.

Guo Xiang's commentary further explains: only by maintaining inner emptiness can one contain all things; only by following nature can one adapt effortlessly. The无心之人 (person without artificial intention) transcends material desires and roams freely in the origin of all things. When cultivating Qi, they don't force control but preserve their original nature undisturbed by externals. Like the drunkard's unconsciousness during the fall, the sage remains content with their heavenly-endowed nature without overstepping boundaries. The Dao, though seemingly emotionless, accomplishes great love, while human artifice breeds misfortune.

What truly matters is opening one's natural heavenly disposition (开天 - opening to Heaven), not relying on human cleverness (开人 - opening to human artifice). By acting in accordance with one's true nature, one naturally responds appropriately to situations without clinging afterward. Maintaining this state of primal authenticity brings one closer to the original truth of the Dao.

This passage illustrates the importance of concentration and relinquishing attachments through two parables.

The first story recounts Confucius encountering an elderly hunchback in Chu who caught cicadas with a bamboo pole as effortlessly as picking things off the ground. The old man explained his training method: first balancing two clay balls on the pole tip without dropping them, then progressing to three, then five, until they never fell. When catching cicadas, his body stood immobile as a tree stump, his arms motionless as dead branches, his vision focused solely on the insects' wings—thus achieving perfect accuracy. Confucius marveled at this state of "undivided concentration of mind."

Guo Xiang's commentary adds that through repeated practice, the old man attained supreme focus—forgetting all else ("abandoning that") to perfectly master his skill ("attaining this").

The second story features Yan Hui asking Confucius why skilled swimmers learn rowing quickly, while expert divers can operate boats without prior experience. Confucius explained: swimmers understand water's nature, while divers perceive abysses as level ground and capsized boats as reversed carts. Unburdened by fear, they respond with ease. Like gambling—wagering pottery shards brings ease, metal hooks induce tension, while gold stakes cause mental paralysis. Though the skill remains identical, greater attachment to external objects increasingly clouds the mind.

Both parables demonstrate that complete presence—free from clinging and fear—leads to transcendent mastery. Whether catching cicadas, steering boats, or any skill, the true secret lies in this marriage of focused awareness and inner relaxation.

This passage from Zhuangzi uses vivid parables to reveal the core principles of nurturing life. Guo Xiang's commentary notes that while all things possess innate nature, they still require postnatal cultivation to perfect their inherent qualities and ultimately achieve a state of natural spontaneity.

The text presents two contrasting characters: Shan Bao, who secluded himself in the mountains maintaining an infant's complexion at seventy, only to be devoured by a starving tiger; and Zhang Yi, who constantly socialized with the powerful yet died of internal fever at forty. Zhuangzi employs the metaphor of "shepherding sheep"—those skilled in nurturing life are like shepherds who whip the lagging sheep (signifying timely correction of imbalances). Shan Bao focused solely on internal cultivation while neglecting external dangers; Zhang Yi pursued external connections at the expense of depleting his internal Qi (vital energy). Both failed like shepherds who cannot properly guide their flock.

Confucius' essential advice for nurturing life is: neither withdraw excessively inward (like Shan Bao) nor extend excessively outward (like Zhang Yi), but maintain the Middle Way like withered wood. Just as people will travel in groups when knowing a dangerous path has ten percent mortality, yet remain oblivious to greater perils in daily habits—this constitutes the gravest error.

Guo Xiang further explains: cultivating life requires the principle of moderation. "Whipping the laggard" means rectifying deviations; excessive introversion represents the extreme of "withdrawing to conceal," while excessive extroversion embodies the extreme of "emerging to display." Only by being "mindless" like withered wood (free from artificiality) and maintaining the Middle Way can one attain the genuine state of nurturing life where name matches reality. People often remain hypervigilant against ten percent risks while overlooking greater hazards in everyday existence.

Zhuangzi here reveals the common contradictions and attachments in human nature through two parables.

The first story tells of a sacrificial officer who, dressed in ceremonial robes, says to a pig: "Why fear death? I'll feed you carefully for three months, purify myself for ten days, prepare offerings for three days, spread white cogon grass, and place your shoulders and haunches on carved ritual vessels. Would you agree to this?" Zhuangzi counters: "From the pig's perspective, it would rather eat husks and live in its pen. Yet humans themselves chase after riding in ornate carriages and wearing official hats while alive, then seek lavish coffins and grand funeral processions after death. Where truly lies the difference between man and pig?" Guo Xiang's commentary notes that indulging desires harms the body—a principle equally true for humans and animals.

The second story recounts how Duke Huan of Qi fell ill after claiming to see a ghost while hunting. The wise man Huangzi Gao explained: "No ghost harmed you—this stems from your own stagnant Qi (vital energy) being imbalanced. When Qi surges upward, one grows irritable; when it sinks downward, forgetful; when trapped in the chest, illness follows." He then cataloged various spirits: the Kitchen God dwells by the stove, the Thunder Spirit behind doors, water demons in rivers, and mountain sprites in wilderness. When describing a marsh-dwelling "Coiling Serpent"—a purple-robed, red-crowned creature afraid of thunder—the Duke laughed and recognized it as what he'd seen. After straightening his robes and conversing all day, his illness vanished. Guo Xiang concludes: "Anxiety springs from mental knots; only by releasing attachments can one attain clarity."

Both parables demonstrate how people become trapped by hollow fame and fleeting gain, when most troubles originate from their own fixations. Like the sacrificial pig and the ghost-fearing ruler, what seems like external disturbance actually reflects inner choices.

Ji Shengzi was training fighting cocks for King Xuan of Zhou. After ten days, the king asked: "Is the cock ready?" Ji replied: "Not yet. It still puts on a fierce appearance and relies on brute Qi (vital energy)." Another ten days passed, and when the king inquired again, Ji said: "Not yet. It still reacts to other cocks' calls and shadows." After ten more days, the king asked a third time, to which Ji responded: "Almost there. Its gaze still carries combative fierceness." Finally, after another ten days, when the king asked for the fourth time, Ji declared: "Now it's ready. Even when another cock crows before it, there's no reaction—it appears like a wooden cock, showing its De (Virtue) is complete. Other cocks flee at the sight of it."

Guo Xiang (a Jin Dynasty Neo-Daoist scholar) commented: When one's cultivation reaches the state of complete De, nothing can oppose it externally—how much more so for perfecting one's inner cultivation?

Confucius was observing the waterfall at Lüliang, where the waters plunged sixty meters, creating foam that stretched for miles. Even giant turtles and crocodiles dared not swim there. Yet he saw a man swimming freely. Thinking the man was drowning, Confucius ordered his disciples to rescue him. But after swimming hundreds of paces, the man emerged calmly, singing with hair flowing as he walked along the bank. Confucius approached and asked: "At first I thought you were a ghost, but now see you're human. What is your secret?" The man replied: "I have no secret. At first it was habit (gu), then it became nature (xing), and finally destiny (ming). I enter with the whirlpools and emerge with the upwelling, following the water's way without imposing my will—this is my Dao of swimming." Confucius pressed: "What do you mean by 'begin with habit, grow into nature, complete with destiny'?" The man explained: "Born by mountains, I adapted to mountains—this is habit. Growing by water, I adapted to water—this is nature. Doing it effortlessly without knowing why—this is destiny."

Guo Xiang's commentary: The downward spiral is the whirlpool (qi), the sudden upwelling is the surge (gu). Following water's nature without self-will means obeying its flow rather than exerting personal force. This shows that when one fully develops their skill in harmony with nature, nothing is difficult. With such an effortless mindset, what path would be blocked?

Carpenter Qing crafted a wooden stand for musical instruments so exquisite that viewers thought it supernatural. When Marquis Lu asked his method, Qing replied: "I'm just a craftsman—what secret could I have? Except this: before carving, I never dissipate my Jing (essence), always purifying my mind through fasting. After three days, I forget rewards. After five days, I forget criticism. After seven days, I forget my own limbs. Then I see only the wood—no court duties remain, all skill concentrates on the material itself."

