《莊子翼》Vol. 7

The "Zhuangzi·Yuyan" chapter primarily discusses three modes of expression: allegorical words (yuyan, speaking through others), weighty words (chongyan, citing elders' sayings), and spontaneous words (zhiyan, natural utterances), exploring their alignment with the natural Dao.

Zhuangzi observes that viewpoints expressed through others' voices (yuyan) gain acceptance nine times out of ten. Just as a father wouldn't personally recommend his own son in marriage—since paternal praise carries less credibility than outsiders' words—this reflects not the speaker's fault but human nature itself. People invariably approve views matching their own while opposing differing perspectives.

When citing words of venerable figures (chongyan), seven out of ten statements gain approval. Yet if elders possess only advanced age without genuine wisdom, they cannot be considered true elders. A person lacking insights surpassing ordinary understanding is merely an "outdated vessel" with physical form but no substance.

Spontaneous words (zhiyan) resemble the daily rising sun, renewing themselves with the transformations of all things (as commentator Guo Xiang explains as "daily renewal"), perfectly conforming to nature's boundaries. These utterances function like wine vessels (zhi) that tilt when full and right themselves when empty, completely following natural states. All things possess their inherent validity ("things inherently have their thusness"), with no absolute standards of right or wrong.

Truly wise speech should circulate ceaselessly like the "heavenly balance" (tianjun, nature's equilibrium), mirroring the cyclical renewal of all things where neither beginning nor end can be pinpointed. Zhuangzi concludes: speaking throughout life yet seeming to have never spoken, maintaining lifelong silence yet never failing to express—because the highest form of speech flows from accord with natural disposition.

(Note: "Jianwu" and "Lianshu" are fictional dialogue characters in the Zhuangzi through whom the philosopher often voices ideas; the "zhi" wine vessel metaphor illustrates how speech should adapt naturally like a vessel responding to liquid levels.)

This passage discusses the relativity of judgment and the importance of natural authenticity. When people share the same views, they echo each other; when they differ, they oppose—this mutual negation stems from three fundamental differences. In truth, debates over right and wrong resemble two people arguing, where the final judgment must rely on a third party who remains uninvolved. Yet this dependence on external standards is inherently unreliable.

Society often values the opinions of elders, trusting them even without external authority—people believe them seven parts out of ten. But age merely reflects the timing of birth and does not determine wisdom. Blind faith in elders is merely habitual. Nature has its inherent distinctions, yet right and wrong lack absolute standards. Without standards, chaos spreads—who can truly judge? Thus, one should maintain an open mind, follow what is natural, and let all things find their proper place.

If we entrust judgment to things themselves, using their own standards, diverse viewpoints naturally balance. If we fail to harmonize according to their inherent nature, new imbalances arise between humans and the world. True freedom lies in this: though one may express opinions, the heart remains detached. Differences in perspective create distinctions between what is acceptable and what is not, yet all things in their natural state are inherently valid. In the grand view, there are no absolute "shoulds" or "should nots"—only those who follow the nature of things and abide by natural laws can avoid violating the Dao.

Time flows and changes, yet the fundamental Qi (vital energy) remains unified. What seems like a beginning today was already the past yesterday—this is the work of natural law, beyond forced ordering. This is the "Heavenly Equilibrium" (Tianjun). Is this natural balance illusory? No, it is the manifestation of inherent nature.

Zhuangzi said to Huizi: "Confucius lived to sixty, and over those sixty years, his views continually shifted. What he first affirmed he later denied—how can we be sure what he now considers right wasn’t what he deemed wrong at fifty-nine?" Huizi replied, "Confucius was diligent in pursuing knowledge." Zhuangzi responded, "He had already transcended that stage—he just didn’t speak of it." Confucius himself said: "Human talent arises from the root of the Dao. To restore one’s spiritual nature and live, speech must accord with reason, and action with principle. When profit and righteousness are placed before one, likes and dislikes, rights and wrongs can only compel superficial agreement. To make others submit sincerely without daring to disobey—this is how to establish the world’s standards. Alas, I fear I cannot even reach Confucius’s level."

This passage emphasizes transcending attachment to binary judgments and returning to natural authenticity, achieving harmony among all things through "Heavenly Equilibrium." The concept of Qi (vital energy) is central to Daoist thought, representing the fundamental energy constituting all things. "Heavenly Equilibrium" (Tianjun) reflects the ideal state of natural balance in Zhuangzi’s philosophy.

This passage primarily discusses the relationship between humans and worldly changes, as well as the way of being for sages. Guo Xiang's commentary notes that people's mental states shift with age and environment, just as worldly concepts evolve over time. While truly enlightened individuals adapt to worldly affairs, they maintain inner transcendence.

Confucius learned through personal experience that forcing change upon things is inferior to following their natural course. The reason Hui Shi (Master Hui) fell short of sagehood was his constant attempt to alter things through clever artifice. Sages differ—they act like musicians producing sound from instruments or speakers abiding by laws, simply following natural principles without deliberate creation or coercion. Excessive reliance on intellect without returning to one's inherent nature leads to the loss of life's fundamental truth.

Regarding Zeng Shen's (Master Zeng) story: his mindset differed during two official appointments. The first time, though his salary was meager, he found joy in supporting his parents. The second time, despite higher emoluments, he grieved because his parents had passed. Confucius pointed out that Zeng remained psychologically bound by official stipends. A truly detached person views salary like fleeting birds or mosquitoes—it stirs neither joy nor sorrow.

Yan Chengziyou told Dongguo Ziqi about his annual transformations after following his teachings: the first year shed superficiality, the second yielded to nature, the third comprehended principles, the fourth harmonized with all things, the fifth.... This illustrates spiritual cultivation as a gradual process requiring temporal maturation.

The core philosophy states: the wise never force change but guide affairs like charioteers following the terrain. When they speak, though seemingly expressing personal views, they voice collective sentiments; when establishing norms, they align with natural laws. Such individuals remain unmoved by external gain or loss, attaining genuine spiritual freedom.

This passage describes the progressive stages a Daoist practitioner attains through years of cultivation. In the first six years, there is "ghostly infiltration" (referring to the gradual dissolution of external form); by the seventh year, "heavenly completion" (complete fusion with nature) is achieved. The eighth year transcends conventional understanding of life and death, while the ninth year reaches the state of "Great Mystery" (the supreme mystical realm). The text emphasizes that clinging to deliberate action leads to demise, whereas true life originates from Wuwei (non-action) and natural spontaneity.

