《莊子翼》Vol. 6

This passage comes from the "Gengsang Chu" chapter of the Zhuangzi, recounting the story of Gengsang Chu, a disciple of Laozi, who retreated to Mount Weilei:

Gengsang Chu, having deeply absorbed the authentic teachings of Daoism from Laozi, chose to live in seclusion at Mount Weilei. There, he deliberately distanced himself from pretentious intellectuals and hypocrites who flaunted their benevolence and righteousness, associating only with simple, natural folk. After three years, the local villagers noticed that while short-term changes were imperceptible, their lives had genuinely improved over time. Consequently, they sought to venerate him as a sage.

Upon learning of this, Gengsang Chu was displeased. He explained that just as spring's growth and autumn's harvest follow the natural order, those who truly embody the Dao (Zhiren, or "perfected persons") should dwell in stillness like wooden figures in humble abodes, allowing the people to flourish freely. The villagers' desire to elevate him as a model of virtue, he argued, contradicted Laozi's teachings.

His disciples countered: "When a great fish leaves deep waters, it risks capture in nets—just as a sage in seclusion within a small place inevitably attracts reverence." But Gengsang Chu responded with two analogies: "A beast large enough to swallow a cart, if it leaves the mountains, will meet calamity; a fish massive enough to gulp down a boat, if stranded ashore, will perish." His point was that true sages must preserve their natural essence (xing). To be exalted by worldly acclaim would cause them to lose their authenticity.

Guo Xiang's commentary observes that Gengsang Chu despised contrived displays of wisdom and virtue, instead upholding natural simplicity. The genuine Dao operates like the seasons—leaving no trace—which is why he refused to become an object of emulation. As Laozi said, "When the work is done and the task accomplished, the people all say, 'We did this naturally.'" The villagers of Weilei, however, acted contrary to this principle.

Ants can sting humans, which is why birds and beasts always seek refuge in high places, while fish and turtles dive into the depths. Those who wish to preserve their physical form and life will never consider their hiding places too secluded or distant.

What is there to praise about the two sage-kings Yao and Shun? Their debates were like recklessly chiseling holes in walls to plant weeds, counting individual hairs to comb them, or measuring grains of rice to cook a meal. Such petty calculations—how could they possibly save the world? Exalting the worthy only makes people vie with one another, and employing cleverness only makes them deceive each other. These methods cannot bring prosperity to the people. When the pursuit of profit becomes too frantic, sons will murder their fathers, and ministers will slay their rulers—people will even dig through walls to steal in broad daylight. Let me tell you: the root of the world's chaos began in the age of Yao and Shun, and its poison will persist for a thousand years. A millennium from now, the horror of humans devouring one another will surely arise.

(Guo Xiang's commentary: The disciples assumed that sages must enjoy lavish emoluments, so they urged their teacher to seek such benefits. The teacher replied that only by distancing oneself from profit can one truly preserve oneself. Those obsessed with wealth and status are inferior even to fish and turtles. What is praiseworthy about Yao and Shun? They merely encouraged later generations to imitate their contrived actions, creating disorder. Counting hairs and measuring rice grains—such trivial calculations are nothing but minutiae. Only by following one's inherent nature and practicing non-action [Wuwei] can one truly save the world. To pursue external things against one's nature, using cleverness to fill an inner void—this is hypocrisy. Seeking life through hypocritical means—how is this any different from theft? When people chase profit excessively, they will stop at nothing. All this stems from later generations imitating the deeds of Yao and Shun, leading to such calamities.)

Nanrong Chu sat upright respectfully and asked, "For someone as old as I, how should I study to understand these principles?" Gengsangzi replied, "Preserve your physical form, guard your innate nature, and do not spend your days lost in anxious thoughts. Persist in this for three years, and you will come to understand." Nanrong Chu said, "The structure of the eyes—I see no difference between them, yet the blind cannot see. The structure of the ears—I see no difference between them, yet the deaf cannot hear. The structure of the heart—I see no difference between them, yet the mad cannot control themselves. Forms may seem interconnected, yet external things create barriers between them. We wish to understand one another but cannot. Now you tell me..."

Preserve your complete physical form and safeguard your innate nature, without entangling yourself in excessive mental deliberations. When Nanrong Chu sought the Dao, Gengsangzi told him: "The principles have already been fully expounded. Just as small wasps cannot hatch bean insects, and Yue chickens cannot incubate swan eggs—yet the chickens of Lu can accomplish this. Though all are chickens, their natural endowments differ not in kind but in capacity. My own abilities are limited—I cannot enlighten you. Why not journey south to visit Laozi?"

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: To preserve one's form is to abide in one's proper station; to safeguard life is to avoid excessive interference with natural transformations. Though eyes may resemble eyes and ears resemble ears, their actual functions differ—they cannot be forced into uniformity. Just as two doors that cannot close naturally must have some obstruction between them, so too do physical obstructions become barriers to teaching.

Carrying dry provisions, Nanrong Chu traveled seven days and nights to reach Laozi's dwelling. At first glance, Laozi observed: "You've come from Gengsang Chu, haven't you?" When Nanrong Chu acknowledged this, Laozi continued: "Why have you brought so many 'companions' with you?" Startled, Nanrong Chu turned to look behind him. Laozi clarified: "Do you not understand my meaning?" Ashamed, Nanrong Chu lowered his head, then sighed heavenward: "Now I've forgotten what to ask—I've even lost my questions."

Nanrong Chu poured out his confusion: "If called foolish, my self-esteem suffers; if displaying wisdom, calamity follows. Without humaneness I harm others, yet practicing it exhausts myself. Without righteousness I injure people, yet upholding it troubles my spirit. These three contradictions leave me no escape." Laozi responded: "Earlier I saw your dilemma in the expression between your brows. Your words now confirm it—you're like a child who's lost his parents, poking a bamboo pole into the sea trying to retrieve them. Bewildered, you seek to return to your original nature but find no gateway—truly pitiable!"

Guo Xiang notes that Laozi's "many companions" referred to the three contradictions troubling Nanrong Chu's mind. After ten days of quiet cultivation at Laozi's abode, Nanrong Chu still wore a troubled countenance. When they met again, Laozi observed: "Though you've cleansed the exterior, internal obstructions remain—I detect lingering aversion. Those bound by external constraints..."

This passage elucidates the core principles of cultivating life and practicing the Dao. When Nanrong Chu (a Daoist figure) inquired about the art of nurturing life from Laozi, the sage used the natural state of an infant as a metaphor:

The true essence of life cultivation lies in maintaining purity and naturalness. Just as an infant can cry all day without losing its voice—this is heavenly harmony; can keep its fists clenched without tiring—because it follows innate nature; and can gaze all day without eye strain—because its spirit (Shen) doesn't chase external distractions. Those who truly understand life cultivation move in accordance with nature, dwell without forced action (Wuwei), and harmonize with all things like merging waves.

Seven specific practices are essential: First, maintain undivided concentration; second, never lose one's original authenticity; third, discern fortune and misfortune without divination (referring to natural perception); fourth, know when to stop; fifth, release attachments to the past; sixth, follow one's inner truth rather than imitating others; seventh, preserve childlike purity like an infant.

Guo Xiang (the Zhuangzi commentator) explains: Ears and eyes are external senses, while the mind is the internal master. The highest life cultivation means forgetting cunning thoughts and relinquishing sensory attachments. If beguiled by external sights and sounds, the inner self becomes obstructed; if the heart is filled with desires, the senses lose control. One must neither crave nor reject, thereby attaining natural flow. Even one-sided attachments are inadequate—how much more so when both internal and external aspects are constrained?

Ultimately, it emphasizes the true state of natural ease: crying arises spontaneously without forced restraint, clenched fists exert natural strength without strain, gazing observes naturally without fixation, walking follows no predetermined direction, dwelling involves no contrived action—completely yielding to the transformations of all things like water ripples rising and falling naturally. This is the supreme way of nurturing life.

This passage primarily discusses the spiritual states and cultivation methods of Daoist practitioners, centering on the practice concepts of "embracing Oneness" (maintaining body-mind unity) and the "infant state" (returning to original simplicity).

The text first cites perspectives from the Daode Jing to illustrate that genuine Dao cultivators can achieve these qualities: maintaining body-mind unity without separation; foreseeing fortune and misfortune without divination; understanding worldly affairs without leaving home; knowing when to stop; seeking inward rather than chasing outward; attaining a transcendent state of carefree wandering; and preserving the soft, pure temperament of an infant. These traits resemble how those with profound Dao and De (Virtue) can return to an infant's state of primal purity.

Nanrong Chu (a Daoist figure) asks whether this represents the realm of the "Perfect Man" (one who has realized the Dao). The response clarifies this is merely the preliminary stage resembling "melting ice and snow." The true Perfect Man is described thus: sharing sustenance with the earth and joy with heaven; remaining undisturbed by worldly gains and losses; avoiding participation in strange affairs or mundane scheming; coming and going freely without constraints. This constitutes the fundamental principle of nurturing life.

Yet the author further explains this isn't the ultimate state. The key lies in achieving an infant-like condition where: actions have no purpose; movements lack direction; the body remains still like withered branches; the mind stays calm like dead ashes. In this state, neither misfortune nor fortune can affect one, having transcended worldly calculations of gain and loss.

Guo Xiang (a Jin dynasty Daoist scholar) annotates: Nanrong Chu mistakenly believed mechanically following these instructions would make him a Perfect Man. However, states like "melting ice and snow" cannot be attained through forced effort. True Perfect Men naturally coexist with all things without deliberate pursuit. Hearing these principles doesn't equal realization—one must truly embody them. Misfortunes originate from attachment to gain and loss; human calamities arise from emotions of love and hatred. When one becomes as detached as "withered wood and dead ashes," such afflictions naturally vanish.

The passage concludes: When mental stillness reaches its ultimate state, it radiates with natural luminosity. Only practitioners who achieve this can maintain constant De (Virtue), attracting the adherence of multitudes and the protection of heaven.

(Note: "Embracing Oneness" refers to the essential Daoist practice of concentrated spirit and body-mind unity; "infant" metaphorically represents the cultivator's return to original simplicity; "Perfect Man" denotes the Daoist ideal of a sage who has realized the Dao.)