This passage illustrates the principle of "following nature's course" through several parables. When crafting musical instruments, the carpenter must wait until the wood naturally grows into suitable shapes before working it—this is called "using Heaven to match Heaven" (yi tian he tian), where nature itself harmonizes with nature. Objects made this way become so exquisite they seem crafted by spirits.

Dongye Ji, a master charioteer, demonstrated his skills to Duke Zhuang, making the horses advance, retreat, and turn in perfect formation. Yet Yan He noticed the exhausted horses were being pushed beyond their limits and predicted failure—soon the horses collapsed. This shows even consummate skill cannot excessively defy natural laws.

The ancient artisan Gong Chui could draw perfect circles freehand, surpassing compass precision, because he completely followed the nature of things without forcing. Like shoes so comfortable one forgets one's feet, or a belt so fitting one forgets one's waist—true comfort means forgetting comfort itself.

Finally, when Sun Xiu complained about unrecognized talents, Bian Qingzi remarked: Those who embody the Dao (zhiren) transcend attachments to body and senses, dwelling beyond worldly turmoil in carefree wandering. Worldly gains and losses are to them like dust scattered by wind. Obsessing over social judgment is as futile as raging at shadows. The essence lies in maintaining inner peace and aligning with the natural Dao (Wuwei).

This passage comes from the "Mountain Tree" chapter of the Zhuangzi, using vivid parables to illustrate the Daoist core principle of "following nature's course."

Zhuangzi first criticizes those who deliberately flaunt their intelligence or moral superiority, comparing them to someone carrying the sun and moon while walking—an ostentatious display. He maintains that merely preserving one's physical form and maintaining intact senses is fortune enough; why waste time complaining about Heaven's Dao (the Way)? Here we see the Daoist attitude of "acting without claiming credit, nurturing without controlling"—engaging with the world while relinquishing attachment to outcomes.

The dialogue between Bianzi and his disciple then demonstrates how applying worldly standards (such as offering sacrificial feasts or courtly music) to forest-dwelling birds only frightens them. Similarly, expounding the virtues of perfected beings to narrow-minded people is like transporting mice in carriages or entertaining small birds with bells and drums—utterly counterproductive. As Guo Xiang's commentary notes, true cultivation means forgetting artificial constructs and letting all things develop according to their intrinsic nature.

The latter section's "mountain tree" parable becomes truly classic: the giant tree survives to old age precisely because it's deemed "useless," while the master slaughters the goose that doesn't cackle. This plunges Zhuangzi into the dilemma of "being useful versus useless," ultimately resolving it through "riding Dao and De (Virtue) to wander freely"—transcending such distinctions, changing with the times, and clinging to neither extreme. This wisdom of "dwelling between usefulness and uselessness" perfectly embodies the Daoist philosophy of "transforming along with the times."

Zhuangzi once saw a tree in the mountains that remained uncut because its wood was useless. The next day, he witnessed a host slaughtering a goose that couldn't honk to serve his guests. His disciples asked: "The useless tree survives while the silent goose gets killed—how should one position oneself in this world?"

Zhuangzi smiled and replied: "I would choose to dwell between usefulness and uselessness. Yet this deliberately maintained middle ground, though seemingly clever, still has limitations. The true transcendent approach is to follow the natural Dao (the Way), appearing and disappearing like dragons or snakes with the changing seasons, never clinging to any fixed form. When one connects with the primordial source of all things, one masters external matters without being burdened by them—this is the principle followed by the legendary emperors Shennong and Huangdi."

"As for worldly human affairs: gatherings inevitably lead to separations, success breeds downfall, integrity invites slander, and prominence attracts criticism. The capable become targets of scheming while the incompetent suffer bullying—where can one find perfect safety? Remember, my disciples, only by returning to the natural Dao can one find true refuge."

Guo Xiang's commentary notes that although Zhuangzi proposes "dwelling between usefulness and uselessness," he ultimately doesn't remain at this level. Truly realized individuals flow with nature's transformations without fixation.

In the subsequent story where Shinan Yiliao meets the Marquis of Lu, the Marquis complains of misfortunes despite his reverent cultivation. Using the metaphor of foxes and leopards hunted for their splendid fur, Shinan points out that Lu itself is the Marquis's "fur"—the very cause of his troubles. He advises abandoning physical attachments and desires to wander freely in the "Land of Established Virtue (De)." There, people live with childlike simplicity: farming without hoarding, giving without expectation, ignorant of artificial rituals yet naturally aligned with heavenly principles.

This passage from the Zhuangzi's "Mountain Tree" chapter presents a dialogue between Shinanzi and the Marquis of Lu, illustrating the Daoist philosophy of "empty-self wandering through the world."

Shinanzi advises the Marquis: Those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) neither calculate personal gain nor bind themselves to worldly rituals. Though appearing unconventional, they move in perfect harmony with celestial patterns. He urges the Marquis to relinquish his rulership and worldly entanglements to walk the path of Dao. The Marquis expresses anxiety about the journey's dangers—distant roads, lack of transportation, and insufficient provisions.

Shinanzi responds: Diminish desires and expenditures, and provisions become unnecessary. He compares spiritual cultivation to crossing oceans—while well-wishers turn back at the shore, the cultivator journeys beyond. Subjects become burdens, attendants bring worries; even Emperor Yao exemplified neither ruling others nor being ruled.

The "empty boat" metaphor reveals the art of living: an unmanned drifting vessel provokes no anger, while a manned one invites curses. By becoming as empty and unattached as such a boat, one wanders the world unharmed.

The concluding tale of Beigong She crafting bells demonstrates natural accomplishment: forced haste destroys spontaneity, yet by following the people's rhythm without coercion, he completes the bells in three months without burdening them. Like the Dao's silent operation that nurtures all things without trace.

This passage crystallizes Zhuangzi's concepts of wuwei (non-action) and empty stillness—eliminating utilitarian motives, reducing desires, and harmonizing with nature through a tranquil mind to achieve unencumbered freedom.

This passage illustrates Zhuangzi's wisdom on navigating human affairs through allegorical stories.

In the Eastern Sea, there exists a bird called the "Yi Dai" (meaning "sluggish intent"). When flying, it appears clumsy, always moving with the flock—never rushing ahead nor lagging behind, and never daring to be the first to eat. Precisely because of this, it avoids calamity. Zhuangzi uses this metaphor to explain: the tallest trees are the first to be felled, the sweetest wells are the first to run dry. Those who deliberately display intelligence or flaunt their virtue are like people carrying the sun and moon—impossible to miss, and thus more likely to invite misfortune.

Zhuangzi quotes the words of the "Great Accomplished One" (a Daoist sage): those who boast of themselves never truly succeed, and worldly achievements often bring loss instead. A genuine Daoist does not chase fame or merit but merges seamlessly with the masses. Though their virtue spreads, they never promote themselves; though their actions shine, they never deliberately display them. This seemingly dull state is, in fact, the highest wisdom.

Guo Xiang, in his commentary, cites the example of Bo Yi and Shu Qi starving to death at the foot of Shouyang Mountain to illustrate the value of steadfast integrity. The core message of the passage advocates for humility and yielding as the proper way to conduct oneself in the world. Though such an ideal may be difficult to fully embody, it serves as a corrective to the restless tendencies of society. However, Guo Xiang also warns that excessive admiration for recluses like Xu You and Bo Yi could lead to an artificial culture of false modesty or embolden tyrants to act without restraint. Only a sage can guide others without leaving traces.

(Note: The figures mentioned—Xu You, Bo Yi, and Shu Qi—were famous ancient hermits; "Yi Lü" refers to Yi Yin and Lü Shang, wise ministers who assisted rulers; Ji and Xie were two virtuous ministers under Emperor Shun.)