Regarding questions of fate and spirits, the author proposes: The operations of heaven and earth follow their inherent patterns (celestial cycles), just as human affairs have their underlying principles. Since we cannot fathom the beginnings and endings of life, we can neither claim the absence of fate nor affirm its existence. Similarly, we cannot assert the non-existence of spirits (since all things interact through mutual resonance), nor can we confirm their existence (as such resonance stems from natural principles rather than divine intervention).

Guo Xiang's commentary explains that through prolonged contemplation of the "pipes of heaven" (the natural Dao), practitioners ultimately forget their ego and dissolve worldly attachments. Forced pursuit causes the loss of life's essence, for true life emerges spontaneously. The so-called "exhortation to public-mindedness" encourages relinquishing selfish desires precisely because such attachments lead to death.

The passage concludes with a metaphorical dialogue between a shadow (jing) and its penumbra (wangliang): The shadow changes unpredictably without knowing why, much like a cicada shedding its skin or a snake molting—apparently substantial yet ultimately insubstantial. This allegory suggests all transformations are natural phenomena requiring no interrogation of causes. Practitioners should accord with nature without clinging to superficial changes, thereby attaining the liberated state of "neither constrained nor unconstrained"—perfect adaptability to all circumstances.

This passage comprises two main sections: the first discusses Zhuangzi's concept of "strong yang" (referring to the natural movement and transformation of things), while the second recounts a dialogue between Yang Ziju and Laozi, concluding with an anecdote about Yao and Shun abdicating their thrones.

The first section explains: Fire and sunlight represent my means of gathering energy, while shade and night signify my moments of rest. All things in existence are interdependent—how much more so for those that inherently rely on others? When things come, I follow their coming; when they depart, I follow their departure; when they flourish, I flourish with them. Why question this natural movement and transformation? Guo Xiang's commentary clarifies that this movement arises spontaneously without needing causal explanation. Though shadows appear dependent on forms, upon deeper examination, what we call dependence ultimately reaches a state of non-dependence—this is the principle of "independent transformation" (duhua).

The second section narrates Yang Ziju's story: When Yang traveled south to Pei while Laozi journeyed west to Qin, they met in Liang. Laozi sighed, saying he had initially thought Yang teachable but now doubted it. Yang dared not ask why at the time but later inquired respectfully. Laozi criticized his arrogant demeanor (suīsuīxūxū, indicating domineering airs), explaining that truly noble individuals appear humble, and those with abundant De (Virtue) seem deficient. Yang immediately reformed his attitude. Guo Xiang notes that arrogance creates distance, while shedding pretenses enables equal interaction.

The concluding anecdote about Yao and Shun's abdication: When Yao offered the empire to Xu You, he declined; when offered to Zizhou Zhifu, the latter replied he was treating his "deep melancholy illness" and had no leisure to govern. Though the empire matters greatly, one shouldn't harm life for its sake. Similarly, Shun's offer to Zizhou Zhibo met identical refusal. This illustrates that only those who regard the empire as unimportant are truly fit to be entrusted with it.

Zhuangzi here illustrates through several stories how true Dao-realized individuals regard power and life. First, he states that those who have attained the Dao value life itself more than ruling the world—this marks their fundamental difference from worldly people.

He then recounts three stories of refusing kingship: Shan Juan (an ancient recluse) told Emperor Shun: "I live between heaven and earth, wearing furs in winter and coarse cloth in summer. In spring I plow, in autumn I harvest, working at sunrise and resting at sunset—free and unfettered. Why should I govern the world?" Feeling Shun couldn't comprehend him, he retreated deep into the mountains.

The farmer of Shihu (Shun's friend), considering Shun's virtue (De) insufficient, fled with his wife and children to the sea, never to return. Duke Danfu (grandfather of King Wen of Zhou), facing invasion by the Di tribes, refused to let common people die for him and led his clan to settle below Mount Qi—eventually establishing a new kingdom. These examples show that those who truly respect life would neither harm their bodies for wealth nor chase profit due to poverty.

Finally, the story of Prince Sou of Yue: fearing the calamities kingship might bring, he hid in a mountain cave. The Yue people smoked him out with mugwort, and as he mounted the royal chariot, he cried to heaven: "Must I really become king?" His aversion wasn't to kingship itself, but to the disasters it entailed.

These stories collectively demonstrate: Dao-realized individuals prioritize life itself over power and status. They willingly choose simple, free existence rather than becoming shackled by worldly authority.

The people of Yue coveted rulership, but a truly virtuous sovereign would never harm his own life for the sake of governing a state. Lü Huiqing's commentary notes that during the decline of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, fathers and sons, brothers and siblings slaughtered each other contending for power, while so-called scholars risked their lives pursuing fame and profit—this precisely forms the historical context for Zhuangzi's "Declining Kings" chapter. Hermits like Xu You and Zhi Fu all refused to exchange their lives for rulership of the realm. Yang Xiong argued that Emperor Yao's abdication to Shun was an act of prudence, not because he valued the empire less than Xu You did. What constitutes prudence? Is it not because the succession followed prolonged testing? Yet the crucial factor in Yao's selection of Shun didn't lie in the testing process itself, which merely followed conventional methods. Had Xu You not declined Yao's offer, who's to say he wouldn't have proven equally worthy through such trials?

When the states of Han and Wei contested border territories, Master Zihua visited the deeply troubled Marquis Zhao of Han. Zihua posed this hypothetical: "If all under heaven were to draft a contract placed before you stating—'Lose your left hand if you grasp with it, lose your right if you grasp with that, but the grasper gains the empire'—would you grasp?" The Marquis replied he would not. "Excellent!" said Zihua. "This shows your arms outweigh the empire, and your body outweighs your arms. Han itself is but a feather compared to the empire, and these disputed lands are lighter still. Why torment your vital essence over such trifles?" The Marquis had an epiphany, declaring this wisdom unlike any he'd heard before. Lü Huiqing observes that while Marquis Zhao's willingness to heed Zihua's counsel and minimize conflict doesn't equal Xu You's complete detachment from worldly power, it remains commendable.

When the Duke of Lu heard the Daoist adept Yan He resided in his state, he sent envoys bearing gifts. Yan dwelled in a crumbling alleyway, dressed in coarse hemp while tending oxen. The envoy found him and asked, "Is this Yan He's dwelling?" "It is," came the reply. When presents were offered, Yan said, "I fear you've mistaken me for another—best verify lest you incur your lord's displeasure." Upon returning, the envoy discovered Yan had deliberately avoided recognition.