This passage expounds the Daoist philosophy of natural non-action (Wuwei) and alignment with the celestial Dao.

Those who dwell contentedly within their heaven-ordained station are called "heaven's people" (tianmin); those whom heaven assists are called "heaven's chosen" (tianzi). True learning means studying what appears unlearnable, true action means accomplishing what seems impossible, and true discourse means clarifying what defies explanation. Knowing where to stop at the boundaries of the unknowable represents the highest attainment. Any attempt to forcibly transcend these limits invites nature's retribution.

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: When one's virtue (De) reaches a state of serene equilibrium, it emits the radiance of celestial nature rather than artificial brilliance. This natural luminosity allows all things to occupy their proper places without mutual interference, thereby maintaining harmony. Through self-cultivation, one spontaneously attains this state of abiding peace, which returns one to original authenticity. Whether occupying high position (heaven's chosen) or low (heaven's people), such individuals remain unperturbed, having gained this not through forced pursuit.

All genuine action occurs without forced doing; all true learning happens without conscious studying; all proper discourse proceeds without deliberate arguing. Regarding the unknowable, one must not strain for knowledge—understanding where to stop constitutes supreme wisdom. Forced attempts inevitably fail.

Prepare material sustenance for the body, gather scattered thoughts to nourish the heart-mind (Shen), and maintain inner reverence to connect with external reality. Should misfortune still befall you, recognize it as heaven's will rather than human failing. Let neither such events disturb your inner equilibrium nor penetrate your heart's depths. The heart inherently possesses its own maintenance though we know not what maintains it, for true maintenance requires no conscious maintenance.

Actions taken without heart-sincerity invariably go awry. Visible transgressions invite human punishment; hidden ones incur spectral retribution. Only those who comprehend both human principle and celestial Dao can walk alone without obstruction. Internal cultivation should proceed in quiet obscurity, while external expression must match one's capacity. The quietly cultivated naturally radiate luminosity, while forced displays merely mimic antiquity.

People observing those who force their virtue (De) see only unnatural protrusions like conspicuous mounds. Those in harmony with all things find the myriad creatures naturally drawn to them; those opposing creation cannot even accommodate themselves, much less others. The unaccommodating attract no companions, and the companionless inevitably face abandonment. The sharpest weapon is human willfulness; the most dangerous adversaries are the transformations of yin and yang. None escape heaven-earth's interplay of these forces—not that yin-yang harms people, but that human hearts bring calamity upon themselves.

Guo Xiang comments: Following natural disposition and conforming to the formative processes of things, the heart-mind grows spontaneously without need for deliberate calculation.

This passage explores the relationship between the human mind and heavenly principle (天理), as well as how to attain inner tranquility.

The human mind (灵台, spiritual platform) is originally pure and unobstructed. When undisturbed by external things, it naturally remains free from worry. Deliberately maintaining any particular state actually causes one to lose their authentic nature, for true preservation requires no forced effort. When actions stem not from inner sincerity but from external reputation, they violate the natural Dao (道).

Zhuangzi believed humans should abide by their inherent allotment (券分, appropriate portion), attending only to what properly belongs to them. Overreaching for external things is like standing on tiptoe—it cannot be sustained. Such people neither find personal peace nor harmonious relationships. Excessive pursuit of material things scorches the inner self, inflicting wounds deeper than sword cuts.

The text then discusses Dao's operational principles: all things undergo cycles of formation and dissolution, and obsessive boundary-making destroys wholeness. From "non-being" (无有) all phenomena emerge, and true sages dwell securely in this primordial source. The "Celestial Gate" (天门) refers to this formless portal through which all creation emerges and returns—the ultimate realm transcending distinctions between being and non-being.

(Note: "灵台" denotes the mind/heart; "券分" means one's proper allotment; "天门" in Zhuangzi's philosophy represents the ultimate source of all arising and perishing)

This passage elucidates the Daoist profound understanding of life and death, being and non-being. Guo Xiang (a renowned Neo-Daoist scholar of the Wei-Jin period) notes in his commentary that while the success or failure of things lacks fixed standards, the Great Dao (the fundamental cosmic principle) permeates all existence.

If humans fail to abide by their inherent nature (original disposition) and constantly pursue perfection, they will instead come to resent their own nature. When one who is inherently imperfect forcibly seeks perfection, they develop aversion to perfection itself. But if a person remains content with their innate completeness, how could they possibly despise these things? Those who do not return to their original nature cannot sustain life long; those who refrain from external seeking truly obtain vitality, while deliberate pursuit leads to the loss of one's essential nature. Such people, even while living, differ little from ghosts.

With an open heart free from attachments, one preserves life and stabilizes physical form. All things emerge suddenly without fixed origins, and vanish abruptly without predetermined ends. What we call "emergence" is merely superficial appearance—in truth, there is no concrete source. "Yu" (space) encompasses all directions yet remains boundless; "Zhou" (time) spans past and present yet has neither beginning nor end. Life, death, coming and going occur spontaneously—no specific causes can be traced, nor concrete forms observed.

The "Gate of Heaven" (the universal portal for all existence) resembles what the Daode Jing calls the "Gate of All Mysteries." Life and death happen naturally without any hidden manipulator. What we label as gathering and scattering, appearing and disappearing, entering and transforming are merely human constructs—in reality, there exists no actual "gate." The true gate is "Wu" (non-being); to take "non-being" as the gate is equivalent to having no gate at all.

Before things come into existence, what causes them to emerge? They must arise spontaneously—how could anything else create them? This demonstrates that things cannot create themselves, but emerge naturally. This doesn't mean "non-being" creates "being" (existence)—if "non-being" truly could create "being," then what would "non-being" be? To completely negate "being" would leave absolute nothingness. Precisely because "non-being" is pure emptiness, "being" can emerge spontaneously. Thus, the sage allows all things to develop naturally without forced intervention.

The highest ancient wisdom recognized the primordial emptiness of the world—this represents the pinnacle of understanding. The next level acknowledges existence while viewing birth as the loss of original nature and death as returning to the source—this already involves differentiation. A lesser understanding holds: initially there was nothing, then life emerged, only to quickly perish; treating "non-being" as the head, "life" as the body, and "death" as the tail. Who can comprehend that being, non-being, life and death are fundamentally one? I would gladly befriend such a person. Though these three perspectives differ, they all originate from the same root.

This passage explores the relativity and mutability of judgments regarding right and wrong, employing vivid metaphors to illustrate its points.

It begins by mentioning the four noble clans of Zhao, Jing, Dai, and Jia—though sharing the same origin, they have diverged into distinct branches. Just as black mist (yǎn) gathers and disperses, once things differentiate, they each cling to their own views. The author uses the concept of "shifting standards" (移是) to show that notions of right and wrong change with context, much like sacrificial meat (膍胲) can be divided yet remains fundamentally the same, or how the main hall (寝庙) and the latrine (偃溲) each serve their purpose in different situations—thus, judgments shift across these varying circumstances.

Guo Xiang’s commentary elaborates: Life is like the gathering and scattering of Qi (气), while death is a return to the source. Though one may strive for balance, differentiation is inevitable. Thus, some pursue "being" (有), others "non-being" (无), and still others "equality" (齐同). Though these three attitudes differ, all can transcend the dichotomy of right and wrong—this is the realm of "universality" (公).

The text points out: People often mistake utility for wisdom, disuse for foolishness, prominence for glory, and hardship for disgrace. Such judgments are as limited as the perspectives of cicadas (蜩) and small turtledoves (鷽鸠). The perfected person (至人), however, understands the impermanence of all things—that every state of being has its root, and every perception its validity. What we call the relationship between name and reality is merely the standard each thing establishes for itself. People stubbornly cling to their views, unaware that such rigidity may itself deviate from truth.

Through everyday examples, this passage reveals that standards of right and wrong shift with circumstance. Fixating on rigid judgments is as narrow-minded as admiring the solemnity of the main hall while despising the filth of the latrine. Those who cultivate the Dao (道) should transcend such relativity and perceive the world with broader discernment.

The Zhuangzi Yi passage discusses the difference between ancient Dao cultivators and modern people, as well as the principles for attaining the state of Wuwei (non-action).

Ancient Dao-realized individuals held no attachment to distinctions of right and wrong, thus their inner minds remained unshaken. Contemporary people persistently cling to their own viewpoints, resembling the shallow bickering of cicadas and sparrows. When stepping on a stranger's foot, one must apologize promptly; when stepping on a sibling's foot, a concerned inquiry suffices; when stepping on a parent's foot, no words are even needed. Thus it is said: The highest ritual recognizes no separation between self and other; the highest righteousness remains unconstrained by external things; the highest wisdom requires no calculation; the highest benevolence makes no distinction between kin and stranger; the highest trust needs no monetary guarantee.

The text identifies four obstacles to Dao cultivation: Wealth and status among six things that disturb the will; physical appearance and emotions among six things that confuse the mind; desires and emotional fluctuations among six states that burden De (Virtue); preferences and cleverness among six behaviors that obstruct the Dao. Only by relinquishing all these can the mind become tranquil; tranquility leads to clarity; clarity leads to emptiness; emptiness leads to the state of Wuwei wherein all things are accomplished effortlessly.

Dao is the root of De, life is De's radiance, and innate nature is life's essence. Deliberate action constitutes artificiality, and artificiality causes loss of authenticity. True wisdom is spontaneous perception, like eyes seeing without deliberate effort. Calculated actions constitute pretense; forced actions violate one's true nature.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: Apologizing to a stranger while merely inquiring after a sibling and remaining silent with family demonstrates that true intimacy requires no formalities. The highest ritual regards others as oneself; the highest righteousness allows all things to fulfill their natural roles. Since the five viscera are fundamentally one body, the highest benevolence makes no familial distinctions. Gold and jewels merely secure petty trust - great integrity needs no such guarantees.

This passage describes a state of being that aligns with nature while transcending worldly judgments. The divine archer Yi excelled at hitting minuscule targets, yet couldn't prevent people from praising him; sages master conformity with the Dao (the Way), yet struggle with human affairs. Only the "complete person" (perfect individual) can simultaneously follow nature's course and skillfully handle human matters, just as insects inherently live entirely according to their instincts.