This passage discusses the realm of sages and their way of being in the world.

Through contrasting examples of Yi Yin and Lü Shang (renowned virtuous ministers of Shang and Zhou dynasties) with Bo Yi and Shu Qi (reclusive scholars of late Shang), Zhuangzi illustrates that true sages never deliberately leave traces of their deeds. The sage follows the natural development of all things, thus leaving no artificial marks. The so-called title of "sage" is merely a label people reluctantly apply after observing the results of natural processes.

Therefore, the highest realm of "perfected persons" (zhiren) makes no excessive demands on others, nor do others make demands on them. Confucius praised this state, saying: The best approach is to minimize social interactions, withdraw from disciples, retreat to mountain forests, wear coarse cloth, and eat wild fruits. Dwelling among wild animals without disturbing their herds, coexisting with birds without disrupting their formations—when even birds and beasts don't dislike him, how much more so with humans?

Guo Xiang's commentary further explains: Sages have no personal preferences, their minds are expansive and unattached to anything. They neither rush ahead nor lag behind, always maintaining composed moderation. In eating, they seek only to satisfy hunger, accepting whatever comes their way. They neither deliberately oppose the crowd with novelty nor intentionally conform to worldly customs. Those who flaunt their intelligence and chase fame are like those who fell trees and dry up wells—ultimately inviting misfortune.

True perfected persons embody tranquility and detachment, abandoning worldly desires. Like plants and trees in their natural wuwei (non-action), even birds and beasts don't fear them. This metaphor illustrates that complete alignment with nature leads to a state beyond harm.

The passage concludes with Confucius consulting Zisang Hu, recounting his repeated encounters with adversity (expulsion from Lu, having trees cut down in Song), suggesting that spiritual cultivators must transcend such worldly setbacks.

This passage illustrates the essence of human relationships and the art of living through several parables.

When Confucius traveled between the states of Wei, Song, Chen, and Cai, he repeatedly encountered hardships, and his friends and relatives gradually distanced themselves from him. He asked Zisang Hu (a Daoist recluse) why this was happening. Zisang Hu recounted a story: A man named Lin Hui, while fleeing during a crisis, abandoned a priceless jade disk but carried an infant on his back. When asked why, he replied that the jade was bound by profit, whereas the child was connected by natural kinship. Relationships based on benefit dissolve when disaster strikes, while those rooted in innate bonds endure and support each other in hardship. The interactions between noble individuals are as plain as water, while those of petty people are as cloying as sweet wine. The noble grow closer through simplicity, while the petty sever ties when interests diverge.

Upon hearing this, Confucius realized he needed to relinquish his attachment to scholarly pursuits and return to his natural disposition. Later, Zisang Hu further illustrated this principle by recounting Emperor Shun’s final advice to Yu the Great: "To preserve the body, follow nature’s course; to express emotions, be genuine and unguarded. This way, you will neither stray from your true nature nor exhaust your spirit. There is no need for deliberate pretense—maintaining your innate simplicity is enough."

Zhuangzi once visited the King of Wei wearing patched, coarse clothing. The king remarked that he appeared destitute. Zhuangzi explained: Poverty is not the same as destitution—true destitution lies in possessing virtue yet failing to embody it. Just as a monkey moves with effortless agility among trees but trembles when placed among thorns, one’s behavior shifts with circumstance.

Zhuangzi here employs vivid analogies to illustrate how environment profoundly influences both people and objects.

First, the example of trees: Towering specimens like nanmu, catalpa, and camphorwood (precious timbers in antiquity) with their luxuriant branches make rulers appear majestic beneath their canopy—so imposing that even legendary archers like Hou Yi and Peng Meng wouldn’t dare slight them. Yet when the same trees grow among thorny thickets, one can only tread cautiously sideways. This isn’t due to weakened sinews or bones, but to the disadvantageous surroundings.

Next, historical figures demonstrate this principle: Bi Gan, trapped in a court of tyrants and sycophants, sought self-preservation only to have his heart carved out; Confucius, stranded without food for seven days in the lands of Chen and Cai, resorted to beating time on a withered tree while singing. Though his songs hailed from Emperor Yan’s ancient era, the dissonance between the hollow knocks and his voice moved listeners unexpectedly. As his disciple Yan Hui stood observing reverently, Confucius—fearing excessive admiration—offered four crucial insights:

1. "Do not resent Heaven’s trials as easy": Hunger, thirst, cold, heat, or worldly obstructions follow natural law like the seasons’ turn or life’s ebbs and flows. Just as ministers dare not neglect their duties, how much less should one defy Tianming (Heaven’s decree)?

2. "Do not covet human gains as simple": Early official success with steady titles and stipulations seems fortunate, yet such external rewards aren’t truly ours. Like swallows (yiyi) that avoid perilous spots—abandoning food there—we must discern what rightfully belongs to us.

3. "No absolute beginnings or endings exist": All things transform in flux; their origins and conclusions elude certainty. Maintain an upright mind and simply await what comes.

4. "Human and Heaven unite as one": Humans belong to nature, and nature to the Dao (the Way). Nature is nature precisely because the Creator governs it. To violate innate tendencies by obsessing over gain and loss is to injure one’s essential nature.

Through arboreal imagery, historical anecdotes, and master-disciple dialogue, this passage progressively reveals the vital importance of aligning with nature and abiding by one’s inherent role.

While wandering in his Diaoling garden, Zhuangzi saw a strange magpie flying from the south. Its wings spanned seven feet, with eyes an inch in diameter. Brushing past Zhuangzi's forehead, it alighted in a chestnut grove. Puzzled, Zhuangzi wondered: What bird is this? With such vast wings yet flying so low, such enormous eyes yet seeing so poorly? Hitching up his robe, he hurried after it with a slingshot ready.

Then he observed a revealing scene: A cicada basking in cool shade had forgotten all caution; a mantis hiding among leaves focused solely on seizing the cicada, oblivious to its own peril; while that peculiar magpie prepared to snatch the mantis, equally blinded by immediate gain. Suddenly enlightened, Zhuangzi sighed: "Alas! This is how creatures entangle one another—mutual attraction breeding mutual harm!" Discarding his slingshot, he turned to leave, only to be chased and scolded by the orchard keeper.

For three months afterward, Zhuangzi remained secluded at home. When disciple Lin Ju asked about his withdrawal, Zhuangzi explained: "I committed the error of 'guarding form while forgetting essence'—like staring at turbid water yet drowning in clear depths. My teacher taught us to 'follow local customs,' yet at Diaoling I neglected my safety; when the magpie grazed my brow, I forgot my true nature. The orchard keeper's reproach became my mirror—hence this period of contemplation."

Guo Xiang's commentary illuminates: The sage follows Dao (the Way) effortlessly, and all things naturally align. Like sunlight nurturing growth without coercion, the truly virtuous harbor no rigid judgments, moving with natural spontaneity (Wuwei), benefiting all without possession. Those attaining this state merge like light and shadow—seemingly absent yet omnipresent.

This parable unveils the profound truth of "mutual entanglements": obsession with external matters inevitably binds the obsessor. The cicada, mantis, magpie, and Zhuangzi himself all forgot fundamentals by fixating on immediacy. In worldly engagement, perceiving surface calm without discerning deeper currents constitutes "clinging to form while losing essence"—like mistaking turbid shallows for clear depths, a warning against losing authenticity amid illusions.

Zhuangzi illustrates through several stories that true virtue (De) does not lie in external displays. A man named Yangzi stayed at an inn in the state of Song where the innkeeper had two concubines—one beautiful and one plain. Surprisingly, the plain one received more respect. The innkeeper explained: "The beautiful one constantly flaunts her looks, so I don't find her beautiful. The plain one knows her plainness, so I don't find her plain." Yangzi realized: "Those who embody virtue without self-display will be cherished wherever they go." Guo Xiang's commentary notes that any self-conscious attitude of virtue is fundamentally misguided.