This passage illustrates the Daoist perspective on wealth, status, and the value of life through two parables.

The first story concerns Yan He, a man who genuinely despised wealth and rank. The text explains that the true essence of the Dao (the Way) is meant for self-cultivation; only what remains is used to govern a state, and the coarsest aspects are applied to ruling the world. From this, we see that imperial achievements are secondary to sages—not the foundation for preserving life and nurturing the self. Yet worldly people often harm their bodies and abandon their lives in pursuit of external things—a truly lamentable tendency. A sage carefully considers both purpose and method in every action. It would be like someone using the priceless Pearl of Marquis Sui to shoot down a sparrow in a tree: everyone would laugh at them, for the cost is too great and the goal too trivial. Is life not more precious than such a pearl?

The second story tells of Liezi in extreme poverty, when Ziyang, the prime minister of Zheng, sent him provisions. Liezi repeatedly bowed in gratitude but refused the gift. His wife complained, "The families of true Daoists should live comfortably, yet here we starve! When help arrives, you turn it away—is this not cruel fate?" Liezi smiled and explained, "The minister doesn’t truly know me; he acts only because others call me worthy. If he later wished to punish me, it would be based on slander just the same. That’s why I won’t accept." Eventually, Ziyang was indeed killed by rebellious citizens.

Both stories show that genuine Daoist practitioners prefer obscurity to compromising their principles by accepting dubious generosity. They cherish life’s intrinsic worth and remain unmoved by material temptations. The text critiques worldly people who sacrifice their well-being for fame and profit, emphasizing how sages prioritize self-cultivation while viewing governance as secondary.

This passage recounts two stories illustrating the virtue of contentment. After King Zhao of Chu regained his kingdom, he sought to reward his followers, particularly Butcher Yang Shuo (a humble sheep slaughterer). Yang Shuo declined the reward, saying: "When Your Majesty lost the state, it wasn't my fault, so I dared not accept punishment. Now that Your Majesty has restored the state, it wasn't my merit, so I dare not accept rewards." He believed that having neither the wisdom to save the country nor the courage to die in battle—merely following the crowd in exile—made him unworthy of such honors.

King Zhao sent Minister Sima Ziqi to offer Yang Shuo a high ministerial position (the "three banners" referring to top official ranks), but the butcher replied: "I know the three highest offices are nobler than my slaughterhouse, and their emoluments far exceed my meager earnings. But I won't let my greed for titles tarnish my sovereign's reputation for indiscriminate generosity." He ultimately returned to his humble trade.

The second story concerns Yuan Xian (a disciple of Confucius) living in a crude thatched hut. When the wealthy disciple Zi Gong arrived in fine robes and a grand carriage, Yuan Xian emerged in tattered clothes. Asked why he lived in such hardship, Yuan Xian responded: "Lacking wealth is called poverty. Failing to practice the Dao (Way) one has learned is called true destitution. I'm merely poor, not destitute." This left Zi Gong deeply ashamed.

Both narratives demonstrate how true sages spurn power and wealth, finding contentment in simplicity while upholding righteousness. Those who scheme for high positions or trade cunning for rewards should feel shame hearing these accounts. Through these contrasts, Zhuangzi satirizes fame-seekers while celebrating the spirit of finding joy in the Dao amidst poverty.

This passage illustrates the Daoist cultivation state of "forgetting the mind to attain the Dao" through several classical anecdotes.

Yuan Xian (a disciple of Confucius) preferred wearing tattered clothes rather than compromising his true nature for external adornment. When Zengzi lived in the State of Wei, dressed in rags and often going without meals for ten years without new garments, he still chanted the "Odes of Shang" with resonant voice, his spiritual realm filling heaven and earth. They achieved the transcendent state where "the Son of Heaven couldn't make them ministers, nor could feudal lords befriend them." This shows that those who truly cultivate their minds forget their physical forms, those who cultivate their forms forget material gains, and those who pursue the great Dao forget calculating minds.

When Confucius urged his most accomplished disciple Yan Hui to take office, Yan replied: His fifty acres of farmland outside the city provided enough gruel, his ten acres within the city sufficient clothing; playing the zither for amusement and studying his master's Dao brought him complete happiness. Confucius, deeply moved, praised Yan Hui for truly understanding that "the contented aren't burdened by profit"—those with profound inner cultivation feel no shame even without official position.

The text explains that while wealth and honor are generally desired, and poverty and low status commonly disliked, these preferences originate in the human mind. By achieving "no-mind" (wuxin), one transcends such distinctions—dwelling in wealth without feeling wealthy, in poverty without feeling poor, maintaining serene contentment while roaming freely between heaven and earth. Exemplars like Yuan Xian, Zengzi and Yan Hui, though living austerely, could forget their physical forms through chanting and music, finding joy without being burdened by external things that might harm their innate nature. This constitutes the state of "those who attain the Dao forget the mind."

Finally, the anecdote of Prince Mou of Zhongshan further demonstrates: only by valuing life itself (zhongsheng) can one disregard external benefits (li qing). What makes these Dao cultivators extraordinary is precisely their transcendence of worldly values.

Prince Mou of Zhongshan (a noble from the Warring States period Wei kingdom) said to the wise scholar Zhanzi: "Though I understand the principle, I cannot overcome my desires." Zhanzi replied: "If you cannot restrain yourself, better follow things naturally. Forcing suppression will doubly injure your Shen (spirit) - such people rarely attain longevity." As a noble of a powerful state, Prince Mou's retreat to mountain forests was already more difficult than commoners; though not fully attaining the Dao, he already possessed a heart oriented toward the Way.

(Note: This discusses the Daoist cultivation principle of "following natural tendencies." When desires conflict with reason, forced repression may cause spiritual harm.)

Zhanzi further explained: The human heart is hardest to subdue - like those who dwell in mountain forests yet still crave courtly riches. Those who truly value life naturally disregard profit, no longer coveting power. Though Prince Mou understood this principle, his heart remained bound by desires. Zhanzi advised: Rather than forceful suppression, temporary accommodation is better - otherwise one suffers dual harm from "lingering desires" and "forced repression," violating the Dao of nurturing life.

(Note: This embodies the Daoist principle "softness overcomes hardness," advocating desire management through guidance rather than opposition.)