Using bird-hunting as a metaphor: if Yi used the entire world as his cage, no sparrow could escape. King Tang of Shang won over Yi Yin with a kitchen position, and Duke Mu of Qin recruited Baili Xi with five sheepskins—demonstrating that only by catering to one's true inclinations can hearts be won. But amputees care nothing for adornments, and condemned prisoners scaling heights fear neither life nor death, having already risen above worldly standards.

Those who truly attain unity of heaven and human neither rejoice at honors nor rage at insults. When angered, they maintain equanimity; when acting, they follow natural spontaneity. To achieve inner stillness, one must regulate Qi (vital energy); to attain spiritual clarity, one must follow innate disposition. In action, one should adhere to the principle of "acting only when compelled"—this seemingly passive state that perfectly harmonizes with the Dao represents the sage's way of being.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: those who grasp essence naturally gain renown. The complete person is the sage; insects content with their nature follow the Dao. Forcibly seizing external things drives them away; conforming to all creatures' innate dispositions leaves nothing to escape. The disabled cease caring about appearance, the condemned cease fearing death—having transcended human attachments. Those devoid of worldly emotions naturally achieve heaven-human unity—if even maimed bodies can harmonize with nature, how much more so pure natural Dao? Being angry without showing anger, acting as if non-acting—this embodies the profound mystery that "non-being cannot generate being, and being cannot create life." Balanced Qi naturally brings mental stillness.

In this dialogue between Xu Wugui and Marquis Wu of Wei, Zhuangzi demonstrates the Daoist wisdom of "following what is natural." When the inner mind aligns with heavenly principles, all actions naturally achieve perfect harmony. The sage follows this natural way of the Dao (Dao) without deliberately pursuing some elusive, transcendental state.

Xu Wugui gains an audience with Marquis Wu through the introduction of Nü Shang. The Marquis greets him with concern: "You must be weary, sir. The hardships of mountain reclusion must have been severe—hence your willingness to visit me." But Xu Wugui counters: "It is I who should console you. If you indulge your desires, your vital essence (Jing) is harmed; if you forcibly restrain them, your senses suffer. The consolation should come from my side." This role-reversing response leaves the Marquis momentarily speechless.

Xu Wugui then launches into a discourse on judging dogs and horses: The lowest grade of dog is content with mere satiety, gluttonous as a wildcat; the middling dog has spirit (Shen) focused like the full moon; the superior dog achieves complete self-forgetfulness. The same applies to horses—those conforming to standards make fine state steeds, but the truly heavenly horses embody spontaneous perfection, transcending the ordinary. Though seemingly irrelevant, these analogies delight the Marquis immensely.

Puzzled, Nü Shang wonders why his own classical exhortations failed while Xu Wugui's canine and equine analogies pleased the ruler. Xu Wugui explains with an exile's homesickness metaphor: The longer one is away, the more joy comes from encountering fellow countrymen; a solitary dweller in the wilderness rejoices at footsteps, let alone a familiar voice. This implies the Marquis, long deprived of genuine speech, finds special delight in plain truths.

The dialogue vividly illustrates the Daoist principle that "the great Dao is supremely simple." True wisdom lies not in ornate rhetoric but in returning to unadorned sincerity. Xu Wugui's everyday metaphors move the ruler more effectively than classical citations—precisely embodying the Daoist art of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)."

This passage comes from the "Miscellaneous Chapters - Xu Wugui" section of the Zhuangzi, recording a dialogue between the hermit Xu Wugui and Marquis Wu of Wei that exposes the contradictions behind rulers' so-called "love for the people."

When Xu Wugui visited Marquis Wu, the ruler asked if he had come for food and wine. Xu Wugui replied that as a man of humble origins, he dared not covet the ruler's delicacies—he had come to offer consolation instead. Puzzled, the Marquis pressed further. Xu Wugui explained: Heaven and earth nurture all things equally—those in high positions aren't inherently noble, nor are the lowly base by nature. Yet as lord of ten thousand chariots, the Marquis made his people suffer merely to indulge his sensory pleasures. Human spirit (Shen) inherently delights in harmony and abhors deceit, and the ruler's actions had violated this fundamental nature—hence Xu Wugui's visit to console him.

When the Marquis sought advice on loving his people and ending wars, Xu Wugui pointed out sharply: This very "love for the people" marks the beginning of harming them, and vaunted "benevolence and righteousness" to cease warfare would only breed more conflicts. All conscious pursuit of reputation becomes a tool for wrongdoing. Even surface-level virtue inevitably decays into hypocrisy. He advised the Marquis: Don't parade troops on city walls, don't display chariots at altars, curb insatiable desires, and abandon schemes, stratagems and warfare to achieve victory. Those wars fought to slaughter people and seize lands for selfish gains—who can truly say which side emerges victorious?

Xu Wugui's final admonition was: If you must act, first cultivate inner sincerity and follow the natural Dao (the Way). This exchange lays bare the contradiction of rulers wielding "benevolence" as a cloak for tyranny, embodying the Daoist critique of hypocritical governance.

This passage explores how rulers should govern the world in accordance with the natural Dao (the Way), and how excessive pursuit of humaneness and righteousness can lead to hypocrisy.

Heaven and Earth nurture all things equally. If a ruler indulges without restraint, exploiting the people to satisfy their sensory pleasures, they violate nature's balance. True deities (Shen) do not deliberately display themselves but exist in harmony with all things. Those who deliberately showcase themselves often harbor deceit. When rulers deliberately display their love for the people, such affection becomes hypocritical. The pursuit of humaneness and righteousness leads to fame, and fame provokes competition, ultimately causing the loss of one's true nature.

When fathers and sons, rulers and ministers deceive one another, how can war possibly cease? Only by following the principle of Wuwei (non-action) can true success be achieved. Deliberate pursuit of virtue in the beginning inevitably breeds hypocrisy in the end. Thus, virtue achieved through contrivance becomes a tool for evil. When rulers promote humaneness and righteousness, the people respond with hypocrisy. Since humaneness and righteousness have concrete forms, hypocrisy inevitably arises. Once fixed patterns are established, abnormal changes emerge.

The text mentions "crane formations" (鹤列) referring to military arrays and "ornate towers" (丽谯) referring to grand buildings. But the emphasis is not on whether to raise armies but on avoiding the deliberate display of humaneness and love for the people. Nor should one flaunt military might—moderation is the true path. Using cunning to overcome others is inferior to preserving one's simple nature, for simplicity has its own capabilities. Using strategy to defeat others is inferior to maintaining innate wisdom, for wisdom has its own strengths. Using war to conquer others is inferior to responding to all things with the Dao, whereby all things naturally submit without the name of victory.

Without knowing what true goodness is, even victory in war is not true triumph. Rather than this, it is better to cultivate one's own sincerity—then, even without disarming, war will naturally vanish.

The latter part recounts the story of the Yellow Emperor visiting Dawei (a legendary Daoist sage): The Yellow Emperor, accompanied by six wise ministers, journeyed to Mount Jucí to seek Dawei but lost his way in the outskirts of Xiangcheng, where he met a young horse herder. Not only did the boy know the location of Mount Jucí and Dawei, but he also told the Yellow Emperor that governing the world was as simple as herding horses—no deliberate action was needed. The boy said he had wandered the world since childhood until he developed an eye ailment (瞀病), after which an elder taught him the way of nurturing life.

This passage recounts how the Yellow Emperor sought governance wisdom from a horse-tending boy, embodying the Daoist principle of governing through Wuwei (non-action).

The Yellow Emperor first describes leisurely touring the outskirts of Xiangcheng in his solar chariot. Now that his illness has improved, he plans to journey beyond the Six Directions (heaven, earth and the four cardinal points). He feels governing the world should be as effortless and spontaneous as this wandering, requiring no deliberate effort. The horse-tending boy tells him ruling the empire is no different from herding horses - simply remove the disruptive elements. Deeply impressed, the Yellow Emperor respectfully addresses the boy as "Celestial Master" (Tianshi) before withdrawing.

Guo Xiang's commentary explains that true sages never consciously pursue fame, as reputation can lead to spiritual confusion. Governing should follow natural patterns like the sun's daily course - when rulers refrain from forceful intervention, people become naturally cultivated. Just as in horse herding, removing excessive or harmful elements spontaneously creates ideal conditions.

The text then catalogs human tendencies: the intelligent delight in contemplation and debate, the eloquent in discussion, the shrewd in investigation - all constrained by specific concerns. Fame-seekers crave court prominence, commoners take pride in official posts, the strong glory in overcoming obstacles, the brave relish resolving crises, soldiers enjoy battle, hermits pursue renown, legalists promote laws, ritualists emphasize decorum, and humanitarians value relationships. Farmers feel restless without plowing, merchants uneasy without trade, laborers diligent with daily tasks, craftsmen energized with tools. The greedy fret over insufficient wealth, the power-hungry lament weak authority. All remain fettered by external things, never attaining liberation in their lifetimes - truly pitiable.

Guo Xiang concludes that such people cannot find true joy within, remaining shackled by externals. Various dispositions create different limitations, yet all things come unbidden when the time is ripe - none can be forced.

This passage presents a dialogue between Zhuangzi and Huizi, discussing the predicament of scholars (talented individuals) and the disputes among various schools of thought.

The discussion begins by observing that scholars possess different talents, just as the four seasons follow their natural rhythms. If one is born at an inopportune time, even great ability may remain unrealized. Only by aligning with circumstances can one fully express one's gifts. Forcing fame and success against one's inherent nature is as unnatural as lighting fires in winter or making ice in summer—such actions ultimately lead to self-destruction.

Zhuangzi employs an archery metaphor: If one shoots randomly without a target, can they be called a master archer? Huizi believes they could. Zhuangzi then asks: If everyone considers themselves sages like Yao and Shun, then among the four schools of Confucianism, Mohism, Yang Zhu's philosophy, and Gongsun Long's logic—plus your own teachings, Huizi—whose view is correct?

He recounts a story: Lu Ju's disciples claimed mastery of "boiling cauldrons in winter and making ice in summer." Lu Ju pointed out these were merely minor techniques of Yin-Yang interaction, not the true Dao. Then he demonstrated real understanding—when plucking a zither string, its vibration resonates with other strings, revealing the fundamental interconnectedness of all things.