When Tian Zifang conversed with Marquis Wen of Wei, he repeatedly praised a fellow villager named Xigong. The Marquis asked if this was his teacher, but Tian denied it, saying Xigong was merely a townsman. Pressed to name his actual teacher, Tian revealed it was Dongguo Shunzi. The Marquis wondered why he'd never mentioned this master before. Tian explained: "My teacher preserves his innate nature (Baozhen), remaining pure and embracing all things. When encountering un-Daoist behavior, he need only correct his posture to make others feel ashamed. Such a realm is beyond my capacity to evaluate." After hearing this, the Marquis spent the whole day in contemplation, sighing that this was truly a gentleman of perfect virtue.

Later passages discuss how true gentlemen consider unearned rewards as theft, though sometimes destiny compels acceptance. Like swallows who know eaves are unsafe for nests—taking one look before fleeing, even abandoning carried mud—so fearful are they of humans. Though people must dwell in the world, facing fame and fortune should feel like being driven onward, maintaining vigilance. Here swallows symbolize adepts who maintain transcendent awareness while living in the mundane world.

While wandering in his garden at Diaoling, Zhuangzi saw a strange magpie flying from the south. Its wings spanned seven feet, its eyes measured an inch across, and it brushed past Zhuangzi's forehead before alighting in a chestnut grove.

Zhuangzi wondered: "What bird is this? With such large wings yet unable to fly far, such huge eyes yet failing to see clearly." He hitched up his robe and hurried after it, crossbow in hand. Then he noticed a cicada blissfully enjoying the cool shade, utterly oblivious to danger; a mantis lurking behind leaves, fixated on its prey while forgetting its own peril; and that peculiar magpie seizing the chance to snatch the mantis, so consumed by gain that it lost its true nature.

Suddenly enlightened, Zhuangzi sighed: "Alas! This is how all beings entangle one another—different creatures mutually attracting through their desires." He cast aside his crossbow and turned to leave, only to be chased and scolded by the garden keeper. Returning home, he remained indoors for three months. His student Lanqie asked: "Master, why have you scarcely ventured out lately?"

Zhuangzi replied: "I became so absorbed in observing external things that I forgot my own safety. It's like peering at turbid water while failing to see the clear depths below. My teacher once said: 'When entering a place, follow its customs.' Yet at Diaoling, I forgot myself. That strange bird grazed my forehead, and in the chestnut grove, it too forgot its nature. The keeper's reproach reminds me why I stay inside."

Commentator Guo Xiang explains: The mantis concealed itself to catch the cicada but forgot the magpie eyeing it. The bird, capable of keen sight and distant flight by nature, lost itself to greed. Whenever beings exploit one another for profit, mutual entanglements arise.

Zhuangzi continued: "Those who preach sagehood, wisdom, and artificial virtues sound lofty. But as Zifang's teacher said: 'My body rests without desire to move; my mouth closes without wish to speak.' What I've learned amounts to mere clay dolls and wooden figurines—false knowledge. Wei State's so-called 'perfected men' (zhenren) have instead become my burdens."

Guo Xiang elaborates: Dongguo Shunzi appeared ordinary yet harmonized with his innate nature, thus preserving authenticity. The overly fastidious often err in excessive purity; embracing all things aligns one with the Dao (the Way). When body and mind abide in serene wuwei (non-action), external delusions dissolve naturally. Refraining from movement and speech stems from recognizing their limitations. Clay-doll learning lacks substance. Wei's 'perfected men' become hindrances to those pursuing the ultimate path.

(Note: The final reference to "Wenbo Xuezi" belongs to another passage and isn't expanded here.)

Bo Xuezi, a Daoist hermit, said, “I do not wish to meet the gentlemen of the Central States. Though they understand the rules of propriety, they do not understand the true state of the human heart.” Later, he went to the state of Qi and, on his return, stayed for a time in Lu. After meeting his hosts, Bo Xuezi returned to his room and sighed again and again. The next day, after meeting more guests, he sighed once more. His servant asked why, and he explained: “The people of the Central States cling to the rules of ritual. When they meet, their movements are stiff, as though measured with compass and square. Their conduct deliberately imitates the imposing bearing of dragons and tigers. When they admonish me, they act like sons speaking to their fathers; when they instruct me, they act like fathers speaking to their sons. Such affected behavior is cause for sighing.”

When Confucius met Bo Xuezi, he remained silent. Zilu asked in puzzlement, “Have you not always wanted to meet him? Why, now that you have met, do you say nothing?” Confucius replied, “With someone like him, the Dao is already conveyed through a glance. There is no need for words.” (“The Dao is present in a meeting of the eyes” means that one can recognize another’s cultivation through eye contact alone.)

Yan Hui, a disciple of Confucius, asked him, “I have tried to follow you step by step, imitating the way you walk, speak, debate, and teach. But when you reach a state of ‘racing beyond the dust,’ a level of transcendence, I cannot keep up. You persuade people without speaking; without deliberately seeking closeness, you make them feel fully cared for. You hold no position of authority, yet the people follow you of their own accord. Why is this?” Confucius answered gravely, “You must understand this: the greatest sorrow is for the mind to become rigid—‘the death of the heart’ means losing one’s capacity for insight. The death of the body comes second. Just as the sun rises in the east and sets in the west, all things follow this pattern. Anyone with eyes and feet must act in accordance with the laws of nature to accomplish anything.”

(Note: This passage criticizes the formalization of “ritual and propriety” in Daoism, emphasizing that “knowing the human heart” matters more than external rules. Confucius’s meeting with Bo Xuezi reveals a state of “teaching without words,” while Yan Hui’s questions point to the limits of deliberate imitation. The passage ultimately returns to the central idea of following the natural Dao.)

Zhuangzi here employs vivid metaphors to discuss the principle of life-death transformation. All things exist in constant flux—what depends on certain conditions will perish, yet what relies on other conditions will be reborn. Once we obtain this physical form, we maintain it until life's end, moving and transforming like all things, ceaselessly through day and night without knowing our ultimate destination. Life forms spontaneously—why force it through deliberate effort?

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: Obsessively dwelling on death actually hastens demise, for this acceleration stems from self-lamentation. Without lamentation there is peace, but once sorrow arises, the spirit (Shen) dies—this constitutes the greatest tragedy. All phenomena can be mutually compared and observed: what eyes perceive counts as functional, what feet traverse counts as action, yet absence of perception doesn't equate to nonexistence. So-called "concealment" signifies death while "manifestation" signifies life, yet in truth there exists no absolute life or death.

Existence never transforms into nothingness—thus once form is obtained, transformation continues endlessly. Following things' movements occurs naturally without conscious intent, with ceaseless day-night changes perpetually renewing. Not knowing life's terminus means refusing to treat death as finality. Life forms spontaneously—why impose artificial striving? Understanding that destiny isn't predetermined but advances synchronously with transformation. Change cannot be grasped or halted—even clinging arm-in-arm cannot stop it. If one laments death, then this very attachment deserves lamentation.

Modern people don't recognize such clinging as tragic—why mourn death alone? It's like seeking a horse in an empty marketplace (Tangsi denotes a deserted market)—you'll never find the previously seen steed. Human existence resembles horses passing through markets, never pausing momentarily as old and new alternate endlessly day and night. "Manifestation" (zhu) means appearance—you likely only perceive my manifested aspects, yet these manifestations renew daily while former versions vanish. How could you possibly grasp them? "Attachment" (fu) refers to clinging memories, while "swift forgetting" (shen wang) indicates rapid dissolution of the past. Your sudden recollections always arrive too late—your memories of me fade just as quickly, following the same principle.

The wise and the sages never stagnate. They do not dwell in the past but constantly renew themselves. Though the old self is forgotten, the new self arrives—this remains the true self, so why worry? Thus they transcend worldly concerns and unite with all things.