The text then contrasts Confucius' experience during the Chen-Cai famine: Even when starving for seven days, Confucius kept playing his zither and singing. When disciples questioned why he felt no shame in such circumstances, Confucius replied: Gentlemen measure fortune by whether they've attained the Dao. Having upheld the way of benevolence with no inner guilt, how could external hardship count as "destitution"? This reveals a different cultivation realm from Prince Mou's - the Confucian ideal.

(Note: By contrasting Daoist "following nature" with Confucian "upholding benevolence," two distinct philosophies of living are presented.)

When the heavens grow cold and the earth freezes, when frost and snow swirl through the air—only then do I truly understand why pines and cypresses remain ever-green. Confucius' adversity in the lands of Chen and Cai proved to be his fortune—he could still calmly strum his zither and sing, while Zilu danced with a shield and Zigong sighed, "Now I finally comprehend the vastness of heaven and the thickness of earth." The Dao-attained sages of antiquity maintained joy whether in hardship or prosperity, for their true happiness did not depend on external circumstances. When one truly comprehends the Dao (the Way), wealth and poverty, honor and disgrace become as natural as the turning of seasons.

Xu You (ancient recluse) found contentment north of the Ying River, while Gong Bo (Zhou dynasty worthy) remained steadfast in his principles. From Yan He to Lie Yukou to Confucius himself, these worthies remained unmoved by titles and stipends. Even in dire poverty, their joy remained unshaken. Though Prince Mou had not fully attained the Dao, he already embodied its spirit. Ordinary people, ensnared in falsehoods, hear of Xu You and Shan Juan (ancient hermits) and dismiss their stories as absurd. These sages transcended life and death precisely because they understood: once you see through the illusion of mortality, how could worldly fame and gain possibly harm your true life?

When Shun offered the empire to his friend Beiren Wuze, the man refused: "You were content tilling fields, yet accepted Yao's abdication. Now you'd stain me with this filthy deed?" With these words, he drowned himself. Before attacking Jie, King Tang consulted Bian Sui, who replied, "This is no affair of mine." Asked who could undertake the task, he simply said, "I know not." Tang then approached Wu Guang, receiving the same response. Speaking of Yi Yin, Wu Guang remarked, "He merely endures humiliation through force of will." After Tang's victory, when offering the throne to Bian Sui, the recluse declared: "Consulting me about attacking Jie marked me as cruel; offering me the throne brands me as greedy. In these chaotic times, the Dao-less forever seek to stain others with their vileness!" He then threw himself into the Chou River. When Tang pressed Wu Guang to take the throne, Guang said: "Since antiquity, the wise devise plans, the brave execute them, and the benevolent occupy the seat. How could I oppose heaven's Dao?"

This passage recounts the stories of two noble recluses and the Zhuangzi school's evaluation of such figures.

First, it tells of a man named Mao Guang who refused to accept a royal throne. He argued that deposing a ruler was contrary to righteousness, killing common people was not benevolent, and benefiting from others' risks while remaining safe oneself was not honest. He believed one should not accept emoluments gained through unrighteous means, nor even set foot on the land during an age without the Dao—how much less should one accept reverence? In the end, he tied a stone to his back and drowned himself in the Lu River (some say Lu Shui River).

Guo Xiang's commentary quotes Confucius: "A true scholar would sacrifice his life to achieve virtue (De), but would not impair virtue to preserve his life." However, the Zhuangzi school considered views like Mao Guang's and Bian Sui's—treating the world as external to oneself—to be mistaken. Those truly liberated neither deliberately pursue anything nor deliberately avoid anything, maintaining serene acceptance. Actions like Mao Guang's merely sought the reputation of purity, not genuine transcendence.

Next comes the story of Boyi and Shuqi. These two virtuous men from the state of Guzhu heard of a Daoist ruler in the west (King Wu of Zhou) and went to observe him. When King Wu sent envoys promising official positions to recruit them, they laughed and said: "This is not the Dao we understand." They recalled how the Divine Farmer (Shennong) governed the world—conducting sincere sacrifices without seeking blessings, administering diligently without expecting rewards. By contrast, the Zhou dynasty had seized power during Shang dynasty's chaos, establishing authority through schemes, bribery, and military force, while proclaiming integrity through oaths—essentially replacing tyranny with violence. They believed true worthies neither shirk responsibilities in orderly times nor cling to life in chaotic times. Seeing the world's darkness and Zhou's moral decline, they resolved to dissociate completely from Zhou rule.

Both stories exemplify the Daoist ideal of "disdaining fame and wealth while upholding inner truth." Yet the Zhuangzi school maintains that true liberation means following nature spontaneously—without deliberately pursuing reputation or affectations of purity.

This passage recounts the story of Boyi and Shuqi, who chose to starve on Shouyang Mountain rather than compromise their integrity for wealth and status. These two men's attitude toward material possessions and rank was clear: even if obtainable, they would never depend on them. They maintained noble principles, standing apart from the crowd, pursuing only their inner aspirations without conforming to worldly values. Such was the moral character of these two sages.

Guo Xiang notes in his commentary: The Analects merely states that Boyi and Shuqi "starved at the foot of Shouyang Mountain" without explicitly mentioning death. The mention of "death" here emphasizes their willingness to endure starvation to uphold their principles to the end, though it doesn't necessarily mean they actually starved to death.

Guo Xiang summarizes the main message of this passage as promoting an ethos of purity and humility. Under the influence of such values, even greedy individuals might suddenly sigh with reflection when achieving success—how much more so ordinary people? Therefore, figures like Boyi and Xu You are entirely worthy of being mentioned alongside virtuous ministers like Ji, Xie, Yi Yin, and Lü Shang. Those who retreat to mountain forests yet still care for the world, even without becoming assistants to sages, are surely nobler than those obsessed with worldly affairs.

However, Guo Xiang also points out the drawbacks of such an ethos: Xu You's excessive emphasis on yielding actually encouraged people to feign humility to seek high positions; Boyi's example made tyrants more reckless; the deeds of Yi Yin and Lü Shang emboldened the greedy to attempt usurpation. Only sages act without leaving traces, thus avoiding negative consequences. If Yi and Lü's actions are considered sagely, then so are Boyi and Shuqi's; if Boyi and Shuqi don't qualify, then neither do Yi and Lü. Sages follow the natural course of all things, leaving no traces. The title "sage" inherently implies absence of traces—people see certain deeds and forcibly label them "sagely," but true sageliness lies precisely in being traceless.