Huizi presses: How should we view the current debates among Confucians, Mohists and others, each claiming correctness? Zhuangzi responds with analogies: Like a man from Qi who entrusted his son to Song but provided incomplete care, or a Chu man scolding his gatekeeper at midnight—these are all misguided approaches. He implies that the schools' arguments resemble such absurd behavior, deviating from the great Dao.

This dialogue embodies Zhuangzi's philosophy of "equalizing all things" (Qiwulun), suggesting that all school doctrines arguing over right and wrong represent partial perspectives, while the true Dao transcends such dualities in holistic harmony.

This passage reveals, through several allegorical stories, how people often presume their own correctness while failing to comprehend deeper truths.

First comes an archery analogy: If someone who accidentally hits the target brags about their archery skills, then anyone in the world could claim to be the legendary archer Yi. This is clearly absurd. Similarly, if any random person considers themselves infallible, wouldn't that mean everyone could proclaim themselves to be the sage-king Yao? Zhuangzi uses this example to show that accidental success doesn't equal true ability, and self-righteousness doesn't make one a sage.

Next is the story of the musician Lu Ju: He prided himself on his exceptional zither-tuning skills, boasting that adjusting one string could make others resonate accordingly. In reality, this was merely the natural phenomenon of sympathetic resonance, not any unique skill of his. This mirrors how five scholars of that time each stubbornly clung to their own views, all believing only themselves to be correct—as laughable as Lu Ju showing off his "zither mastery."

Two further examples follow: A man from Qi sent his son abroad with strict guards, believing this to be loving care, yet it ultimately harmed the child; a Chu man, while boarding a boat that hadn't even left shore at midnight, got into a fight. Both were convinced of their own righteousness, never reflecting on their mistakes.

Finally, there's the famous "Carpenter Shi Chops Off Mud" parable: A man from Ying (Chu's capital) had white mortar on his nose tip, and Carpenter Shi swung his axe to remove it without harming the nose. This extraordinary feat required perfect cooperation—later, the carpenter confessed that since his partner (who dared stand completely still) passed away, he could never perform this act again.

Through these stories, Zhuangzi illustrates how people often fall into the trap of "presuming their own correctness": either mistaking chance for inevitability, stubbornly clinging to fixed views without adaptability, or lacking self-reflection. True wisdom requires objective understanding and mutual cooperation, just like Carpenter Shi and his partner demonstrated.

In The Wings of Zhuangzi (Zhuangzi Yi), the Daoist philosopher recounts several profoundly instructive parables:

The first narrative describes Zhuangzi lamenting the death of his friend Hui Shi, feeling he had lost the only worthy interlocutor for profound discourse. Just as a master craftsman requires suitable material to demonstrate his skill, the most exquisite philosophical discourse becomes meaningless without an appropriate listener.

The second episode records the deathbed conversation between statesman Guan Zhong and Duke Huan of Qi. Guan Zhong observed that while Bao Shuya was incorruptibly upright, his excessive severity made him unfit to govern. He recommended Xi Peng instead, who neither flattered superiors nor looked down on subordinates—a man capable of ruling through De (Virtue/Power) while showing genuine respect for talent. Guan Zhong particularly emphasized that truly wise governance requires knowing when to "play the fool," avoiding excessive interference in minutiae.

The third parable tells of the King of Wu hunting in Monkey Mountain. A monkey met its demise by showing off its acrobatic skills, prompting the king to warn Yan Buyi against pride. Taking this advice to heart, Yan spent three years studying under masters to shed superficiality, ultimately earning public acclaim. This illustrates how displaying one's abilities often invites misfortune, while preserving one's unadorned nature aligns with the Dao of harmonious living.

These stories collectively embody the Daoist principle of "governing through Wuwei (non-action)," highlighting the vital importance of following nature's course and maintaining humility.

Nanguo Ziqi (a Daoist recluse) sat leaning against his low table, gazing skyward as he exhaled slowly. His disciple Yan Chengzi entered and, observing this scene, asked: "Master, you are truly the most perfected among men! Can the body indeed become as still as withered wood, and the spirit truly as serene as dead ashes?"

Nanguo Ziqi replied: "When I dwelt in mountain caverns, the Qi minister Tian He chanced upon me, and thrice the people celebrated his encounter with a worthy man. Yet this occurred only because I first revealed myself—had I not traded my reputation, how could they have bartered with me?" (Guo Xiang's commentary: The people celebrated Tian He's meeting with a sage. When inner cultivation remains incomplete yet outward traces are displayed, one becomes prey to worldly exploitation, losing one's authentic self.)

He sighed deeply: "I grieve for those who lose themselves, then grieve for those who grieve over others, and grieve still more for those who lament such grieving. This chain of sorrow gradually dissolves with time." (Guo Xiang's commentary: When Daoist practice advances daily, one becomes untroubled by external things.)

The narrative then recounts Confucius' (Zhongni) experience in Chu: During a royal banquet, Sunshu Ao stood solemnly holding the wine vessel while Shinan Yiliao received the ceremonial cup, declaring: "The ancients on such occasions always offered admonitory words." (Guo Xiang's commentary: The ancients seized drinking rituals to impart wise counsel.)

Confucius responded: "I have received the teaching beyond words, yet today I shall speak. Consider how Shinan Yiliao resolved clan disputes by juggling pellets, or how Sunshu Ao halted Chu's wars merely by reclining with a feather fan. Were I to grow a long beak for explanations, this would constitute 'teaching without words'—the true 'debate beyond argument.' Genuine De (Virtue) merges completely with the Dao." (Guo Xiang's commentary: These men accomplished through wuwei (non-action)—what need for my speech? Long-beaked birds seldom sing well.)

The passage concludes: Wisdom halts where knowledge fails, and even De cannot reach where the Dao reigns supreme. Forcibly applying Confucian or Mohist distinctions only invites calamity. (Guo Xiang's commentary: The primordial Dao exists undivided—only after losing it do we speak of De. Since this transcends human understanding, even eloquence cannot clarify it.)

Those who nowadays claim to follow Confucianism or Mohism all strive to forcibly unify what fundamentally cannot be unified, advocating ideals that are in reality unattainable. The ocean becomes the most vast existence precisely because it refuses no eastward-flowing river. The true sage embraces all things between heaven and earth, bestowing blessings throughout the world, yet never proclaims who he is. Therefore, living without seeking rank, dying without requiring posthumous titles, accumulating no wealth and establishing no reputation—this is the true "Great Person" (one who has attained the Dao with complete virtue). We cannot call a dog good just because it barks well, nor consider a man worthy merely because he speaks eloquently—how much less should we pursue so-called "greatness"? Deliberately pursuing greatness only reveals its absence; the same applies to pursuing virtue.

Speaking of ultimate completeness, nothing surpasses heaven and earth—yet when did heaven and earth ever deliberately pursue anything? Those who truly understand the Dao of "Great Completeness" seek nothing externally, lose nothing, abandon nothing, and never alter their intrinsic nature because of external things. Returning to original authenticity brings boundlessness; following the ancient Way prevents diminishment—this is the true realm of the "Great Person."

Ziqi (a fictional Daoist adept) had eight sons. He lined them up and invited the physiognomist Jiufang Yin to examine them, asking, "Which of my sons has the most fortune?" Jiufang Yin replied, "Kun is most blessed." Delighted, Ziqi asked, "How so?" The physiognomist answered, "Kun will share meals with rulers and enjoy lifelong prosperity." Upon hearing this, Ziqi suddenly wept and said, "How could my son fall to such a state?" Puzzled, Jiufang Yin asked, "Sharing meals with rulers brings blessings to three generations of kin—how much more to his parents? Yet you weep upon hearing this, as if rejecting fortune. When a son is blessed, how could the father be inauspicious?" Ziqi replied, "Ah, Yin, what do you know? Such 'fortune' for Kun is precisely misfortune."

Guo Xiang's (a Western Jin Dynasty Neo-Daoist philosopher) commentary explains: From the "One" (Dao) emerges primordial Qi (Yuanqi), Qi generates consciousness, consciousness forms scheming, scheming produces names, names manifest as form, form gives rise to events, events establish covenants, covenants determine fate, and with fate settled, the myriad things are born. Thus, the convergence of Qi creates temporal sequences, the layering of covenants forms cycles, the accumulation of cycles achieves merit, the comparison of merit yields gain and loss, and the contest between gain and loss establishes fortune and misfortune. All things contend to determine victory and defeat—all originating from Qi, connecting to the Dao, constrained by events, rectified by timing, distinguished by names, and perfected through law.

Where law manifests here is called "near"; where it transforms elsewhere is called "far." What is near yet influences the distant is called "spirit" (Shen); what is far yet returns to the source is called "illumination" (Ming). "Illumination" resides here, yet its radiance shines there; events take form here, yet their effects are achieved there. What extends influence from here to there is "law"; what creates law is "I," and what fulfills law is "the other."

This passage presents two interconnected narratives that illustrate core Daoist philosophical principles.

The first part recounts the story of a man named Kun, demonstrating the unpredictable nature of fate. Sent to the state of Yan, Kun was captured by bandits en route. Finding it difficult to sell a whole person, the bandits amputated his feet (a punishment called yue) and sold him to Qi. Paradoxically, this misfortune proved beneficial—Kun ended up living comfortably in Duke Qu's marketplace, eating meat daily until his peaceful death. Guo Xiang's commentary observes how destiny often unfolds unexpectedly, advising we should accept circumstances and follow nature's flow (ziran). What we desperately pursue may elude us, while what we approach with wuwei (non-action) may naturally manifest—this exemplifies heavenly mandate. Kun's experience shows how apparent disasters can sometimes yield favorable outcomes.

The second part features a dialogue between Nie Que and Xu You. Xu You explains his avoidance of Emperor Yao's excessive promotion of benevolence and righteousness (renyi). He argues that overemphasis on these virtues breeds hypocrisy, as people superficially follow moral principles while actually pursuing self-interest. Governing society through rigid human standards, he suggests, is as limited as seeing through a narrow slit (pie). While Yao recognized sages' value, he failed to see how venerating them could create problems. Xu You foresaw this trajectory potentially leading to cannibalistic chaos in future generations—when people are gathered through love and profit, they scatter when these incentives fade. True practitioners of renyi are few, while those exploiting it for gain are many, stripping these virtues of their authenticity.