When Confucius visited Laozi (Lao Dan), the latter had just washed his hair and was letting it dry while standing in deep meditation, appearing unlike ordinary men. Confucius withdrew to wait, then approached after a while and said: "Are my eyes deceived? Or were you truly standing still as withered wood just now, seeming to transcend all things and stand alone beyond humanity?" Laozi replied: "My heart was wandering in the realm where all things begin." Confucius asked: "What does this mean?" Laozi said: "The mind is perplexed yet cannot comprehend; the mouth opens yet cannot speak. Let me offer a metaphor: The ultimate Yin Qi is cold and austere, the ultimate Yang Qi scorching and bright. Yin Qi descends from heaven, Yang Qi rises from earth—their harmonious blending gives birth to all things. Something governs this process yet shows no form. Yin and Yang wax and wane, sun and moon alternate their course, acting daily yet leaving no trace of labor. Life has its dawn, death its return—an endless cycle without limit. Who can fathom its boundaries? If not this Dao, what could be the root?"

Confucius asked: "May I ask how to wander in such a realm?" Laozi replied: "Attaining this realm is the most beautiful and joyful. Those who experience supreme beauty and wander in supreme joy are called perfected beings (Zhiren)." When Confucius sought the method, Laozi said: "Grass-eating beasts don't fear changing pastures; water-born insects don't dread shifting streams—minor changes don't affect fundamental patterns. Let neither joy nor anger disturb your heart, knowing all under heaven shares one nature. Realizing this unity, you'll regard limbs as dust and view life-death transitions as natural as day-night alternation—how much more so petty gains and losses? Cast off external bonds like discarding mud, knowing your true self surpasses external things. Real worth lies in preserving your essence while harmonizing with endless transformations. Those who cultivate the Dao (the Way) understand this liberation." Confucius sighed: "Your virtue matches heaven-earth, yet you still refine your heart through supreme teachings—what ancient noble could surpass this!" But Laozi said: "Not so. Water's nature..." [Here the original text is fragmentary]

Zhuangzi, in discussing the realm of "Wuwei" (non-action), states that the virtue of one who has attained the Dao (the perfected person) requires no deliberate cultivation—just as the heavens are naturally high, the earth naturally thick, and the sun and moon naturally bright. When Confucius heard this teaching, he said to Yan Hui, "My understanding of the great Dao is as shallow as a tiny gnat trapped in a vinegar jar. Had the Master (Laozi) not lifted the veil of my limitations, I would never have realized how vast and complete heaven and earth truly are."

Guo Xiang comments: Those who have attained the Dao may appear dull and unlike ordinary people, but in truth, they have reached the ultimate state of emptiness and stillness. Transcending external things, they stand alone in self-sufficiency, even forgetting their own existence—naturally freeing themselves from all worldly constraints. The primordial Dao (the origin) emerges suddenly from nothingness, wandering in the birthplace of all things, and thus realizes that the ten thousand things exist spontaneously, not through human artifice.

At the time, Confucius was inwardly confused yet stubbornly argumentative. Laozi sought to guide him beyond words and concepts to experience the great Dao directly. The transformations of Yin-Yang seem formless and traceless; the intercourse of heaven and earth follows no fixed pattern; the alternation of sun and moon never clings to old ways. The movement of the Dao leaves no trace of achievement, for it is simply so of itself. Life sprouts from chaos, and death returns to dissolution—just as the Daodejing says, "Approach it, and you will not see its head; follow it, and you will not see its back."

Those who reach the pinnacle of beauty have already transcended the concepts of beauty and ugliness; those who experience ultimate joy no longer cling to happiness. Life and death are but minor transformations—understanding this frees one from emotional turmoil. Though knowing the body is more precious than a servant, one can regard it lightly as dust; recognizing that the changes of life and death are manifestations of the "true self," one can dwell with transformation without losing oneself. Laozi says that heaven, earth, sun, and moon achieve their nature without cultivation or deliberate action. Confucius, mocking his own limitations in comparison to Laozi’s wisdom, likens himself to a gnat in a vinegar jar facing the vastness of heaven and earth.

Another passage records Zhuangzi meeting Duke Ai of Lu. The duke said, "There are many Confucian scholars in Lu, but few study your Daoist arts." Zhuangzi replied, "In truth, there are very few genuine Confucians in Lu." Puzzled, the duke asked, "How can you say so when the whole state wears Confucian robes?" Zhuangzi explained: "I have heard that true Confucians—those who wear round hats (symbolizing knowledge of celestial timings), square shoes (understanding earthly patterns), and jade pendants (resolute in decision-making)—are rare. Those with real learning do not necessarily wear specific garments, and those who wear such garments do not necessarily possess true knowledge."

This passage illustrates through several stories that true virtue (De) lies in inner cultivation rather than external display.

Duke Ai of Lu believed those wearing Confucian robes must be true scholars, so he ordered a nationwide ban on such attire with death penalty for violators. Within five days, only one person dared wear Confucian robes. Zhuangzi remarked: "If the entire state of Lu contains but one true scholar, can this be considered many?" Guo Xiang's commentary notes that those truly filled with virtue require no external adornments.

Baili Xi (a renowned statesman of the Spring and Autumn period) cared nothing for titles or stipends. While devoted to tending cattle, he raised exceptionally robust herds. Duke Mu of Qin consequently overlooked his humble origins and entrusted him with state affairs. Emperor Shun of the Youyu clan remained indifferent to life and death, yet moved others profoundly. Guo Xiang's commentary emphasizes that those with inner fulfillment naturally respond appropriately to external matters.

When Duke Yuan of Song summoned artists to paint, others arrived promptly with respectful bows and busy ink-grinding, while one latecomer entered composedly, simply loosening his robe to sit cross-legged. The duke declared: "This is the true artist." Guo Xiang observes that only those with inner richness maintain such calm concentration.

King Wen of Zhou encountered an old man fishing in Zang territory who appeared absentminded despite his angling. Wishing to appoint him as minister yet fearing official opposition, the king pretended a royal ancestor's dream commanded the old man's appointment. After three years of his governance, officials ceased factionalism, administrators stopped boasting achievements, and neighboring states abandoned nonstandard measuring vessels in trade. Guo Xiang's commentary concludes: "When scholars form no cliques, officials claim no merit, and lords harbor no divided loyalties, the world naturally attains harmonious unity."

This passage recounts two allegorical stories that demonstrate Daoist wisdom through dialogues.

The first story tells of King Wen consulting the Elder Zang about statecraft. After listening in silence, the reclusive sage departed the next day. When Yan Hui asked Confucius why the virtuous king still sought guidance through dreams, Confucius explained that King Wen had already perfected governance (appointing the worthy without autocracy), merely guiding people according to their needs. Like fishing not for the catch, a ruler should transcend utilitarianism—blending with the populace without ostentation, establishing standardized measures to earn trust. Only by withdrawing after accomplishment can one truly benefit the world.

The second story features Lie Yukou (a master archer) demonstrating his skills to Bohun Wuren (an enlightened sage). He could shoot arrows with a cup of water balanced on his elbow without spilling a drop. Bohun Wuren dismissed this as "deliberate archery," then led him to a cliff to demonstrate "Wuwei (non-action) archery"—standing at the edge of an abyss, Lie Yukou collapsed trembling with sweat. The sage revealed: True perfected beings (those who attain the Dao) survey the blue heavens above and yellow springs below, remaining unshaken amidst peril. Lie Yukou's faltering spirit revealed his incomplete cultivation.

Note: The term "perfected being" (zhiren) represents Daoism's highest spiritual ideal; "Wuwei" denotes natural spontaneity without forced action. Together, these stories illuminate core Daoist principles of "governing through non-action" and "harmonizing with all things."

Zhuangzi here illustrates the transcendent state of those who have attained the Dao through several parables.

