《南華真經註疏》Vol. 3

Interpretation

The True Classic of Nanhua, with Commentary and Subcommentary · Outer Chapter 8, “Joined Toes”

Edition and authorship

This edition of the True Classic of Nanhua appears in the reprinted Collection of the Essentials of the Daoist Canon. The main text was written by Zhuang Zhou, an official in the lacquer garden during the Zhou dynasty. Its commentary and subcommentary were composed by Cheng Yining, the Master Restoring the Jade of Haiyang.

About the “Outer Chapters”

The Dao has inner and outer chapters. Each inner chapter has a specific title, while many outer chapters take their title from the first two characters. They discuss the outer before turning to the inner, and are therefore called the Outer Chapters. Their purpose is to develop ideas from the Inner Chapters that were not fully explored there.

Main idea of this chapter

“Joined Toes” argues that anything added or contrived beyond one’s original nature, whether good or bad, departs from what is naturally right. This idea runs throughout the chapter.

Plain-language rendering of the classic

Joined toes—when the big toe and second toe grow together—and a forked finger, an extra finger on the hand, arise from one’s nature yet seem excessive in terms of De (Virtue/Power). They are not present in everyone from birth, so they are called “excess in De.” Likewise, a hanging wart or extra growth, which appears on the body after birth, is excessive in terms of nature. It is an appendage beyond what was present at birth, and is also called “excess in nature.”

When benevolence and righteousness are applied in too many ways, it is as if they were displayed across the Five Organs—the heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys, each associated with particular emotions and the Five Phases. Yet this is not the true order of Dao and De. Joined toes, forked fingers, hanging warts, and extra growths are all useless things. To govern the emotions of the Five Organs by teaching benevolence and righteousness in many different ways is like cutting apart joined toes, severing forked fingers, and removing warts: it harms the natural order and only adds to the trouble.

Thus, joined flesh on the foot is useless, and a forked finger on the hand is a useless digit. Adding many branches of benevolence and righteousness to the emotions of the Five Organs is to carry their practice too far into deviation; it is also to contrive too many uses for intelligence. From the perspective of the Great Dao, benevolence and righteousness belong in the same category as joined toes and forked fingers: none of them serves any great purpose.

Excess in sight: Overly keen perception disrupts the Five Colors, making decorations such as blue, yellow, and the patterned designs of ceremonial robes—fu, a white-and-black pattern, and fu, a blue-and-black pattern—too dazzling. Taking excessive clarity of sight as a failing, however, goes against people like Liju, who was said to have lived in the time of the Yellow Emperor and to have been able to see a hair at a hundred paces; such people consider this kind of vision desirable.

Excess in hearing: Overly keen hearing disrupts the Five Tones, making the sounds of metal, stone, strings, and bamboo, as well as those of the Six Pitch Standards such as Huangzhong and Dalu, excessively complex and indulgent. Taking excessive acuity of hearing as a failing, however, goes against those skilled at distinguishing musical tones, who consider this kind of hearing desirable.

Notes on terminology

Here, “indulgent” and “deviant” mean excessive or inclined too far toward one side. “In many ways” means through numerous approaches or with too many variations. The commentary and subcommentary compare benevolence, righteousness, and intelligence to joined toes and forked fingers, reflecting Zhuangzi’s call to return to simplicity: when human teaching goes too far, it is another form of losing what is naturally right.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

“Making excessive reliance on hearing a fault”: Shi Kuang embodies this.

Shi Kuang was a musician of the state of Jin, famed for his exceptionally sharp hearing, yet treated here as the extreme of “acuity.”

Li Zhu and Shi Kuang believed that distinguishing colors and discerning sounds marked the limit of acuity. They did not know that the culmination of the Dao is dark and silent: how could there be any fixed sounds or fixed forms and colors? Thus, those skilled in understanding the Dao turn instead to restraining sight and hearing. They forget the use of the ears and eyes, set their cleverness aside, and return to a simple, unadorned state.

“Those who branch out in benevolence raise up virtue and block their nature to win fame.”

Those who take benevolence offshoots in other directions exalt their virtue and stifle their nature, all to gain a good name.

“They make the whole world join in like pipes and drums, upholding standards beyond anyone’s reach.”

They make everyone in the world echo them in unison, like people playing pipes and drums, and follow rites and rules that are difficult to attain. “Beyond reach” means difficult to achieve; “standards” refers to rites and rules.

“Making offshoots of benevolence a fault”: Zeng Shen and Shi Yu embody this.