Chapter 29 tells the story of the robber Zhi. Confucius and Liu Xiaji were friends, and Liu Xiaji's younger brother was the robber Zhi. Leading nine thousand followers, Zhi rampaged across the land, invading feudal states, breaking into homes, seizing cattle, horses, and women, insatiably greedy, disregarding parents and siblings, neglecting ancestral sacrifices. Wherever he went, large states bolted their gates while small ones took refuge in fortresses, bringing immense suffering to the people. Confucius said to Liu Xiaji: "A father should..."

This passage comes from the "Robber Zhi" chapter of the Zhuangzi, recounting Confucius' attempt to persuade the notorious bandit Zhi:

As a father, one should be able to instruct his son; as an elder brother, one should be able to guide his younger brother. If a father cannot instruct his son nor an elder brother guide his younger brother, then such familial bonds lose their value. Now you, sir (referring to Liu Xiaji), are considered a worthy man of our age, yet your younger brother Robber Zhi has become a scourge upon the world whom you cannot control. I, Kong Qiu, feel ashamed on your behalf and wish to persuade him in your stead.

Liu Xiaji replied: You speak of fathers instructing sons and elder brothers guiding younger brothers. But if the son refuses his father's instruction and the younger brother rejects his elder brother's guidance, what could even your eloquence accomplish? Moreover, this Robber Zhi—his thoughts gush like a spring, his intentions shift like a sudden gust, his martial prowess can withstand any foe, and his rhetoric suffices to justify any wrongdoing. Please him and he rejoices; oppose him and he rages, quick to hurl verbal abuse. I beg you, do not go.

Confucius ignored this advice. With Yan Hui driving his chariot and Zigong accompanying him, he went to meet Robber Zhi, who was then resting his troops at the southern foot of Mount Tai, feasting on human livers. Confucius alighted and sought an audience, telling the messenger: "I am Kong Qiu of Lu, who, having heard of the general's noble principles, has come to pay respects." Upon hearing this, Robber Zhi flew into a rage—his eyes blazing like stars, his hair standing upright—and roared: "Isn't this that glib hypocrite Kong Qiu from Lu? Tell him: 'You fabricate doctrines, falsely praising the ways of Kings Wen and Wu, wearing a hat like tree branches and a belt of dead oxhide, spouting fallacies. You eat without plowing, wear clothes without weaving, wag your tongue to stir trouble, deluding rulers and leading scholars astray from fundamentals. With your hypocritical filial piety, you seek wealth and honor—your crimes are immense! Begone! Or I'll add your liver to my meal!'"

Confucius requested another audience: "I am honored to know Liu Xiaji and wish to pay my respects." Robber Zhi said: "Bring him forward!" Confucius hurried ahead, only to find Zhi straddling his legs, gripping his sword with a glare, his voice like a roaring tiger cub: "Approach, Kong Qiu! If your words please me, you live; if they displease me, you die!" Confucius said: "I have heard that there are three virtues under heaven..."

This passage comes from the "Robber Zhi" chapter of the Zhuangzi, depicting Confucius' attempt to persuade the great robber Zhi to reform. Confucius begins by flattering Zhi, claiming he possesses three grades of virtue (De) that could make him a feudal lord. But Zhi angrily refutes this, exposing the hypocrisy of the sage-kings revered in Confucianism.

Confucius tells Zhi: "When people of all ages and stations delight at the sight of you, this is superior virtue (Shang De). When your wisdom comprehends heaven and earth and discerns the nature of all things, this is middling virtue (Zhong De). When your courage and decisiveness can gather multitudes and command armies, this is inferior virtue (Xia De). Possessing any single one of these would suffice to make one a king. Now you, general, embody all three simultaneously. Standing eight feet two inches tall, with radiant features, cinnabar lips, pearly teeth, and a voice resonant as the Yellow Bell [ancient pitch standard]—yet you're called Robber Zhi! I am truly ashamed for you."

Hearing this, Zhi flies into a rage: "Come here, Confucius! Those who can be tempted by profit or persuaded by words are all foolish mediocrities. My striking appearance that pleases others is a gift from my parents—even without your praise, wouldn't I know it myself? Moreover, I've heard that those who enjoy flattery to one's face equally relish slander behind backs. Now you tempt me with great cities and multitudes, trying to buy me with profit as if I were some common man—how could this last?

"The greatest city is none other than the entire world. Yao and Shun possessed the world, yet their descendants became so poor they lacked land to stick an awl. Tang and Wu became Sons of Heaven, yet their lines were extinguished—wasn't this because they coveted excessive gain? In ancient times when beasts were numerous and humans few, people dwelt in trees to avoid animals, gathering acorns by day and sleeping by rivers at night—thus they were called 'the people of the Nest Builder.' They knew no clothing, piling firewood in summer and burning it for warmth in winter—thus 'the people who knew life.' In Shennong's era, people lived peacefully, knowing their mothers but not fathers, coexisting with deer, farming for food and weaving for clothes, harboring no thoughts of harming others—this was virtue at its highest. Yet the Yellow Emperor failed to maintain this virtue, battling Chiyou at Zhuolu till blood flowed for miles. Yao and Shun established bureaucracies, Tang exiled his lord..." [The passage continues exposing the violent nature of sage-king rule]

This passage presents Zhuangzi's critique of Confucian sages and conventional moral values. Through the mouth of the notorious robber Zhi, it reveals how revered figures from King Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou onward were actually the primary disruptors of social harmony.

When Tang exiled the tyrant Jie of Xia and King Wu executed the despot Zhou of Shang, they established the precedent of the strong bullying the weak and the many oppressing the few. Now you, Confucius, promote the doctrines of Kings Wen and Wu of Zhou, controlling public discourse to indoctrinate posterity while swaggering about in your scholar's broad sash and flowing robes. With hypocritical words and deeds, you delude rulers across states to seek wealth and status. If we're to name the greatest thief under heaven, why do people call me "Robber Zhi" while you escape with the honorific "Qiu"? Shouldn't they rather call you "Robber Qiu"?

With honeyed words you persuaded Zilu to follow you, making him discard his warrior's tall cap and unbuckle his long sword to receive your teachings. The world praises Confucius for stopping violence, yet what was the result? When Zilu attempted to assassinate the ruler of Wei and failed, his minced corpse ended up at the eastern gate of the capital—such was the failure of your instruction. You call yourself a sage, yet you were expelled from Lu, frustrated in Wei, driven to desperation in Qi, and besieged between Chen and Cai—nowhere under heaven would tolerate you. Your teaching brought Zilu to a gruesome death. You can neither preserve yourself above nor aid others below—what value does your doctrine hold?