The first story describes an archer whose skill reaches unimaginable heights. Before the first arrow hits the target, the next is already nocked on the string, as effortlessly as balancing a cup of water on one's elbow. This metaphor depicts the marvelous external manifestation of those whose inner De (Virtue) overflows. They perceive all critical junctures of safety and danger while maintaining unshaken inner peace. Ordinary people, unable to see the essence of things, become anxious about gains and losses, thereby forfeiting even more.

The second story features a dialogue between Jianwu and Sunshu'ao. When Sunshu'ao was appointed prime minister of Chu three times, he felt no pride; when dismissed three times, he harbored no sorrow. He explained: What comes cannot be stopped, what goes cannot be retained. Since gains and losses aren't mine to determine, why worry? True wisdom lies in understanding that outcomes depend neither entirely on oneself nor external circumstances, but on following nature's course.

When Confucius heard this, he marveled: The ancient Zhenren (Perfected Persons) couldn't be persuaded by the wisest arguments, seduced by beauty, or threatened by robbers. Even sage-kings like Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor couldn't claim their friendship. Something as monumental as life and death couldn't alter their mental state—how much less could official positions or salaries? Such individuals' Shen (spirit) could pass through mountains unobstructed, plunge into abysses without getting wet, and dwell in lowly stations without distress. Their spirit fills heaven and earth; the more they give to others, the richer they become.

Guo Xiang's commentary observes: Those who reach the state of forgetting both self and worldly standards neither exclusively honor social conventions nor stubbornly cling to personal views. They respond to all situations with natural ease, recognizing no absolute standards of right and wrong. Titles like Fuxi or Yellow Emperor merely denote worldly achievements—far removed from true cultivation—hence empty fame isn't worth pursuing.

Zhuangzi here employs several allegorical stories to elucidate the core Daoist concepts of "Wuwei" (non-action) and the "equality of all things."

The text begins by illustrating how someone who harms their own body for the sake of governing the world causes loss to both others and themselves. The truly wise approach allows everyone to find their own joy. Those who achieve this can give to others without diminishing themselves, their spiritual state filling heaven and earth, thus finding ease wherever they dwell. Because they are at ease everywhere, they need not harm themselves to accommodate external things, but can peacefully abide in self-contentment.

The story of the King of Chu and the Lord of Fan demonstrates: though the state of Fan was destroyed three times, its lord said "Fan's destruction cannot diminish my inner existence." Conversely, Chu's continued existence doesn't prove its true reality. This shows that survival and destruction are merely appearances - in essence, Fan was never truly destroyed, nor was Chu ever truly established. As Guo Xiang's commentary notes, true existence transcends concepts of survival and destruction; only by transcending attachments can one attain eternity.

The chapter "Knowledge Wanders North" recounts the story of "Knowledge" seeking the Dao: Knowledge traveled north to the Dark River, ascended Hidden Bluff, and met Non-Doer Saying. Three times he asked about the Dao, but received no reply. When he asked Madly Bent, the latter began to answer but forgot what to say. Finally, the Yellow Emperor told him: the true Dao requires no thinking, no deliberate pursuit, and no specific methods. The Emperor remarked that Non-Doer Saying had truly attained the Dao, Madly Bent was close to it, while eloquent speakers like themselves remained far from it. For "those who know don't speak; those who speak don't know" - the highest teaching is wordless instruction.

The passage concludes: the Dao cannot be forcibly sought; De (Virtue) cannot be deliberately attained; humaneness may be actively practiced; righteousness will always have shortcomings; and ritual easily becomes hypocrisy. Thus, clinging to these superficial forms leads one further from the true Dao.

This passage discusses the Daoist perspective on the gradual decline of "Dao" (the Way) and "De" (Virtue/Power), and the path to return to original authenticity.

When the original perfect "De" (natural virtue) was lost, people began emphasizing "ren" (artificial benevolence); when "ren" was lost, they turned to "yi" (moral principles); and when "yi" was lost, only "li" (ritual formalities) remained. "Li" is merely superficial ornamentation of the Dao and actually marks the beginning of chaos. Therefore, Dao cultivators must continually reduce external ostentation to ultimately reach the state of "wuwei" (non-action), through which they paradoxically achieve omnipotence.

Modern people are trapped by external things, making it difficult to return to their original nature—only the "great person" (enlightened one) who has attained the Dao can accomplish this effortlessly. Life and death form a cyclical continuum: human life is the gathering of Qi (vital energy), which manifests as life when concentrated and as death when dispersed. All things share the same essence—what people consider miraculous and what they deem foul can transform into each other, because all phenomena under heaven are transformations of the same Qi. The sage comprehends this principle of "oneness."

When the Yellow Emperor consulted Wuweiwei (an enlightened being), he received no reply; when he asked Kuangqu (a semi-enlightened being), the latter wanted to answer but forgot. The Yellow Emperor realized: true Dao attainers don't rely on words, and those who appear knowledgeable are actually further from the Dao. Hearing this, Kuangqu acknowledged the emperor's genuine understanding.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: The Dao is fundamentally spontaneous and ineffable. Preserving one's natural disposition constitutes "De"—conscious striving prevents its attainment. Ritual norms easily breed hypocrisy. Only by reducing external embellishment can one return to simplicity. The "great person" adapts effortlessly to transformations, making the transmutation of external things natural. Those who understand the Dao of transformation make no distinction between life and death, beauty and ugliness, knowing these are all manifestations of Qi's condensation and dispersion. People's individual preferences are ultimately interconnected—the miraculous and the foul are originally one.

This passage explores the profound Daoist philosophy of "non-speaking" (不言) and "natural non-action" (自然无为). True wisdom does not reside in verbal expression, as the Dao (the Way) inherently transcends language. While the Yellow Emperor (the legendary sovereign who attained the Dao) expounded Daoist teachings through words, genuine realization must be experienced in silence.

In the Vimalakīrti Sutra (净名经), when bodhisattvas discussed the "Dharma gate of non-duality" (不二法门), Vimalakīrti (净名) responded with silence, considering wordlessness the highest state. Yet the celestial maiden pointed out that true liberation neither depends on language nor rejects it—both thought and speech can be paths to enlightenment, provided one remains unattached. At the ultimate stage of contemplation, even the concept of "emptiness" must be relinquished; at the pinnacle of cultivation, even the name "Dao" must be transcended.

Heaven and earth manifest sublime beauty without speaking; the four seasons follow their orderly course without explanation; all beings grow according to inherent patterns without declaration. The sage who has attained the Dao emulates this naturalness: the perfected person (至人) refrains from deliberate action, and the great sage avoids forceful interference. Like the vast cosmos where life and death appear rootless yet have existed spontaneously since antiquity—from the macrocosm of the six directions (六合) to the microcosm of an autumn hair's tip—all follow the natural order of yin-yang and the four seasons. This state, seemingly chaotic yet mysteriously precise, nurturing all without claiming merit, constitutes the essence of the Dao.

Guo Xiang (郭象), the Wei-Jin metaphysician, annotates: "Non-action" (无为) means letting all things develop autonomously, while "non-creation" (不作) signifies pure alignment with nature. Observing heaven and earth teaches us to embrace all phenomena without interference, allowing everything to transform according to its inherent nature, while the inner spirit (natural law) remains eternally unperturbed.

This scripture expounds the Daoist teachings on natural disposition and the Dao.

Life that is destined to perish naturally fades away, while new life naturally emerges. Round things naturally appear round, square things naturally appear square—none of this has a deliberate master, so people cannot fathom its origin. Since ancient times, the Dao has eternally existed; it does not require human intervention to be. The six directions of heaven and earth (the cosmos) are all embraced within the Dao. If we place the cosmos within the boundless (Wuji), it appears limited. Though the fine down of autumn birds and beasts is minuscule, without the Dao, even this could not take form.