Zeng Shen and Shi Yu were known for their loyalty and filial devotion, yet they regarded branching out in benevolence as the right course.

“Those who branch out in disputation pile tiles and knot cords, tamper with phrases, and let their minds wander among ‘hard and white’ and ‘sameness and difference.’”

Those who take disputation offshoots in other directions make strained arguments, like piling up tiles or tying knots in cords. They alter the words of the ancients to justify themselves, and give their whole attention to topics such as “hard and white” and “sameness and difference.” These were debate topics associated with the School of Names.

“They wear themselves out, praising one another’s useless words”: Yang Zhu and Mo Di embody this.

Exhausted, they drag their feet while praising one another’s useless arguments. Yang Zhu and Mo Di are examples of treating offshoots in disputation as a fault. Debaters labor their whole lives at argument and display, using useless words to promote one another, yet they regard branching out in disputation as the right course.

Therefore, all these are side paths that branch out excessively; they are not the most upright Dao under Heaven.

Lü Jifu says: “The Dao lies in silence, so disputation is not the Dao. Tiles are valued when they are stacked in orderly rows; cords are valued when they run straight and are tied into knots. Phrases are meant to connect the meaning of a text, yet they tamper with them and keep them hidden in the mind. The mind is valued for being empty and still, yet it wanders among ‘hard and white’ and ‘sameness and difference.’ To wear oneself out walking and standing in short steps is an image for these useless words, like piled tiles and knotted cords. Yang Zhu and Mo Di are examples of branching out in disputation. All of this falls short of the most upright Dao under Heaven.”

“Those who are truly upright do not lose the reality of their nature and life.”

Those who are truly upright do not lose their inborn nature or their genuine feelings.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain-Language Interpretation

The “rectitude” in “the natural condition of nature and life” refers to what the Classic of Changes says: each person should set their nature and Heaven-given destiny in proper order, allowing things to follow their own course and remain as they naturally are. Those today who add “joined growths and extra branches” to benevolence and righteousness—that is, who force things together and create needless complications—think they are following the right path. They do not realize that once something has been called a “joined growth” or an “extra branch,” it is no longer truly right. True rectitude means preserving intact the real principle received from Heaven. That is why it is called “not losing the natural condition of one’s nature and life.” Here, “condition” means what is true and natural.

Thus, what naturally belongs together need not be treated as something “joined,” as though it were an unnecessary addition. What naturally branches apart need not be treated as an awkward extra limb. What is long is not “in excess,” and what is short is not “inadequate.” Lu Xixing says: The natural condition of nature and life is whole and complete by nature; each person is endowed with what they need. There is no need to speak of “joining,” so joining does not make something a joined growth. There is no need to speak of “branching,” so division does not make something an extra branch. There is no need to speak of long or short, so the long do not feel they have too much, and the short do not feel they have too little.

So, although a wild duck’s legs are short, forcibly lengthening them brings harm; although a crane’s legs are long, forcibly shortening them brings pain. What is long by nature should not be cut down, and what is short by nature should not be lengthened. Those who follow the natural condition of nature and life each find their proper place, with nothing to worry about.

Alas! Do benevolence and righteousness really accord with people’s natural feelings? Why do these ideals of benevolence and righteousness cause people so much worry?

Consider, too: when the thumbs grow joined together, cutting them apart makes one cry; when an extra finger grows from the hand, biting it off makes one howl. One is “in excess” in number, while the other is “inadequate” because two digits are joined, yet the pain and distress they cause are the same. (When people see excess or inadequacy, they think of adding or subtracting. When the mind makes no additions or subtractions, there is no problem of excess or inadequacy.)

Today, the benevolent, their eyes narrowed with deep concern, worry over the world’s troubles; the unbenevolent violate the natural condition of nature and life, greedily pursue profit, and indulge in violence…

(The following passage continues with a contrast between “the benevolent people of today…” and “the unbenevolent…” Its general meaning is that one side suffers from excessive concern for benevolence and righteousness, while the other indulges itself and harms its nature. Both are made to suffer by the pursuit of adding or subtracting what is supposedly in excess or deficient.)