Collectively, these narratives embody the Zhuangzi school's critique of artificial interference with nature, showing how forced moral regulations backfire. They advocate instead for following natural patterns and governing through wuwei—the principle of non-coercive action that allows all things to flourish according to their inherent Dao.

Zhuangzi here reveals common cognitive limitations through three archetypes of people.

The first are the "self-satisfied scholars" - those who study under a single teacher and become smugly content, believing they've grasped enough, unaware they haven't touched the essence of truth. Like frogs at the bottom of a well, they're satisfied with their limited knowledge.

The second are the "complacent opportunists," comparable to lice living on pigs. They nest in sparse patches of hair, finding comfort between the trotters, udders, and thighs, oblivious that when the butcher comes, they'll be roasted along with the pig. Such people crave immediate comfort while blind to impending danger.

The third are the "weary toilers," exemplified by Emperor Shun. Like ants drawn to mutton's scent, people were drawn to Shun's virtue (De) - wherever he moved three times became a capital. When Emperor Yao heard of Shun's wisdom and elevated him from obscurity, hoping his virtue would benefit all, Shun was already aged and declining, his intellect waning yet granted no rest - the very image of exhausted striving.

True Dao-realized individuals dislike having many followers, as crowds breed contention. They neither favor closeness nor distance, maintaining moral cultivation and inner peace while harmonizing with nature's flow. They discard cleverness like ants, swim freely like fish, and graze without contention like sheep. Their eyes see only what should be seen, ears hear only what should be heard, returning the heart-mind to its original purity. Their inner being remains straight as a plumb line, transforming in accordance with nature.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: Benevolence is inherently good, but excessive veneration makes it a source of conflict. When people perform righteousness deliberately, others exploit its name for personal gain. True benevolence should arise spontaneously, not through compulsion. Imposing uniform standards ultimately causes harm. Only by transcending distinctions of worthiness and foolishness can one preserve original nature. How can rigid dogmatists comprehend the subtle mysteries of spontaneous transformation? Those lacking adaptability while clinging to temporary comforts are as pitiable as lice on pigs. Though sages appear ordinary and their sensory faculties may decline, their spirit (Shen) remains whole - from youth to old age, they preserve original authenticity.

Zhuangzi here employs profound metaphors to illustrate the principle of "following nature's course." The sage's wisdom does not come from deliberate pursuit, just as Emperor Shun's attainment of the empire was ultimately an inevitability. He presents three vivid analogies: ants busily gathering food, fish swimming in water, and sheep grazing on grass—all these creatures are governed by instinct (through ears, eyes, mind, and will), unable to maintain natural equilibrium like a plumb line, nor transcend physical form to reach mystical states.

The truly enlightened (zhenren, or perfected person) sees by allowing the eyes to function naturally, hears by letting the ears operate spontaneously, and thinks by permitting the mind to work without interference. The moment self-consciousness arises, one loses harmony with all things. Liezi's concept of "discarding the mind to employ the form" means relinquishing subjective intentions to let the body respond naturally, much like how a plumb line remains straight by adapting to objects' contours.

Ancient perfected persons (those who attained the Dao) treated all things according to heavenly principles rather than human interference. They regarded life, death, gain, and loss with transcendent equanimity, just as medicinal herbs (like jin, jiegeng, jiyong, and shiling) serve different purposes according to circumstances. When King Goujian of Yue retreated to Mount Kuaiji with three thousand troops, only Wen Zhong understood the principles of survival—yet even he became mired in anxiety. This resembles how an owl's vision has inherent limitations or a crane's legs maintain fixed proportions, all being manifestations of natural law.

Zhuangzi compares this to how wind and sunlight diminish when crossing a river, yet the river maintains its essence through continual replenishment from its source. Similarly, water adheres to land, shadows follow people, and all things obey natural patterns. Eyes straining for extreme clarity, ears craving acute sensitivity, or minds obsessively chasing external objects all invite peril. Any organ pushed beyond its limits becomes impaired; disasters accumulate until they become irreversible. Tragically, people treasure these excessive pursuits, leading to endless national collapses and civilian suffering—all stemming from failure to comprehend this fundamental truth.

This passage explores Daoist wisdom regarding conformity with nature and transcending the constraints of physical form. As Guo Xiang (a Xuanxue philosopher of the Western Jin Dynasty) annotates: Only by maintaining a state of Wuwei (non-action) in dealing with worldly affairs can one attain the true essence of non-action within the realm of action.

Life and death, gain and loss are all relative—life appears as gain while death seems like loss. The value of all things fluctuates with circumstance, having no eternal standard. Just as physical forms inevitably entangle one another, only those who transcend bodily constraints can be like the wind passing over a river or sunlight glancing across water—though actual diminishment occurs, they remain unaware. This "unawareness" does not signify absence of diminishment, but rather stems from maintaining constant connection with the source of life.

Conscious striving leads to peril; what is truly precious lies in following one's natural disposition. Fixation on one's own cleverness invites misfortune, whereas returning to one's fundamental nature allows accomplishments to manifest spontaneously. Haste impedes achievement—those who meet with punitive misfortune often suffer from excessive self-attachment.

Consider how when walking, though one treads on but a small patch of ground, it is the vast untrodden surface that enables free movement. Human knowledge may be limited, yet it is precisely through the unknown that one comprehends the Dao of heaven. One must understand these fundamental principles: the "Great Unity" (cosmic origin), "Great Yin" (profound subtlety), "Great Vision" (macro-perspective), "Great Equilibrium" (balanced way), "Great Model" (cosmic laws), "Great Constancy" (natural order), and "Great Stability" (eternal truth).

True understanding appears as non-understanding; genuine knowing resembles not-knowing. When probing these matters, one can neither set rigid boundaries nor operate without any limits. The Dao of past and present neither replaces nor diminishes—is this not the grandest truth? Why then be perplexed? Using an unperplexed mind to resolve perplexity, ultimately returning to the unperplexed state—this constitutes supreme enlightenment.

This passage elucidates the Daoist wisdom of "governing through Wuwei (non-action)." In his commentary, Guo Xiang proposes that only by relinquishing attachment to all things in heaven and earth can one truly comprehend even the smallest matters, like a cicada's wing. To understand the Dao of heaven, one must maintain a mindset of emptiness, stillness, and non-desire.

The Great Dao (cosmic origin) is unified, and the transformations of Yin-Yang follow their own inherent patterns. By aligning with the innate nature of all things and allowing each to find its proper place, natural balance can be achieved. Respecting each entity's fundamental role brings harmony to the world—this constitutes the greatest form of inclusiveness. Following natural laws without coercion represents the highest integrity. Maintaining inner purity without affectation naturally leads to stability.

All beings possess their own spontaneous nature; by conforming to it, one comprehends principle without deliberate action. The supreme truth contains its own essence—one need only calm the mind to grasp it. The original creator is the Dao itself, thus I merely elucidate rather than innovate. When things manifest naturally, what appears as non-explanation is actually complete explanation; using others' wisdom for understanding, what seems like not knowing is true knowing.

In dealing with all things, one must neither impose limits (embracing inclusiveness) nor be without boundaries (maintaining proper measure). Though the myriad things differ vastly, each possesses its own substance and proper function that cannot substitute for another. Upon examination, all things have their natural demarcations. Those who understand this principle can grasp the truth of forgetting the self to accord with nature—how could they ever be confused?

The genuine sage understands that confusion is inherently insoluble, thus maintaining the state of "great wisdom appearing foolish," accomplishing diverse achievements by following worldly affairs. Just as Zeyang failed to secure an audience with the King of Chu through Yijie's recommendation, Wang Guo pointed out: he was inferior to the recluse Gongyue Xiu (who caught turtles by the river in winter and rested in mountain shade during summer—a true wise man), while Yijie, though skilled in social connections, lacked genuine De (Virtue). This implies that seeking office is inferior to preserving authenticity, and deliberate maneuvering ultimately loses the Dao.

Zhuangzi's passage reveals profound truths about human conduct through vivid metaphors.

The text begins with two contrasting examples: those suffering from cold eagerly anticipate spring's warmth, while heatstroke victims dread winter's icy winds. This resembles rulers like the King of Chu—outwardly majestic and dignified, yet merciless toward transgressions, fierce as a tiger. Without truly virtuous sages, who could possibly admonish such men?

The passage then describes the sage's way of being: When in adversity, he makes his family forget their poverty; when achieving prominence, he inspires nobility to disregard rank and stipends, becoming humble instead. Toward external things, he maintains harmonious interaction; toward people, he appreciates their strengths while preserving his intrinsic nature. Thus the sage sometimes conveys peace without words, naturally transforming others through his presence, enabling father-son relationships to find their proper balance.

Guo Xiang's commentary further explains: The conduct of Gongyue Xiu (a fictional wise figure) serves precisely to contrast with those like Peng Yang (who chase wealth and status). Just as people adapt to seasonal changes whether freezing or overheating, the sage remains content in any circumstance without forced pursuit of riches. Detached and desireless, he finds contentment in simplicity, valuing virtue over extravagance. Therefore his family doesn't consider poverty hardship, while he himself esteems moral character above official rank, attaining transcendental freedom—his influence so profound that even aristocrats forget their privileged positions in his presence.

The conclusion observes: The sage comprehends the interconnectedness of all things, merging with heaven, earth and the myriad creatures, yet without conscious understanding—for this is his innate nature. Moving in accordance with cosmic patterns, he naturally commands reverence. When one constantly worries about personal understanding, action becomes constrained. What truly constitutes life's meaning? This merits our deepest contemplation.

This passage employs the metaphors of a mirror and the sage to elucidate the core Daoist concept of "non-action in accordance with nature" (Wuwei ziran).

The mirror analogy illustrates: A beautiful mirror does not actively proclaim its own beauty—people must inform each other to recognize its value. The mirror itself harbors no joy or anger; whether people acknowledge its existence or not, it consistently reflects all things without alteration. Similarly, when sages show compassion, it arises from their innate nature without deliberate display or concern for recognition.