The Yellow Emperor so revered by the world left a hundred-mile trail of blood at Zhuolu; Yao lacked paternal kindness; Shun failed in filial piety; Yu became paralyzed; Tang banished his lord; King Wu attacked Zhou; King Wen was imprisoned at Youli. These six so-called sages were all deluded by profit into distorting their true nature. Boyi and Shuqi starved to death on Shouyang Mountain with none to bury them; Bao Jiao pretentiously embraced a tree to die; Shentu Di drowned himself with stones when his advice went unheeded; Jie Zitui who fed Duke Wen of Jin with his own flesh was forgotten and burned alive clinging to a tree; Weisheng drowned waiting for his lover. These celebrated worthies differ not from dead dogs, drowned pigs, or beggars with gourds—all throwing away life for empty fame, ignorant of life's preciousness.

Those lauded as loyal ministers—Bi Gan who had his heart cut out, Wu Zixu who was sunk in the river—what meaning does such forced loyalty hold?

This passage comes from the "Robber Zhi" chapter of the Zhuangzi, where the dialogue between Confucius and the infamous robber Zhi reveals Zhuangzi's critique of conventional values.

The text describes Confucius attempting to persuade Robber Zhi (a legendary bandit) with appeals to humaneness, righteousness, and virtue, only to be refuted by the robber himself. Zhi points out that loyal ministers like Wu Zixu and Bi Gan ultimately became objects of ridicule. From a higher perspective, such so-called acts of loyalty and righteousness are not worthy of admiration.

Robber Zhi tells Confucius: "All you preach are mere worldly conventions—the eyes desire beautiful sights, the ears crave music, the mouth longs for fine flavors, and human ambitions seek fulfillment. But life is fleeting. Even if one lives a hundred years, discounting illness, mourning, and suffering, the truly joyful days amount to no more than four or five in a month. Heaven and earth are eternal, but human life is finite—as brief as a thoroughbred horse flashing past a crack in the wall. Those who cling to these worldly pursuits understand nothing of the true Dao."

In the end, Confucius slinks away in defeat. On the road, he encounters Liu Xiahui (the virtuous official) and admits that he was "cauterizing himself without illness"—meddling in affairs unnecessarily, like "tugging at a tiger’s whiskers."

Guo Xiang’s commentary notes that this parable illustrates the need to follow the will of the masses—otherwise, even a sage cannot control the situation. The subsequent dialogue between Zizhang and Man Goude further elaborates: people pursue fame and profit because "without action, there is no gain," yet true cultivation should transcend such external standards. Man Goude bluntly states: "In this world, it’s the shameless who attain wealth and honor."

Through these heated exchanges, the text critiques Confucian ideals of humaneness and righteousness, advocating instead for alignment with natural spontaneity and rejecting hypocritical social values. Zhuangzi uses Robber Zhi’s voice to demonstrate that those obsessed with worldly fame and profit are, in truth, far removed from the genuine Dao.

This passage, through a dialogue between the Zhuangzi school and Confucianism, reveals the paradoxical relationship between fame and virtue. The debate between Zi Zhang (representing Confucianism) and Man Goude (representing Daoism) showcases the clash between two value systems.

Zi Zhang argues that people often pursue fame and profit to the point of disregarding shame. Only by abandoning worldly gains and returning to one's true nature can a scholar's conduct align with the Dao (the Way). He illustrates this by noting that even though tyrants like Jie and Zhou held imperial power, servants today would feel ashamed to imitate their behavior. Conversely, though Confucius and Mozi lived in poverty, even a prime minister would humbly decline if asked to emulate them—proving true nobility lies in virtue (De) rather than status.

Man Goude counters by pointing out society's double standards: petty thieves get caught while great robbers become feudal lords (satirizing the disconnect between power and morality). He cites historical contradictions: Duke Huan of Qi murdered his brother and married his sister-in-law, yet Guan Zhong served him; Tian Chengzi assassinated his ruler, yet Confucius accepted his gifts. These examples demonstrate how conventional morality often follows the principle that "might makes right." He further challenges Confucian ethics by noting how sage-kings like Yao executed his eldest son and Shun exiled his brother—actions that violate their own moral codes.

Finally, Man Goude presents the Daoist view: Confucians chase empty fame while Mohists preach universal love, both straying from the natural Dao (the Way). Quoting the fictional sage "Wu Yue," he observes: "Petty men chase profit, noble men chase reputation—though their manifestations differ, both violate true nature." The authentic approach follows neither path but instead aligns with natural law—embracing life's contradictions like heaven accommodates both straight and crooked, changing with the seasons while maintaining flexible wisdom, allowing one's spirit (Shen) to wander freely with the Great Dao.

This dialogue profoundly exposes the paradox of power and morality, critiquing conventional values while ultimately pointing to the Daoist core of "following nature." Through subversive reinterpretations of historical cases, it destabilizes Confucian ethics' absolute authority, demonstrating the Zhuangzi school's profound reflection on worldly values.

Zhuangzi here uses several historical anecdotes to illustrate how excessive pursuit of moral reputation can instead invite disaster. Bi Gan had his heart cut out by King Zhou for forthright remonstration; Wu Zixu was executed by the King of Wu for his loyalty—these are calamities brought by upright devotion. The honest man who reported his father for stealing a sheep, and Wei Sheng who drowned while keeping his promise—these are tragedies caused by rigid integrity. Bao Shuya and Guan Zhong suffered hardship due to their incorruptibility; Confucius failed to see his dying mother and Kuang Zhang avoided his father—all due to excessive adherence to moral principles—demonstrate the deficiencies of overvaluing virtue.

Guo Xiang's commentary notes: Over-emphasizing moral conduct breeds hypocrisy and affectation. Deliberately showcasing scholarly integrity ironically makes scholars artificial. Thus it's better to disregard external behavioral standards while preserving inner authenticity—this naturally leads to genuine moral excellence.

The subsequent dialogue between Wuzu (Never-Enough) and Zhihe (Knowing-Harmony) discusses fame and profit. Wuzu argues that pursuing wealth and power is human nature, bringing honor and pleasure. But Zhihe points out that those who follow worldly currents chasing fame and fortune have actually strayed from life's true value. Driven by external desires yet unaware, even those honored as Son of Heaven or possessing the world's riches cannot escape anxiety. Wuzu counters that wealth and status bring manifold benefits, and enjoying sensual pleasures, power and position is humanity's innate tendency requiring no instruction. This dialogue reveals Daoism's profound critique of conventional values.