Note: This passage comes from the Annotations and Subcommentary to the True Classic of Southern Florescence. It explains Zhuangzi’s phrase “not losing the natural condition of one’s nature and life”: do not use benevolence and righteousness to force additions onto one’s nature, and do not forcibly change what is long or short, as in cutting down a crane’s legs or lengthening a wild duck’s. The examples of joined thumbs and extra fingers show how attempts to correct what seems “abnormal” can create pain. This is the same kind of suffering caused by excessive worry over the practice of benevolence and righteousness: the harm that comes from trying to add or diminish what nature has given.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Wealth and high rank each carry their own troubles, and goodness and wickedness, though different, produce the same anxieties. So why do some people deliberately promote benevolence and righteousness (renyi)? Is this in accord with human feeling? Since the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou, the world has become extraordinarily noisy and disordered. (Xiaoxiao means clamorous and tumultuous. The point is that after the Three Dynasties, those who esteemed benevolence and righteousness grew ever more numerous, and the world grew ever more chaotic.)

Moreover, things that can be made straight only with the hook (gou), the plumb line (sheng), the compass (gui), and the carpenter's square (ju), which were the tools of ancient woodworking, have had their original nature cut away. Things that can be held together only with rope or glue have had their De (Virtue) harmed. To bend the limbs into the forms of ritual and music (liyue), and to assume a pleasant countenance in order to pass for benevolence and righteousness, and to use these to console the hearts of the people under heaven, all turn away from the natural constancy of things.

Under heaven there has always been a constant order. What is called constancy is the natural principle that is always so, which is to say the Dao (the Way) and De. The Dao can bend and can straighten, can become round and can become square, can be firm and can be bound. From antiquity to the present it operates within all of these, yet people do not know it.

Therefore, what is bent need not be corrected with a hook, what is straight need not be straightened with a cord, what is round need not be drawn with a compass, and what is square need not be measured with a square. Nor need anything be joined with glue or bound with rope. The myriad things grow naturally, yet do not know why they live; each attains what its nature requires, yet does not know why it attains it. Ancient and present are one. The Dao cannot be diminished, and once it is diminished, nature is weakened and De is harmed. Why, then, should benevolence and righteousness, like glue and rope, be used to bind things together and wander between the Dao and De? They only confuse the people under heaven.

A small confusion is merely a failure to discern direction, like being unable to tell east from west. A great confusion alters the nature itself. To esteem benevolence and righteousness and to change the constant nature of things is precisely this great confusion. The reason this can be asserted is that the teaching of benevolence and righteousness disturbs human nature and leads people away from the original constant Dao.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain-Language Interpretation

“People use benevolence and righteousness to unsettle the world” means that people disturb the world through benevolence and righteousness. Everyone rushes to obey them, and disputes over right and wrong arise from them as well.

“Changing their nature” means altering one’s original nature. Changing direction is merely taking east for west; changing one’s nature is turning non-action into deliberate action. People are born tranquil, but when benevolence and righteousness are used to disturb them, their nature has been changed.

“So let us try to discuss this” means making an attempt at analysis. From the Three Dynasties onward, everyone in the world has had their nature changed by external things. Ordinary people change their nature for benevolence and righteousness; sages, in changing the world, change their own nature too. Thus, from the Three Dynasties onward, all have had their nature changed by what lies outside the Dao.

“The petty person gives up life for profit”: the petty person sacrifices life for profit, exchanging nature for gain. “The scholar gives up life for reputation”: the scholar sacrifices life for reputation, exchanging nature for fame. “The great officer gives up life for the family”: the great officer sacrifices life for the family, exchanging nature for it. “The sage gives up life for the world”: the sage sacrifices life for the world, exchanging nature for it.

Their pursuits and reputations differ, but in harming their nature and giving up their lives they are alike. The very thought of “sacrificing oneself” is the root of harm to one’s nature.

Zang and Gu were herding sheep together, yet both lost their flocks. Asked what Zang had been doing, people answered that he was reading with a bundle of bamboo slips in hand. Asked what Gu had been doing, they said he was playing bo and sai, a game of chance played by casting dice. Their activities differed, but they lost their sheep equally. The character for “good” is formed from “speech” and “sheep,” and the character for “beautiful” from “sheep” and “great”; these forms do carry meaning. That is why Zhuangzi uses the loss of sheep as a metaphor for losing the Great Dao.

Bo Yi died beneath Mount Shouyang for the sake of his reputation; Robber Zhi died atop Dongling for the sake of profit. They died for different things, but both ruined their lives and harmed their nature. Why insist that Bo Yi was right and Robber Zhi wrong? Everyone in the world “sacrifices themselves”—to die in order to follow something is called sacrifice. If what one sacrifices oneself for is benevolence and righteousness, popular opinion calls one a gentleman; if it is wealth, popular opinion calls one a petty person. The sacrifice is the same. Among both gentlemen and petty people, why must Bo Yi be right and Robber Zhi wrong? In matters of human nature, one should not sacrifice oneself for any particular thing. Bo Yi sacrificed his share of nature for the thought of “goodness,” unable to force his resolve to change; Robber Zhi died for profit, unable to force his own nature to yield.