All things operate according to natural order, needing no human interference. Deliberately pursuing the Dao causes one to lose it; excessive attachment to form leads to the loss of spiritual (Shen) essence. The Dao naturally nourishes all things without revealing its root, so people do not understand how it sustains them. Those who can observe the Dao of heaven become one with it.

Nie Que asked Bei Yi about the Dao. Bei Yi told him: "Straighten your body and focus your gaze, and natural harmony will arrive. Restrain your cleverness and unify your thoughts, and the spirit will come to dwell within. De (Virtue) will make you whole, and the Dao will abide with you. Be like a newborn calf, pure and without desires." Before he finished speaking, Nie Que fell asleep. Delighted, Bei Yi left singing: "Form like withered wood, mind like dead ashes—those who truly understand the Dao do not cling to old notions. Dull and uncalculating, they cannot be schemed with. What manner of men are these!"

Shun asked Cheng: "Can the Dao be possessed?" Cheng replied: "You don't even possess your own body—how could you possess the Dao?" Shun asked: "Then who possesses my body?" Cheng said: "It is form bestowed by heaven and earth. Your life is not yours—it is the harmony bestowed by heaven and earth. Your nature and destiny are not yours—they are the accord bestowed by heaven and earth. Your descendants are not yours—they are the continuity bestowed by heaven and earth. Thus you walk without knowing where you go, dwell without knowing what sustains you, eat without tasting flavors. This is all the movement and transformation of heaven and earth's Yang Qi—how could you possess any of it?"

Confucius asked Lao Dan (Laozi) about the supreme Dao. Laozi said: "First purify your mind through fasting, cleanse your spirit, and cast aside knowledge. The Dao is profound and hard to describe! I'll give you the general outline: Light is born from darkness, form from formlessness, spirit from the Dao, and body from spirit. All things generate and continue through forms."

This passage explores the fundamental relationship between the essence of life and the natural Dao. It points out that viviparous creatures possess nine orifices (the seven facial orifices plus the excretory organs), while oviparous creatures have eight (lacking one orifice). Life comes and goes without trace, having no fixed gateway—like a palace with thoroughfares in all directions. Those who align with this natural Dao develop robust limbs, unhindered thinking, sharp hearing and clear vision. Their minds operate effortlessly, responding to all things without rigid patterns.

Heaven and Earth follow inevitable natural laws: Heaven cannot but be high, Earth cannot but be vast, the sun and moon cannot but move, and all things cannot but flourish—this is the manifestation of Dao. Sages don't rely on erudition or debate to comprehend truth. They understand that certain things neither increase by addition nor diminish by subtraction—this is the foundation to preserve. Such Dao is as profound as the ocean, as towering as mountains, cycling endlessly without exhaustion.

Fundamentally, life is but a temporary coagulation of Qi (vital energy), where differences in lifespan matter little. Just as melons and fruits each have their veins, human relationships—though complex—are navigated by sages through accommodation rather than force. The rise of imperial dynasties follows the same principle. Human existence is as fleeting as sunlight passing through a crack, with all things perpetually transforming between life and death—a truth everyone intuitively grasps.

Those who truly understand Dao don't argue; those who argue don't truly understand. Dao cannot be heard with ears—genuine realization lies in silence. Like the archer Yi's legendary marksmanship (from Zhuangzi's "The Sign of Virtue Complete"), those obsessed with gain and loss live as if trapped at the center of a target. Even exemplary figures like Zhang Yi (the socialite) and Shan Bao (the hermit)—archetypal characters from Zhuangzi—cannot avoid being hit. Only those who forget themselves and unite with nature transcend such limitations.

(Note: The "center of Yi's target"典故 alludes to Zhuangzi's metaphor for contentious circumstances; Zhang Yi and Shan Bao represent two contrasting lifestyles in Daoist philosophy.)

This passage speaks of how humans should follow the natural Dao and avoid forcing outcomes. Human life is not something we can fully control—our experiences, actions, and dispositions throughout life are not entirely within our command, as they all operate according to natural laws. When we insist on forcing things against nature, we bring suffering upon ourselves.

Those who narrowly avoid misfortune often attribute it to their own cleverness, becoming smug and self-satisfied. Yet when calamity does strike, they lament and blame themselves, damaging their spirit. This happens because they fail to understand that destiny unfolds naturally according to its own principles.

All things in existence arise from the transformation of Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), evolving from the subtle to the coarse through natural processes. Just as a bird's egg cannot hatch a snake, the workings of Shen (spirit) and Qi cannot be forced. Those who align with their innate nature exist physically within heaven and earth while their spirit roams freely beyond the eight directions, moving in harmony with creation.

One who comprehends this principle preserves their heavenly nature and stabilizes their spirit. The myriad things of heaven and earth operate spontaneously, not because the Dao deliberately arranges them. Thus, sages discard cleverness and artifice, following nature's course and allowing all things to find their proper place. Like the ocean that never runs dry while receiving countless rivers, they cycle endlessly, abiding with creation.

The true Dao is impartial and undivided—it transcends Yin-Yang distinctions and stands beyond material concerns. Those who return to their original state do not chase after trivialities but gather Qi and concentrate their Shen. Even life and death are not worth excessive concern, let alone the length of one's lifespan. All things follow their natural patterns, and humans need only align with them. It is precisely because of human cleverness and contrivance that we find it difficult to follow nature's way.

Zhuangzi here expounds the philosophical concept that the Dao (the Way) is omnipresent. When Dongguozi asked where the Dao could be found, Zhuangzi replied that the Dao exists in all things—from ants and weeds to tiles and even excrement. As Dongguozi found these examples increasingly vulgar, Zhuangzi explained: Just as market inspectors determine a pig's fatness by feeling its lower legs (jian shi lü xi), the humbler the example, the more it demonstrates universal truth.

Zhuangzi points out that the Supreme Dao (zhidao) resembles words like "universal," "all-pervading," or "omnipresent"—different names sharing identical essence. He describes a transcendent state: roaming through the palace of emptiness while maintaining serene detachment, adapting effortlessly to circumstances. Those who attain this wisdom merge with the transformations of all things without constraint, understanding that while phenomena have boundaries (wu ji), these limits are themselves relative (bu ji zhi ji).

Regarding the transformations of life and death, Zhuangzi asserts all things exist in perpetual flux—birth and death being but different phases of change. The living may grieve death, yet death itself holds no sorrow. True liberation (jie tao duo zhi) means transcending these external forms; by not forcing outcomes (bu xing xing nai cheng), one attains fulfillment, whereas insistence leads to failure. Aligning with the Dao through subtle resonance (an zhi nai zhi) surpasses deliberate pursuit (ming jian wu zhi). Maintaining silent non-action (mo er sai zhi) paradoxically yields the greatest attainment (da de).

Here Zhuangzi discusses the omnipresence of Dao (the cosmic origin and operating principle). He employs a vivid analogy: just as market inspectors determine a pig's fatness by pressing where it's hardest for the animal to gain weight, similarly, the more we observe humble ordinary things, the clearer we see that Dao truly permeates all existence.

To claim Dao exists only in certain things would negate its universality. The true Great Dao encompasses everything. Understanding this liberates the mind to roam freely through infinite realms. Maintaining a serene, detached attitude while following natural transformations—this is the state of wuwei (non-forced action).

When one's consciousness achieves transparent clarity, it no longer fixates on destinations. For genuine coming and going are but natural rhythms, without absolute beginnings or endings. The profoundly wise wander through vast emptiness, flowing with all transformations without imposition. Though phenomena appear bounded, they fundamentally arise and perish according to nature.

The subsequent anecdote tells of E'ahogan and Shennong (legendary father of herbal medicine) studying under Old Dragon Ji. At noon one day, E'ahogan opened the door announcing their master's death. The napping Shennong rose leaning on his staff, then suddenly laughed and cast it aside. This illustrates how awakened beings transcend attachment to life and death, recognizing them as mere phases of natural transformation.