This passage contrasts the dialogue between "Zhihe" (Knowing Harmony) and "Wuzu" (Never Enough), revealing the harm of greed to human nature. Zhihe (representing contentment) states: The truly wise act with moderation, accommodating people's needs without imposing their own standards, thus living in satisfaction without contention. They do not deliberately pursue anything because they feel no lack; even if declining the empire they would not consider themselves virtuous, for virtue or poverty are matters of inner cultivation, not external displays.

Even as Son of Heaven they would not grow arrogant from status, nor would they use wealth to mock others despite possessing the world's riches. Through deep reflection, they recognize how such external things can injure their innate nature, thus consciously rejecting them—not for fame or reputation. When Yao and Shun governed the world with equanimity, it was not forced benevolence; when Shan Juan and Xu You refused the throne, it was not feigned modesty—all sought to protect their authentic selves from worldly harm. Though people praise their wisdom, their choices flowed purely from innate virtue.

Wuzu (representing insatiable greed) argues that fame and gain must be pursued. Zhihe counters: Those who forcibly seek renown or adopt extreme asceticism for longevity are like chronic invalids. True harmony brings blessings while excess invites disaster—especially with wealth. Consider today's rich: ears filled with bell-and-drum music, mouths savoring fine wines, yet minds grow confused, forgetting fundamental duties; indulging in pleasures resembles climbing mountains with heavy burdens—sheer torment.

Seeking comfort through wealth, exhausting vitality for power, wallowing in indulgence during leisure yet wearing oneself out in activity—this is pathological behavior. Blinded by profit-seeking desires until deaf to dangers, still clinging desperately—what disgrace! Hoarding unused riches, obsessively guarding them while anxiously craving more—pure self-affliction. At home fearing thieves, abroad dreading bandits, fortifying dwellings yet afraid to walk alone—living in perpetual dread. These six states represent life's great harms, yet people ignore them until calamity strikes, when no fortune can buy back a single day's peace.

Thus chasing empty fame yields no substance, while scrambling for profit destroys one's essence—what folly to exhaust body and mind in such deluded struggles! As Guo Xiang's commentary notes: This chapter teaches that only the contented truly attain fulfillment.

In ancient times, King Wen of Zhao was obsessed with swordsmanship, gathering over three thousand swordsmen to reside near his palace. These swordsmen dueled day and night, resulting in more than a hundred casualties annually. This continued for three years, weakening Zhao's state power until neighboring kingdoms began plotting invasions. Crown Prince Kui grew deeply concerned and told his attendants: "Whoever can persuade my father to abandon this obsession shall receive a thousand pieces of gold." His ministers recommended Zhuangzi.

The prince sent envoys with the gold to summon Zhuangzi, who declined the payment but agreed to accompany them. Upon meeting the prince, Zhuangzi asked: "What does Your Highness require of me, that you'd offer a thousand gold for my audience?" The prince explained: "Knowing your wisdom, I beg you to dissuade my father from his swordsmanship obsession. The gold is but compensation for your attendants." Zhuangzi replied: "If I succeed, what couldn't Zhao State obtain? Should I fail, I'd forfeit my life—what use is gold then?"

The prince warned Zhuangzi: "My father only receives swordsmen. They appear bizarre—unkempt hair, low caps, coarse belts, short jackets, glaring eyes and stammering speech. Yet this pleases him. If you appear in Confucian robes, all would be lost." Zhuangzi thus requested swordsman's attire. After three days, he donned the costume and accompanied the prince to court.

King Wen awaited with drawn sword. Zhuangzi entered without ceremonial bows. The king demanded: "What instruction do you bring?" Through the prince's mediation, Zhuangzi responded: "Hearing of Your Majesty's passion for swordsmanship, I come to demonstrate my art." The king inquired: "What distinguishes your technique?" Zhuangzi answered: "My sword strikes down men within ten paces, clearing obstacles for a thousand li." The king exclaimed: "Truly peerless in all under heaven!"

Zhuangzi elaborated: "The Dao of swordsmanship reveals vulnerability to lure opponents, then strikes first while appearing to follow. Permit me to demonstrate." The king had him rest while preparing a tournament. After seven days of contests leaving sixty-odd swordsmen dead or wounded, five or six masters remained.

King Zhuang summoned Zhuangzi to his court, announcing he would have his warriors demonstrate swordplay that day. Zhuangzi replied he had long awaited such an opportunity. When the king inquired about the length of sword Zhuangzi typically used, the philosopher responded: "Your servant's swords adapt to any length, but I possess three exceptional blades for Your Majesty's consideration. Allow me to describe them before their demonstration."

These three swords were: The Sword of the Son of Heaven, The Sword of Feudal Lords, and The Sword of Commoners. The Son of Heaven's sword took the world as its tip, the four seasons as its blade, and yin-yang as its hilt—such a sword could rectify feudal lords and pacify all under heaven when drawn. The Feudal Lord's sword used wise and courageous men as its tip and incorruptible officials as its blade, aligning with celestial patterns above and terrestrial principles below to protect borders and comfort the people. The Commoner's sword represented ordinary dueling—disheveled hair, glaring eyes—no different than cockfighting, where a broken blade meant certain death.

After hearing this, King Zhuang fell into deep contemplation. Dismissing Zhuangzi to his quarters, the ruler sat in silent meditation, realizing his former obsession with common swordplay had been unbefitting a true monarch.

The subsequent passage describes Confucius encountering a white-haired fisherman (a recluse) listening to zither music by the shore. When the fisherman summoned Zilu and Zigong to inquire about Confucius' identity, Zigong proudly described the sage's promotion of benevolence, righteousness, and ritual music to civilize the people. The fisherman laughed: "Though compassionate, this will exhaust your spirit and stray from Dao's natural course!" Hearing this, Confucius rushed to the riverbank seeking guidance, humbly admitting his sixty-nine years had not yet revealed the supreme Dao. The fisherman explained all things naturally resonate with their kind, offering to illuminate human affairs through celestial principles.

This passage comes from the "Fisherman" chapter of the Zhuangzi, where a dialogue between Confucius and an old fisherman reveals the worries plaguing different social classes and identifies eight personal faults and four pernicious habits.