Everyone in the world sacrifices themselves: those who sacrifice themselves for benevolence and righteousness are called gentlemen by convention; those who do so for wealth are called petty people. Their sacrifice is one and the same.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

If a person single-mindedly destroys life and damages their inborn nature, then Robber Zhi and Bo Yi are no different. Why insist on ranking the gentleman above the petty person? (The “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” places Bo Yi and Robber Zhi side by side not to praise Zhi or disparage Yi, but to lament that Yi, though famed as a worthy man, still harmed his body and damaged his nature. Setting Zhi against Yi does not elevate Zhi; it urges people to reclaim the life they have already damaged and the nature they have already impaired. In this respect, the sage and the madman alike reach the end of their course. Should those who read the Nanhua not seek out immortal masters and Daoist companions, and learn how to preserve life and protect their nature?)

Furthermore, to bind one’s nature to “benevolence and righteousness”—even if one masters them as Zeng Shen and Shi Yu did—is not what I mean by “good” (being truly whole). To bind one’s nature to the five flavors—even if one can distinguish tastes with uncanny precision, as Yi Ya could (also known as Yu’er, said to have lived in the time of the Yellow Emperor and to have been able to distinguish the waters of the Zi and Mian rivers)—is not what I mean by good. To bind one’s nature to the five tones—even if one understands music as thoroughly as Shi Kuang—is not what I mean by “acute hearing.” To bind one’s nature to the five colors—even if one’s eyesight surpasses that of Li Zhu—is not what I mean by “clear vision.”

By “good,” I do not mean the system of established teachings built around benevolence and righteousness. I mean simply a Virtue that is whole and naturally formed, undivided and constant. Nor do I mean praising benevolence and righteousness; I mean simply following the inborn course of one’s nature and life, without sacrificing oneself to things outside oneself and losing one’s true self.

By “acute hearing,” I do not mean hearing the sounds of external things; I mean simply hearing oneself. By “clear vision,” I do not mean seeing the forms of external things; I mean simply seeing oneself clearly. If you do not see yourself clearly but look toward other things, and do not keep what is your own but seek it elsewhere, you acquire what others have acquired without finding the true feeling of your own nature and life. You fit yourself to what others fit themselves to, without finding the ease of being at home in yourself. (To fit oneself to others is a clever stratagem: intervening in worldly affairs to please them. To be at ease in oneself is to feel open and untroubled, at home wherever one goes.) If you can only fit yourself to another’s ease and cannot be at ease in your own way, then the conduct of Robber Zhi and Bo Yi is equally perverse. (What Chan Buddhism calls a mad dog chasing a clod, or an illusory flower producing yet another illusory fruit, is this “other.” What Confucianism calls silently understanding and silently accomplishing, grasping without words, is this “self.”)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Interpretation

In “finding one’s own satisfaction and fitting one’s own nature,” yin means excessive or going too far, while pi means extreme or stubbornly one-sided.

When Zhuangzi says, “I am ashamed before Dao and De,” he does not mean that he truly lacks virtue. Zhuangzi and Laozi realized Dao and De at the highest level. The word “ashamed” reflects Zhuangzi’s view that the Great Dao need not be called “Dao,” and great De need not be proclaimed as “De.” Once they are deliberately advertised, they become outward forms. So, at the higher level, one should not tie one’s principles for living to the doctrines of benevolence, righteousness, and social convention. Benevolence and righteousness are often regarded as offshoots or growths added onto Dao and De; hence the saying, “At the higher level, one does not dare make benevolence and righteousness one’s code of conduct.” At the lower level, one should also avoid indulging in extreme and excessive behavior. Here, yin and pi mean going too far and becoming too one-sided. Clinging only to “what one gains” or “what suits one” is a way of acting rejected by Zhuangzi and Laozi.

What, then, should one really do? Draw hearing back within to become truly perceptive, and turn the gaze inward to become truly clear-sighted. Ultimately, this means preserving the original truth of one’s nature and life. With nature and life preserved, one can find satisfaction and fit one’s nature wherever one goes.