Guo Xiang's commentary further explains: This state represents communion with the Dao (Dao), enabling comprehensive observation of all phenomena without distinguishing between internal and external. Like mirrors naturally reflecting objects and plants growing spontaneously, all occur according to inherent nature. A sage's compassion flows as naturally as a mirror's reflection—not motivated by reputation-seeking. When one acts through contrived wisdom, it inevitably brings distress.

The text also uses the "old homeland" metaphor: Just as travelers feel comfort seeing their distant hometown, practitioners experience similar joy when comprehending true Dao. Those who truly attain the Way (like Ran Xiangshi) grasp its central axis (huanzhong, the hub of the circle), adapting to all transformations while preserving their fundamental authenticity.

The passage concludes: Deliberately imitating celestial patterns causes one to lose authentic connection with them, because such "imitation" becomes an object of attachment. True sages never consciously pursue anything, but instead move in complete harmony with their spontaneous nature.

This passage explores the cosmic origin and the way of being for sages, which can be understood through several layers:

Regarding cosmic origins, Zhuangzi posits that before heaven and earth took form, before humanity emerged, even before time began, there already existed a primordial force coexisting with all things. This force operates ceaselessly yet never exhausts itself; it embraces all things yet never overflows.

The text mentions how King Tang of Shang (founder of the Shang dynasty) discovered the method for governing the world: He appointed Men Yin Dengheng as Grand Tutor, learning from his teacher without becoming constrained; he followed nature's way to accomplish all things without deliberately pursuing fame; he emulated Confucius's (Zhongni) profound contemplation while also studying the wisdom of Rongchengshi (legendary teacher of the Yellow Emperor) who "eliminated concepts of sun and moon, transcended limitations of years, and dissolved distinctions between inner and outer."

Guo Xiang's commentary further explains: Sages follow the natural development of all things, neither forcing beginnings nor endings. They transform along with all existence, thus maintaining the state of "no-self." The true way of teaching isn't deliberate imitation but natural harmony with the Dao (the Way). King Tang entrusted governance to his officials while remaining transcendent, allowing all things to gather and disperse naturally.

The passage concludes with the anecdote of King Hui of Wei (Wei Ying) and Tian Hou Mou to illustrate how clinging to grudges violates heavenly principle. As Rongchengshi said, only by transcending concepts of life and death can one overcome temporal limitations; only by forgetting self can one break through inner-outer distinctions. True sage-kings should emulate ancient Ran Xiangshi, achieving all things naturally through wuwei (non-action) and serene emptiness.

This passage recounts Zhuangzi's use of allegory to satirize the futility of war. A man named Yan persuaded his ruler to mobilize two hundred thousand troops to attack Qi, resulting in suffering for the common people, plundered livestock, and the enemy ruler so enraged that he developed ulcers on his back. Ultimately, the conquered state was destroyed, and its ruler forced into exile. When Jizi heard of this, he felt ashamed, comparing it to building a towering city wall only to tear it down with one's own hands—a wasteful and exhausting endeavor for the people. Seven years had passed without war, which should have been the foundation of true kingship, yet the ruler still listened to troublemakers like Yan, who brought ruin to the state.

Huazi also criticized the situation, pointing out that whether one advocated for war or opposed it, both sides were merely adding to the chaos. What truly mattered was seeking the Dao of governance. When Huizi heard this, he went to visit Dai Jinren, who told him a fable about a battle fought on a snail's horns: On the left horn was the kingdom of Chu, and on the right horn, the kingdom of Man. They waged war over territory, resulting in tens of thousands of deaths, with the victors pursuing the defeated for half a month. The ruler, upon hearing this, exclaimed, "Isn't that absurd?" Dai Jinren replied, "Do you believe the cosmos has boundaries? In the infinite universe, the states of Wei and Liang (from the Warring States period) are like those tiny kingdoms on a snail's horns. What difference is there between you and the king of Man?"

Later, Huizi told the ruler, "Dai Jinren is truly a sage—even legendary rulers like Yao and Shun would seem as insignificant as the faint sound of wind whistling past a sword hilt in his presence." Guo Xiang's commentary adds: Though a snail is small, its two horns still contend. If one realizes how trivial such struggles are in the grand scheme, conflict would cease. The lands where humans dwell may seem vast, but in the infinite cosmos, they appear as fleeting as a wisp of smoke. Both the ruler and the king of Man are finite beings—before infinity, distinctions of size vanish entirely.

Through this exaggerated analogy, the story illustrates how human conflicts between nations are as laughable as battles on a snail's horns when viewed against the vastness of the universe. It inspires us to see through the emptiness of worldly strife.

This passage presents two stories that embody the Daoist philosophy of governing through Wuwei (non-action) and following nature's course.

The first story recounts Confucius encountering the hermit Shi Nan Yiliao in the state of Chu. This recluse blended into common life, concealing himself in the marketplace. Though he spoke outwardly, his mind maintained profound silence. While appearing incompatible with worldly conventions, he never deliberately sought eccentricity. Confucius recognized him as a "land-drowner" (one who sinks without water—a metaphor for great hermits hidden in society), knowing he would refuse summons from the Chu king, as true hermits detest clever speech and ingratiating manners. When Confucius' disciple Zilu later visited, the hermit had already departed. This illustrates how genuine recluses spurn wealth and honors while preserving spiritual transcendence.

The second story uses the metaphor of the Changwu border official farming his land to demonstrate how governing people requires mindful cultivation. Sloppy plowing yields poor harvests, while deep, careful tillage produces abundant crops. Zhuangzi employs this analogy to critique contemporary self-cultivation practices: violating natural dispositions, harming inherent nature, losing authentic feelings, and dissipating Shen (spirit). Like fields overgrown with weeds, various desires and bad habits erode human nature like invasive plants, ultimately causing physical and mental ailments. This warns people to follow nature's way rather than forcibly damaging innate qualities through coercion.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds that hermits "bury themselves among the people" by sharing their joys and sorrows, while "hiding in the fields" means neither pursuing fame nor affecting superiority. Though they speak, their hearts remain transcendent—like sinking without water, they exemplify the great hermits concealed within society.

This scripture primarily discusses two key aspects:

The first part explores the cultivation of one's inner nature. It uses the metaphor of "hot gruel" (referring to reckless and hasty actions) to describe superficial and incomplete practices. When one fails to exert full effort or reach the proper depth in their actions, it's akin to weeds harming crops—allowing desires to damage human nature. Physical indulgence injures the spirit, and unchecked desires lead inevitably to collapse. This is the bitter fruit of careless conduct. Therefore, how can those cultivating their inner nature not strive to reach the proper state?

The second part unfolds through the story of Bo Ju seeking instruction from Laozi (Lao Dan). When Bo Ju expressed his desire to travel the world, Laozi replied that all places under heaven are fundamentally the same. Insistent, Bo Ju went to Qi State where he encountered the corpse of an executed criminal displayed as warning. He removed his official robe to cover the body and wept to the heavens, lamenting: Why do thieves and murderers exist? Because society first established concepts of honor and disgrace, people began calculating gains and losses; where wealth accumulates, contention arises. Contemporary rulers establish detestable regulations and hoard contested resources, driving people into endless hardship—how could such problems not emerge?

Ancient rulers credited achievements to the people and took blame upon themselves, recognizing righteousness in the people and fault in themselves. Modern rulers do precisely the opposite: concealing truth to deceive the populace, setting impossible tasks then punishing failure, establishing distant goals then condemning those who fall short. When people exhaust their wisdom and strength, they resort to deception—as beams crooked above will warp below, when leaders practice deceit, how can people remain honest? Insufficient ability leads to pretense, inadequate wisdom to trickery, and lack of resources to theft. Whom then should we blame for these thefts?

Guo Xiang's commentary observes: What use is warning "Do not kill" after major murders occur? If all were self-sufficient, there would be no strife over honor and disgrace. Once these standards are established, people exhaust themselves pursuing glory and avoiding shame—how could this not bring suffering? If contentment were considered true wealth, what would remain to fight over? Whatever superiors value, subordinates cannot peacefully disregard. When rulers avoid errors, people naturally find their proper place; when rulers don't distort the Dao (Way), people remain upright by nature. Why forcibly alter the inherent nature and form of all things?

This passage conveys two main layers of meaning.

The first layer discusses the relationship between rulers and the common people. When a ruler disrupts the people's inherent nature, they lose their natural spontaneity. People are forced to conceal their true selves and put on false appearances. When driven by material desires, everyone competes for advantage; when physically exhausted, they resort to deceit to avoid punishment. If the ruler constantly promotes hypocrisy, how can authenticity be found? The responsibility ultimately lies with those in power.

The second layer uses the story of Qu Boyu (a virtuous minister from the Spring and Autumn period) to illustrate the limitations of human understanding. At sixty years old, Qu Boyu still continually revised his perspectives, recognizing that what he deemed correct today might have been what he considered wrong at fifty-nine. All things have their origins, yet people often only believe in what they already know, unaware that true significance often lies in what remains unknown. Guo Xiang (a Western Jin Dynasty Neo-Daoist scholar) comments that one should follow the natural changes of things rather than cling to fixed views. The transformations of all things are endless—only by relinquishing subjective prejudices can one perceive their fundamental nature. Clinging to limited personal understanding leads to great confusion.

Finally, an anecdote about Duke Ling of Wei illuminates the nuanced meaning of the posthumous title "Ling" (灵). Confucius asked several historians: "Since Duke Ling indulged in wine and women while neglecting state affairs, why was he given the posthumous title 'Ling'?" (In traditional evaluation systems, "Ling" usually connotes misrule). Da Tao replied this was entirely appropriate; Bo Changqian explained that although the duke bathed scandalously with his three wives, he showed profound respect when meeting virtuous men; Xi Wei added that divination for the duke's burial proved inauspicious, confirming the suitability of "Ling." This demonstrates the Daoist reconsideration of conventional judgment standards—seemingly contradictory behavior may precisely embody a kind of profound understanding.

This passage consists of two parts: the first recounts a story about Duke Ling of Wei, while the latter presents a philosophical dialogue between Shao Zhi and Da Gong Diao.