The text first enumerates the anxieties of various social strata: Common people worry about barren fields, dilapidated homes, inadequate food and clothing, unpaid taxes, and family discord. Officials fret over insufficient competence, neglected governance, improper conduct, lax subordinates, lack of political achievements, and inability to retain their positions. Feudal lords agonize over courts lacking loyal ministers, state disorder, inferior craftsmanship, substandard tributes, and breaches of etiquette when attending the Son of Heaven. The emperor and high ministers, meanwhile, are troubled by disharmony between Yin and Yang, abnormal weather patterns that damage all things, violent rebellions among feudal lords who attack each other and bring suffering to the people, as well as the collapse of ritual and music systems, financial distress, corrupted human relations, and dissolute customs.

The fisherman then criticizes Confucius: "Without the authority of rulers or the official positions of ministers, you presumptuously seek to rectify rituals and music, regulate human relationships to educate the masses—isn't this meddling in affairs beyond your station?" He proceeds to identify eight personal faults and four pernicious habits requiring vigilance:

The eight faults are: 1) Interfering in matters beyond one's proper duties (overreach); 2) Offering unsolicited advice (obsequiousness); 3) Speaking to flatter others' preferences (sycophancy); 4) Speaking indiscriminately without distinguishing right from wrong (fawning); 5) Delighting in slandering others (defamation); 6) Sowing discord (malice); 7) Pretending to praise while actually disparaging (duplicity); 8) Indiscriminately currying favor with all sides to serve selfish ends (deceit).

The four pernicious habits are: 1) Obsessively planning grand schemes and pursuing novelty for fame (grasping for merit); 2) Acting autocratically and obstinately (tyranny); 3) Refusing to correct mistakes and growing more stubborn when admonished (obstinacy); 4) Only approving one's own views while rejecting superior alternatives (arrogance).

The fisherman concludes that only those who eliminate these eight faults and avoid the four pernicious habits are worthy of instruction. Hearing this, Confucius appears crestfallen and bows again, inquiring why he suffered expulsion from Lu, banishment from Wei, the humiliation of having trees cut down in Song, and siege between Chen and Cai. The fisherman sternly replies: "How profoundly unenlightened you remain! You're like a man who flees in terror from his own shadow while loathing his footprints—utterly ridiculous."

This passage, through a dialogue between Zhuangzi and Confucius, reveals the essence and importance of "authenticity" (真). Using vivid metaphors, it illustrates how the faster one runs, the more closely their shadow follows; desperately trying to outrun one's shadow only leads to exhaustion and death. In truth, one need only rest in the shade for the shadow to naturally disappear. This allegory satirizes foolish behavior that ignores fundamental principles while fruitlessly exerting effort.

The text points out that excessive fixation on distinctions—between benevolence and righteousness, similarities and differences, movement and stillness, or measures of giving—easily leads one into predicaments. What truly matters is cultivating oneself and preserving innate authenticity. To demand virtue from others without first cultivating one's own nature—isn't this putting the cart before the horse?

When Confucius inquires about the meaning of "authenticity," his interlocutor explains: Authenticity is the ultimate refinement of sincerity. Those who feign weeping appear sorrowful yet feel no grief; those who pretend anger seem severe yet command no awe; those who simulate affection wear smiles yet exude no warmth. True sorrow needs no sound to convey grief, genuine anger requires no outburst to inspire reverence, and real closeness needs no smile to radiate comfort. Inner authenticity naturally manifests outwardly—this is the precious quality of "zhen."

In different contexts, authenticity expresses itself differently: filial devotion when serving parents, loyalty when attending rulers, joy during drinking, and grief during mourning. But the essence lies in grasping the core: serving parents should bring them comfort, drinking should pursue merriment, mourning should express sorrow. Ritual propriety (礼) belongs to worldly conventions, while authenticity stems from heavenly endowed nature. Sages emulate nature and cherish genuineness, unconstrained by mundane rituals; fools do the opposite.

Finally, Confucius, deeply inspired, requests to become a disciple and learn the Great Dao (大道). This dialogue profoundly expounds the Daoist philosophy of "returning to simplicity and authenticity" (返璞归真), emphasizing that inner truth outweighs external form, guiding people to reconnect with their original nature.

As the old fisherman steered his boat away, Confucius said to his disciples: "Those who can follow should understand the principle behind this. If you don't comprehend, be cautious in your interactions—only then can you avoid misfortune." With a deep sigh, he repeatedly murmured "I must leave you now," as the boat gradually receded into the distance.

When the vessel disappeared among the reeds, Yan Yuan turned the chariot around while Zilu offered the reins, but Confucius didn't even glance back. Ripples spread across the water, and the sage's voice could no longer be heard—none of them had managed to board that boat. Unable to contain himself, Zilu approached the carriage and asked: "Having followed you for so long, Master, I've never seen you show such reverence toward anyone. Even when meeting rulers of ten thousand chariots or lords of a thousand chariots, you merely exchanged equal courtesies, maintaining an air of dignified composure. Yet today, when that fisherman stood opposite you leaning on his oar, you gazed up at him with visible awe, repeatedly bowing and responding with utmost deference—wasn't this excessive? The other disciples also found your behavior unusual today. Could that fisherman truly be a man of wisdom?"

Leaning against the chariot rail, Confucius sighed: "Zilu, you remain incorrigible! After years of studying ritual and righteousness, you still lack humility—your coarse and simplistic mindset persists. Listen well: To show disrespect toward elders violates propriety; to lack reverence toward the worthy violates humaneness. Had that fisherman not been a perfected man of the Dao, how could he have made us seekers feel so inadequate? Without genuine humility, one cannot grasp the essence of the Great Dao, and in the end only harms himself. How lamentable! To withhold humaneness toward others is the gravest misfortune, yet you dare criticize him."

"The Great Dao is the root of all creation and destruction. When living beings lose the Dao, they perish; when they attain it, they flourish. Actions contrary to the Dao bring failure, while alignment with it ensures success. Thus the sage honors all that embodies the Dao. That fisherman today was truly one who had attained the Dao—how could I dare show anything less than reverence?"

(Note: The term "perfected man" (至人) refers to one who has reached the highest state of moral cultivation, while "humbling oneself beneath others" (下人) denotes genuine humility. "Rulers of ten thousand chariots" (万乘之主) indicates monarchs of major states, and "lords of a thousand chariots" (千乘之君) refers to rulers of mid-sized principalities—both were conventional metaphors for supreme authority at the time.)