Here Zhuangzi explores the profound nature of the Dao through a dialogue between fictional characters. Tianru (a fictional figure) laments his shallow understanding and dies abandoned by his teacher. Yangangdiao (another fictional character) observes that those who truly comprehend the Great Dao attract followers from all noble-minded people, while those with partial understanding at least know to conceal their presumptuous words before death.

Taiqing (a truth-seeker) inquires successively of Wuxiong and Wuwei (symbolizing different aspects of the Dao) whether they understand the Way. Wuxiong replies "I do not know," while Wuwei claims to know the Dao's characteristics—that it can be noble or humble, gathered or dispersed. Perplexed by these contradictory answers, Taiqing consults Wushi (symbolizing the Dao's origin).

Wushi explains: The one who says "I do not know" actually understands more profoundly, because the Dao transcends sensory perception—it cannot be heard, seen, or clearly articulated. The true Great Dao cannot be obtained through questions and answers; the questioner fundamentally doesn't understand, and the responder cannot truly convey it. The Dao is like that which gives form to the formless—it should not be named at all.

Guo Xiang (the commentator) adds that this dialogue reveals death holds no cause for fear. From Jianwu (a truth-seeker in Zhuangzi) onward, people have dismissed profound truths as mad ravings. Thus, except for realized beings like Lao Long (Laozi) and Lianshu (a wise figure in Zhuangzi), none can truly discuss the Great Dao. The "tip of autumn down" metaphor illustrates how infinitesimal our understanding of the Dao is—not even one ten-thousandth of its totality. Yet those who conceal their wild words before death already demonstrate deeper awareness of the Dao's unfathomability than ordinary people.

(Note: "Lao Long" refers to Laozi, while "Lianshu" represents a sage figure in Zhuangzi. "Autumn down" denotes the fine new hair of autumn animals, symbolizing the most minute things.)

Here Zhuangzi explores the supreme truth that transcends language and knowledge. The true Dao cannot be attained through words but must be realized through inner awakening. What appear to be profound doctrines are not the actual Dao, for the Great Way itself is nameless. True understanding comes not through accumulation of knowledge, but through silent realization in wordless states.

He illustrates this with examples: We recognize forms of things, yet the origin that gives them form is itself formless. Though we name it "Dao," it cannot be equated with any particular thing. To question the Dao is fundamentally mistaken—if it could be answered, it wouldn't be the true Dao; if unanswered, the questioner gains nothing. Thus the highest state is neither questioning nor answering, completely relinquishing study and teaching to return to one's natural essence.

The text presents a parable: Guangyao (representing illuminating wisdom) asks "Non-Being" (representing the formless origin): "Do you exist or not?" Only to discover the other has no form or appearance—invisible to sight, inaudible to hearing, intangible to touch. Guangyao sighs: "This is indeed the ultimate state! I can comprehend 'being' and 'non-being,' yet cannot reach the level of 'non-non-being.'"

Guo Xiang's commentary notes that true learning means abandoning deliberate study. Like the eighty-year-old craftsman serving Grand Marshal who forged hooks with perfect precision—his secret lay in sixty years of single-minded focus where nothing existed in his awareness except hooks. This demonstrates how ultimate concentration achieves "great function" through what appears to be a state of "non-use."

Finally, when Ran Qiu asks Confucius "What existed before Heaven and Earth formed?" the reply is "The same as now." This seemingly paradoxical answer reveals the eternal truth beyond time: what seemed clear yesterday appears obscure today—such fluctuations in understanding prove one hasn't touched the unchanging essence. The true Dao transcends temporal changes, remaining identical through past and present.

This passage records a dialogue between Confucius (Zhongni) and his disciples Ran Qiu and Yan Hui, exploring core Daoist concepts of life and death, being and non-being.

Confucius begins by saying: "The truths understood in the past were first grasped by the spirit (shen). Now when we feel confused, is it because we're pursuing things beyond the spiritual realm? In truth, there's no distinction between ancient and modern, beginning and end—just as one cannot have descendants before procreating." Before Ran Qiu could respond, Confucius continues: "Stop—no need to answer. Life and death are not mutual transformations. Life doesn't arise from death, nor does death emerge from life. Each exists independently in its own state."

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: Confucius viewed heaven and earth as eternally existent, without moments of "non-existence." Deliberate attempts at understanding only lead us further from truth. Being doesn't transform into non-being, nor vice versa—though phenomena change endlessly, their essence remains constant. Like an unbroken lineage of descendants, heaven and earth never transition from nothingness. Death results from a thing's own transformation, not conversion from life; likewise, life emerges autonomously. All things complete their changes independently, requiring no external conditions.

The discussion then turns to "what preceded all things": Some say yin-yang, but these are themselves phenomena; others suggest ziran (spontaneity), yet this simply describes things' natural state; still others posit the supreme Dao (ultimate truth), which is precisely "ultimate non-being." Since it's non-being, how can we speak of it "preceding"? This demonstrates all things arise spontaneously without external compulsion. The sage's selfless care for humanity mirrors this natural principle, allowing his beneficence to endure for generations.

Finally, Yan Hui asks Confucius: "Master, you once spoke of 'neither sending forth nor welcoming'—what does this mean?" Confucius replies: "The ancients adapted outwardly while maintaining inner constancy, whereas modern people are inwardly unsettled yet outwardly rigid, forever dragged by external things." Here we see the Daoist practitioner's ideal: external conformity with worldly norms while preserving inner authenticity—a concept resonating with Zhuangzi's teaching of "outer transformation with inner non-transformation."

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "being mindless yet harmonizing with all things." The true sage who has attained the Dao (the Way) can follow the transformations of all beings without being harmed by external phenomena, because they maintain inner emptiness and stillness. Just like the hunting grounds of Xiwei (an ancient ruler), the gardens of the Yellow Emperor, the palaces of Emperor Shun, or the dwellings of Kings Tang and Wu - these were all places where sages followed nature's course.

Even Confucian and Mohist scholars who cling stubbornly to their judgments of right and wrong can be harmonized by this mindless attitude, let alone ordinary people. The sage interacts with external things without harming them, and thus external things cannot harm the sage. Only those who remain unharmed can achieve perfect harmony with all existence. While mountains and wilderness may bring joy, before this joy ends, sorrow may arrive. We cannot prevent these emotions from coming and going - worldly people are like passing travelers at the mercy of external phenomena.

People always insist on knowing what cannot be known and doing what cannot be done. Yet to acknowledge there are things one doesn't know and cannot do is simply human nature. Isn't it pitiful to stubbornly attempt the fundamentally impossible? The highest wisdom requires no words; the greatest action involves no deliberate striving. To forcibly standardize all knowledge results only in shallow understanding.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: When the mind (Shen) follows the body, the body naturally transforms; when the mind dominates the body, external appearances remain unchanged. Only by maintaining mindlessness can one truly change along with all things. Whether transforming or not transforming, let both occur naturally. Neither deliberately conforming nor resisting - this is sufficient. The dwelling places of all sages embody this attitude of following nature's course.

This passage reveals that human cognitive and behavioral capacities are not entirely within our conscious control. The most profound wisdom and abilities are actually the result of aligning with natural predispositions. Every person possesses innate endowments and limitations—those most sublime expressions and actions emerge as spontaneous outpourings of one's essential nature.

When knowledge or capability must be acquired through deliberate study, it merely constitutes "artificial learning" dependent on external means, ultimately remaining superficial. As Zhuangzi observed, intentional striving inevitably becomes inferior, paling in comparison to the depth achieved through natural spontaneity. Here we see the Daoist principle of Wuwei (non-action) governance manifested, emphasizing the paramount importance of returning to original simplicity and harmonizing with nature.

(Note: Zhuangzi Yi is Ming dynasty scholar Jiao Hong's commentary on the Zhuangzi. This passage elucidates Zhuangzi's core perspective regarding "natural predispositions.")