Fu Guizi says: This chapter takes Dao and De as its guiding principle, nature and life as its foundation, and non-addition and non-subtraction as their original condition. Benevolence and righteousness are like fused toes, extra fingers, attached growths, and hanging warts. Why is this so? Only after the Great Dao declined did benevolence and righteousness become prominent; when they flourish excessively, it often means that Dao and De have been diluted. To cast off benevolence and righteousness and return to Dao and De, one should do as Zhuangzi says: shut the eyes of Li Zhu, so people are not harmed by excessive sight; stop up the ears of Shi Kuang, so they are not harmed by excessive hearing; and halt the conduct of Zengzi and Shi Qiu, so people can preserve their Dao and De. In my view, these were rules laid down by the ancients. One should also stop up the mouths of Yang Zhu and Mozi, allowing people to roam in the realm of “mysterious sameness,” where “the purest seems tarnished, and abundant De seems insufficient.”

Those who are upright and proper do not lose the true condition of their nature and life—but how difficult this is to achieve! “Upright” means correct, grounded in the root. The Wuzhen pian says: In learning the art of immortality, one should aim to become a celestial immortal; the most proper path is the Golden Elixir, a method for perfecting one’s nature and preserving one’s life. Those who seek longevity while abandoning the Golden Elixir mostly follow side paths. Since these are not the upright path, how could they avoid losing the true condition of nature and life? This upright way can be joined, but its parts should not be forced together like fused toes; it can branch, but should not split into divergent paths. It may be long or short; there is no need to lengthen a foot. It has no excess growths that need to be cut off. Practicing benevolence and righteousness while burdened with worries resembles “cutting a crane’s legs short to lengthen them, or shortening a duck’s legs.”

From the Three Dynasties onward, some people altered their original nature by removing the tools of rule and measure, and encroached upon their inherent De by discarding cords, restraints, glue, and lacquer. Given the circumstances, they felt they had no choice but to do so, and thus lost what was natural. Yet to want to abolish ritual, music, benevolence, and righteousness is another level of difficulty. (This passage appears to be incomplete in the original; the translation stops where the supplied classical text ends.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain-Language Interpretation

People may not readily believe that one should gladly cast aside benevolence and righteousness. The Elixir Classics (texts on Daoist internal alchemy) say that living until the day one dies is called “impermanence.” What is called the “constant” (one’s original, unchanging state) means long life—that is, the Golden Elixir.

The Golden Elixir can bend or straighten, be round or square, firm or pliant. It can make a person “live,” yet people do not know where this life comes from. Everyone can obtain it, yet no one knows where to find it. Thus, through past and present, there is only one unchanging principle: the Golden Elixir. Pure Yang must not suffer the slightest loss; even a small loss means it is no longer “undivided.”

Those with minor delusions can still be guided back from their mistaken path through techniques and have their original nature restored. Those with profound delusions may never understand in their whole lives. Tell them of the Great Dao of the Golden Elixir and they will surely disbelieve it, abandoning even the constant nature they already possess. How could they avoid losing their original nature?

The True Person (one who has attained the Dao) honors life and preserves their nature, forgetting gain, fame, family, and the world; thus they do not lose their constant state. Ordinary people harbor the intention to “sacrifice themselves” for external things: for gain, fame, family, or the world. What they sacrifice themselves for may differ, but the damage to their nature is the same—just as studying and gambling are different, yet both can lead to “losing the sheep.” Dying for fame and dying for gain are different, but the hermit Yi and the bandit Zhi both harmed their lives and damaged their nature.

Zeng Shen and Shi Yu regarded benevolence and righteousness as virtues; Yu’er regarded the five flavors as delicious. Shi Kuang and Li Zhu took sound and color as the measure of keen perception. The True Person has their own genuine sense of good and bad, found not in benevolence, righteousness, or the five flavors, but in De and the life and nature. True hearing and true seeing do not depend on listening to or looking at external things, but on hearing and seeing within oneself. What does it mean to hear and see within? It means turning one’s hearing inward and looking within.

Though the Golden Elixir seems to come from outside, in truth the true Yang of the Li Palace (the heart, associated with Fire) enters the Kan Palace (the kidneys, associated with Water). The True Person borrows the prenatal mother Qi to subdue the child Qi within their own body. This is gaining what “I” gain, not gaining what “another” gains. Once the Golden Elixir is attained, wings for ascent arise of themselves, allowing one to travel by morning to the Northern Sea and by evening to Cangwu. This is finding one’s own contentment in what suits oneself. Those who gain what “another” gains and find contentment in what suits “another” can never gain for themselves what is theirs to gain, or find contentment in what suits them.