The first section tells of a diviner selecting burial grounds at Shaqiu, where upon digging several ren deep, a stone coffin was discovered. After cleaning it, an inscription was revealed: "Not relying on your son (referring to Duke Ling of Wei), Duke Ling shall seize your dwelling." The commentary explains that the posthumous title "Ling" was typically bestowed upon unvirtuous rulers (as Duke Ling notoriously bathed with women, violating ritual propriety). Yet he honored the worthy Qiu as distinguished guest while simultaneously buying popular support with wealth, earning him the paradoxical designation "Reverer of Worthies." Confucius once remarked that all things follow their Heaven-ordained course—fools believe they can alter destiny through sheer will, only realizing afterward that these were simply the workings of natural law.

In the latter part, Shao Zhi inquires of Da Gong Diao about the meaning of "village discourse" (folk wisdom). Da Gong Diao explains: Just as diverse clans coalesce to form customs, or discrete parts combine into wholes (like a horse's separate components collectively constituting "horse"), hillocks accumulate into mountains, and streams converge into oceans. The truly great embrace all differences to achieve the Dao of Universal Impartiality. The four seasons' distinct climates complete the year; officials performing distinct duties bring orderly governance. All things follow their inherent principles, while the Dao (cosmic law) treats all equally—hence the Dao remains nameless. Precisely through non-action (wuwei) it accomplishes everything. Like the marsh where diverse woods each find their place, or Mount Tai where trees and rocks coexist—this embodies the essence of folk wisdom. When Shao Zhi asks if this constitutes the entirety of the Dao, Da Gong Diao replies it extends far beyond.

This passage discusses the Daoist understanding of the relationship between the Dao (the Way) and all things. Zhuangzi uses the number "ten thousand" to refer to all phenomena because it represents vast multiplicity. Heaven and Earth are the largest among tangible forms, Yin-Yang (the two complementary cosmic forces) are the greatest among Qi (vital energy), while the Dao is the all-encompassing universal source.

Guo Xiang (a Jin dynasty commentator on Zhuangzi) explains: The truly great sage harbors no personal attachment to the world, thus the world's energies naturally unify. External teachings originate from the sage's transformative influence, while internal nature constitutes the innate disposition of people and all things. When all beings preserve their original nature, people won't act against their true selves; when teaching reaches perfect impartiality, the ruler won't cling to personal views. Only then can one harmonize communities, unite the world, regard all things as equal, and dissolve distinctions.

Different things inherently possess unique qualities that enable their enduring existence. If these traits were bestowed by Heaven, they would eventually perish. All innate abilities emerge spontaneously, granted by none. Scholars have literary talents, warriors possess martial skills—none are bestowed by sages. If abilities were conferred, they would eventually fade. This principle applies not only to skills but to all innate qualities. Names should correspond to reality, thus requiring no deliberate action (Wuwei); all things fulfill their nature spontaneously, thus nothing remains undone.

Worldly affairs change unpredictably—only those free from preconceptions can adapt accordingly. Fortune and misfortune flow like water: what appears as misfortune here may prove suitable elsewhere. Just as great marshes discard no material and Mount Tai integrates differences into wholeness, we can understand universal principles by observing local affairs. Countable things number in the millions—how much more so the immeasurable Dao?

All things interconnect through the Dao, which shows no partiality yet we reluctantly call it "Dao." The Dao that can be spoken of already bears a name, making it incomparable. Contemporary distinctions of names fall far short—to speak of the Dao proves inadequate. Only by reaching nameless, wordless understanding can one truly comprehend. Though named, nothing compares to the Dao.

Hypothetical figure "Little Knowledge" asks: "Within the four directions, between Heaven and Earth—what originates the ten thousand things?" Sage "Grand Public Harmonizer" replies: "Yin and Yang mirror and cover each other in mutual constraint; the four seasons alternate in mutual generation and destruction; preferences and aversions emerge accordingly; male and female unions create new life." This reveals the natural process of cosmic generation and transformation.

This passage examines the relationship between the transformation of things and the Dao (the Way). Zhuangzi employs a dialogic format to explore two contrasting views: Jizhen's doctrine of "non-action" (Wuwei) and Jiezi's doctrine of "deliberate action."

The text first observes that all phenomena in the world exist in a state of mutual transformation: safety turns into danger, misfortune gives rise to blessing, slowness and urgency rub against each other, while convergence and dispersion complete one another. These changes form name-reality relationships that can be documented. All developments follow inherent patterns—when things reach their limit, they reverse; when endings come, new beginnings emerge.

Using the example of "roosters crowing and dogs barking," the text illustrates that even the wisest individuals cannot fully articulate the principles behind such transformations. Things may become so refined as to be formless, or so vast as to be boundless. The "deliberate action" theory clings too firmly to concrete objects, while the "non-action" theory becomes excessively abstract—both grasp only partial aspects of the Dao.

The true Dao is neither wholly "being" nor wholly "non-being." The term "Dao" itself is merely a provisional designation for convenience of expression. Language has its limitations: one may speak all day about concrete matters without necessarily touching the essence of the Dao, which transcends both speech and silence.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds that the transformations of Yin-Yang and the four seasons occur spontaneously, not through creation by any sovereign power. The operational principles of all things follow their natural course without external compulsion. The limit of our cognition lies with concrete phenomena—beyond physical manifestations, there is nothing more to be said.

This passage from Zhuangzi examines the natural and non-interfering (Wuwei) characteristics of the Dao (the cosmic origin and governing principle). The text mentions Ji Zhen's proposition that "the Dao does not act" (Dao does not deliberately intervene) and Jiezi's view that "the Dao sometimes intervenes" (Dao occasionally exerts influence). Zhuangzi analyzes these positions by observing that all things arise spontaneously, not as a result of human interference. Even when interactions occur between things, they happen naturally. The true Dao transcends both complete intervention and total non-action, existing beyond these dualistic states.

The text uses the phrase "suddenly they arise, suddenly they perish" to describe the spontaneous process of birth and death in all things, illustrating that such transformations cannot be forced. Just as the unseen changes within our bodies occur naturally, so too does the Dao operate. This natural, non-interfering quality is the essence of the Dao. The Dao cannot be said to exist or not exist—it is simply the underlying principle by which all things function, and we provisionally call it "Dao."

Chapter 26 further elaborates on the unpredictability of external affairs. Loyal ministers like Long Feng were executed, Bi Gan had his heart torn out, and Ji Zi feigned madness. Tyrants like Jie and Zhou ultimately met their downfall. Rulers may desire loyalty from their subjects, yet loyalty does not always earn trust—Wu Zixu was cast into the river, and Chang Hong died unjustly. Parents may wish for filial devotion from their children, yet such devotion does not always bring affection—hence Xiao Ji suffered melancholy, and Zeng Shen grieved.

The text employs natural metaphors: wood rubbed together produces fire, metal exposed to fire melts, and imbalances between Yin and Yang generate thunder. Just as fire in water can burn down a great locust tree, the transformations of the world often defy expectations. These examples demonstrate that external events unfold beyond human control, filled with unpredictability.

Zhuangzi here depicts two extreme states of being: when a person becomes entangled in the dichotomy of good and evil to the point of obsession, their mind becomes suspended between heaven and earth, finding no peace. Tormented daily by thoughts of profit and loss, they ultimately suffer spiritual collapse, deviating from the true essence of the Dao.

Guo Xiang (a Jin Dynasty metaphysician) comments in his annotations: fixation on either virtuous or wicked behavior is equally misguided. Like the legend of the loyal minister Chang Hong, whose blood transformed into jade after death—though his devotion was absolute, loyalty doesn't guarantee trust, nor does filial piety ensure affection. Thus, those who attain the Dao never cling to rigid views but instead flow with the transformations of existence. Natural phenomena like thunder, fire, or floods may appear chaotic (cuoxing), yet all follow inherent patterns. When humans become overly attached to their physical forms, they become enslaved by external matters, trapped in involuntary cycles of joy and sorrow. The more forcefully one strives, the deeper one sinks into predicament.

The text then employs the parable of "the stranded fish in the rut": When Zhuangzi asked the Marquis of Jianhe for grain, the official dismissively promised three hundred pieces of gold after collecting taxes from his fief. Zhuangzi angrily recounted this fable: A carp stranded in a drying wagon rut needs but a gourd of water to survive—promising to divert the entire Western River amounts to refusing aid when it's most needed. Guo Xiang observes: solving problems isn't about the scale of methods but their relevance to actual needs.

Finally, the allegory of Lord Ren fishing illustrates the contrast: spending a year preparing bait with fifty oxen, he eventually caught a heaven-shaking giant fish in the Eastern Sea. This demonstrates that truly great achievements demand extraordinary patience and vision, fundamentally different from the short-sighted mentality of ordinary people chasing immediate gains.

This passage from Zhuangzi Yi employs several allegorical stories to critique the hypocrisy and limitations of Confucianism, showcasing the Daoist transcendence of worldly wisdom.

The first tale describes how after someone caught a giant fish and preserved it, many imitators emerged. Yet these followers could only angle for minnows in tiny streams with slender rods, never attaining the great catch. This satirizes those who seek fame through shallow doctrines, remaining far from the true "Dao." Like those who've never heard of Master Ren (the legendary angler), they naturally fail at grand endeavors. Guo Xiang's commentary notes this stems from differing aspirations—people's approaches to life inherently vary in scale.

The second story delivers sharper satire: Confucian scholars recite the Book of Odes and Book of Rites while grave-robbing. A senior scholar calls down: "Dawn approaches—how goes the work?" A junior replies: "We haven't removed the corpse's robes yet—he has a pearl in his mouth. Doesn't the Odes say: 'Lush wheat sprouts on hillsides; in life he gave no alms, why clutch pearls in death?'" They then press the corpse's temples, pinch his beard, and carefully extract the pearl with a hammer without damaging it. Guo Xiang observes that when wielded by the unvirtuous, even the sage-kings' classics become tools for vice.

The third narrative tells of Lao Lai Zi's (a Daoist recluse) disciple meeting Confucius while gathering firewood. The disciple describes seeing a man with "long torso, short legs, backward-set ears, looking as though he bore the world's burdens." Recognizing Confucius immediately, Lao Lai Zi summons him and advises: "Only by shedding affected dignity and contrived wisdom can you become a true gentleman." Confucius withdraws respectfully but anxiously asks how to improve. Lao Lai Zi responds: "To disturb eternity over momentary pain—isn't that shallow vision? Mistaking petty charity for De (Virtue) brings lifelong shame. Common people flatter and form cliques—better forget both praising Yao and condemning Jie than cling to such judgments. Forced actions always cause harm; sages succeed only through Wuwei (non-action). Why must you always posture so?" Guo Xiang's annotation elaborates on Confucius' disproportionate physique, noting he perpetually appears burdened by others' concerns.

This passage consists of two parts: a discussion on the way of the noble person in worldly affairs, and the fable of Lord Yuan of Song and the divine turtle.

The first part discusses the wisdom of how a noble person interacts with others. A noble person makes modest bows and progresses through receiving teachings. However, when someone tries to forcibly seek knowledge through questioning (like the sage Lao Laizi), one must understand that some truths cannot be compelled. Acting recklessly in an era can leave calamities for ten thousand generations, so one must not be careless. Human nature is not inherently foolish—all people possess self-awareness and don't require deliberate bestowal of favors. Using favors to gain affection will breed resentment when the favors stop, so such kindness cannot endure. For ordinary people, when progress comes easily, one shouldn't indiscriminately bestow favors, but guide them like the "steam-bending tool" that straightens wood by following its natural grain. When obstructed, one should know to remain quietly composed. Only by conforming to heavenly law can one preserve oneself; only through stillness can one become upright. Succeeding comes easily when actions don't deviate from the root, and lasting comes from not being complacent.

The second part recounts Lord Yuan of Song's dream of a divine turtle. At midnight, Lord Yuan dreamed of a disheveled figure peering through a side gate, claiming to be the Envoy of Qing River on his way to the River Earl, but caught by the fisherman Yu Ju. Divination revealed this was a divine turtle. The next day, the fisherman indeed presented a five-foot-wide white turtle. Hesitating whether to kill it, divination suggested killing it for auspicious omens—the shell was drilled seventy-two times with perfect accuracy. Confucius remarked: "The divine turtle could appear to a lord in dreams, yet couldn't escape the fishing net; could foresee seventy-two divinations, yet couldn't avoid being gutted." This shows wisdom has limits and divine power has shortcomings. Even the wisest cannot withstand the planning of ten thousand people. Fish fear pelicans more than nets (because pelicans are obvious), teaching us to abandon petty cleverness for greater wisdom, and that supreme goodness comes naturally without forced pursuit. Babies learn speech without teachers because they dwell among speaking people.

Guo Xiang's commentary notes: Even divine intelligence proves unreliable—only by abiding in one's inherent nature without external grasping can one be preserved. Using collective wisdom rather than personal cleverness is like emotionless nets catching fish. Petty cleverness is self-serving; great wisdom follows nature's flow. Without deliberately pursuing goodness, goodness manifests naturally.

Through the divine turtle's plight, this fable illustrates the limitations of cleverness, emphasizing the Daoist philosophy of following nature and non-forced action (Wuwei). Though possessing supernatural abilities, the turtle invited disaster by displaying its marvels—a metaphor for "the clever labor and the wise worry."

The Zhuangzi Yi passage employs dialogues and metaphors to reveal Zhuangzi's profound insights on the "usefulness of the useless" and the art of living.

Huizi challenges Zhuangzi's teachings as useless, to which Zhuangzi responds with vivid imagery: Though the earth is vast, what humans truly use is merely the ground beneath their feet. If one were to hollow out everything around to expand their standing space, would the remaining patch still be functional? This metaphor illustrates how seemingly useless elements fundamentally support what appears useful. Like the apparently superfluous earth surrounding one's feet, it ensures stable footing.

Zhuangzi further explores the nature of human conduct. He maintains that true capability stems from innate nature rather than forced imitation. The perfected person (one who has attained the highest moral cultivation) acts without leaving traces, flowing like water that adapts to its environment yet never loses itself. He criticizes scholars who blindly revere antiquity while disparaging the present, noting they've lost touch with the root of understanding. The perfected person mingles with worldly affairs without being swept away, receiving external influences while preserving authenticity.

Guo Xiang's commentary supplements: Human behavior should follow innate tendencies rather than strain beyond natural capacities. The sage's transcendence lies precisely in freedom from external constraints. Without sufficient depth of De (Virtue/Power), one cannot shoulder great responsibilities. People often pursue desires heedless of life and death, yet such obsessions become meaningless when times change. The perfected person remains at ease in all circumstances, thus wandering with the cosmic transformations. Antiquity and modernity hold no inherent hierarchy—blind worship of the past reflects cognitive distortion. True wisdom adjusts to circumstances while maintaining equilibrium. The perfected person handles affairs with pinpoint accuracy, engaging the world without deviating from the Dao, achieving the state of "following others without losing oneself." Genuine teaching guides according to the learner's nature rather than enforcing rigid indoctrination.

Zhuangzi here speaks of the natural operation of all things. He states that by following the natural order, all beings find their proper place. True wisdom lies not in forced striving, but in keeping the senses and mind unobstructed: when eyes are clear, one sees distinctly; when ears are clear, one hears accurately; when the nose is clear, one smells keenly; when the mouth is clear, one tastes fully; when the mind is clear, one attains true knowledge; and when true knowledge flows freely, it manifests as De (Virtue/Power).

The movement of Dao most abhors blockage—once obstructed, hindrances arise, and their accumulation leads to all manner of calamities. All life depends on Qi (vital energy) for sustenance. If this energy stagnates, it is not Heaven's fault. The pathways bestowed by Heaven (referring to the circulation channels of life energy) operate ceaselessly day and night—it is humans who block these passages themselves. Just as the womb contains layered spaces (symbolizing the chambers of life's gestation), the mind too should have room to wander freely. If a dwelling lacks space, mothers-in-law and daughters-in-law will quarrel; if the mind cannot roam unimpeded, the six senses (sight, hearing, smell, taste, touch, and thought) will clash with one another.

The reason towering mountains and vast forests benefit humans lies in their embodiment of a divine mystery surpassing human artifice. Excessive pursuit of fame causes De to spill outward, while excessive display of reputation invites violence. Schemes often emerge in moments of crisis, and cleverness frequently manifests during contention. Obstacles (symbolized by "firewood") stem from stubborn attachments, while official affairs must suit the needs of the multitude. When spring rains fall timely, plants flourish exuberantly—this is when people begin weeding with hoes. Yet the reasons plants later wither often remain unknown.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds: Where passages should be open yet are blocked, principles cannot communicate and instead collide. "Relying on breath" means life depends on Qi's sustenance. Qi requires no artificial control—human interference disrupts its balance. While wisdom can restrain desires, this is not the Dao's natural way. Heaven's bestowed pathways never close—this is eternal natural law; if humans can achieve "non-emotion" (absence of contrivance), these passages open spontaneously. "Layered chambers" signify vast empty spaces, while "heavenly wandering" denotes unfettered freedom. "Spatial contention" refers to struggles over room, and "repulsion" indicates mutual exclusion. The value of mountains and forests lies in their manifestation of natural principles, revealing the great Dao through concrete forms. De spills outward due to fame because great reputation brings benefit, making virtuous cultivation prone to excess; fame grows through suppressing violence because prohibiting harm earns more praise than virtuous conduct alone. Schemes appear in crisis and cleverness in conflict because peaceful times render them unnecessary. Obstacles arise from stubbornness, while governance must accommodate diverse public needs. That people weed during plant growth shows all things have their reasons. The unknown causes of plants' withering demonstrate these processes follow natural patterns operating beyond human perception.

A tranquil state can alleviate illness, massaging the eye sockets (按摩眼周) can slow aging, and maintaining serenity can calm agitation. Yet these methods ultimately remain the concerns of those who labor with their minds, not the true pursuit of those who wander in carefree freedom.

People of different levels each have their own realm: the actions of sages (圣人, those with the highest moral cultivation) may astonish the world, but spirit-people (神人, those united with the Dao) pay them no heed; the deeds of worthies (贤人) may amaze ordinary folk, yet sages do not investigate them; the words and deeds of noble persons (君子) may stir a nation, but worthies remain indifferent; the common people's conformity to trends goes unnoticed by noble persons.

Guo Xiang's commentary explains: Speaking of alleviating illness doesn't mean being truly free from disease, slowing aging isn't equivalent to stopping it, and calming agitation doesn't imply having no urgent matters at all. If one must still deliberately practice these, it remains mental labor. Those who wander in true freedom transcend such concerns. Spirit-people and sages share the same essence—"sage" refers to external manifestation, while "spirit" denotes inner attainment. People of different levels each follow their own pursuits, their realms varying in height, thus they do not interfere with one another.

Daoist health practitioners observe: Tranquility itself isn't medicine, yet it aids healing; closing one's eyes to nurture the spirit may appear sickly, but it preserves vital Qi (气). Massaging the eye sockets is an art of life cultivation—the Zhen'gao (真诰) records: Regularly pressing around the eye sockets with fingers can clarify vision, being a method to nurture the spirit-light (神). Long-term practice may even enable one to perceive spiritual radiance, while signs of aging often first manifest as wrinkles around the eyes.

History records cases where excessive mourning caused emaciation that ironically led to official appointments, resulting in half the followers imitating this to death. When Yao offered the empire to Xu You, Xu fled; when Tang offered his throne to Wu Guang, Wu became enraged; when Ji Ta heard of this, he retreated with disciples to seclusion—though lords repeatedly sent condolences, after three years, Shentu Di drowned himself in protest. Guo Xiang criticizes this as the extreme of venerating reputation, where violating one's inherent nature ultimately brings tragedy.

Just as the fish trap (荃) exists for catching fish and is forgotten once the fish is caught, the rabbit snare (蹄) serves to capture rabbits and is discarded after success, so words exist to convey meaning—once meaning is grasped, words are forgotten. Those who have truly attained the Dao (得道之人) reach the realm of "no-intention" (无意), where language becomes entirely unnecessary.