Therefore, one should not presume to uphold benevolence and righteousness, lest they become superfluous branches and burdensome appendages; nor should one descend into debased conduct, lest one meet the same end as those who die for fame and gain. The gentleman says: when Dao and De are lost, benevolence and righteousness arise; when benevolence and righteousness are absent, debased conduct must follow. This is the teaching of Zhuangzi and Laozi.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain-Language Interpretation

Even if one does not claim to embody “the Way and Virtue,” one should still understand that benevolence and righteousness stand at one extreme, while reckless indulgence in what is perverse stands at the other. If one dares not practice benevolence and righteousness, one is bound to turn toward such indulgence; if one dares not indulge in what is perverse, one is bound to practice benevolence and righteousness. There is no one in the world who practices neither benevolence and righteousness nor reckless indulgence in what is perverse, yet remains balanced in the middle. Zhuangzi and Laozi clearly dwelt within “the Way and Virtue,” keeping to the proper path of their nature and life. Looking down on those in the world who constrain themselves and imagine they are practicing benevolence and righteousness, they would surely have found them terribly base.

---

Outer Chapters: “Horses’ Hooves,” Chapter Nine

(This passage uses the example of taming horses through clever techniques and thereby making them lose their innate nature, to introduce the idea that governing people through benevolence and righteousness instead opens the way to rivalry for profit and causes people to lose their innate nature.)

A horse’s hooves can tread on frost and snow, its coat can ward off wind and cold, and it can graze and drink water. At times it stands on solid ground, lifting one foot. This is the horse’s true nature. Even if there were a ceremonial terrace and a great hall—the palaces of a ruler—they would be of no use to a horse. (This is a metaphor for people following their true nature and not longing for high status or fame.)

Then Bole said, “I am skilled at managing horses.” (Bole was the name of a celestial star associated with heavenly horses. Sun Yang was skilled at handling horses, so he was given this name.) He burned their hooves, trimmed their hair, cut their flesh, and branded them (using iron to burn, knives to trim and cut, and fire to brand their hooves and legs). He bound them with headgear and hobbles (the headgear went around the head, the hobbles around the feet), then penned them together in stalls and stables. Two or three out of every ten horses died. Then he starved and thirsted them, made them gallop and race, and arranged them in orderly ranks. They faced the discomfort of bits and bridles at the front and the threat of whips and spurs from behind; more than half of them died. (This is a metaphor for people who, longing for prestige and glory, lose their true nature. The nature of things in the world follows its own constant course. Those who find ease in what suits them can nurture life and live out their years; deliberate “management” only makes things worse. To regard “management” as good is itself not good.)

The potter (the person who fires clay in a kiln) says, “I am skilled at working clay.” He makes round things to fit the compass and square things to fit the carpenter’s square. The carpenter says, “I am skilled at working wood.” He makes curves to fit a template and straight pieces to fit the ink line. Is it the nature of clay and wood to conform to the compass, template, square, and ink line? Yet generation after generation praises Bole for his skill at managing horses, and potters and carpenters for their skill at working clay and wood. Once horses, clay, and wood have lost their true nature, people still think they have been well managed. Is this not a grave mistake?

(The general point of the commentarial notes is to oppose forcibly reshaping people through external rules and the doctrines of benevolence, righteousness, and moral instruction. Instead, they advocate following things’ “constant nature” and “true nature.” This continues the chapter’s wider criticism of how the “Sages” govern the world and open the way to rivalry for profit.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

An Accessible Interpretation of the Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence

People praise Bo Le for being skilled at training horses and potters for being skilled at kneading clay. These, too, are mistakes of the same kind as “governing the world.” (Clay placed in a mold and wood straightened with a hook and line are not in their original states. If earth and wood had no awareness, they would let others knead and cut them; if they had awareness, they would surely regard kneading and carving as injury. The same applies when judging the nature of horses. Yet people praise “Bo Le for being good at managing horses, and potters for being good at shaping clay and wood.” This is like rulers who harm the people’s nature and then call it “good governance.”)

I believe that those truly skilled at governing the world would not act this way. The people have a constant nature: weaving cloth and wearing clothes, farming and eating—this is called “shared De” (all receiving their endowment from the Dao of Heaven). Being one body without partiality (even and unified, without bias) is called “natural freedom” (being open and at ease within what is natural, akin to the workings of Heaven, the balance of Heaven, and roaming with Heaven).

Thus, in the age of highest De, people walked with steady, grounded steps, and their gaze was calm and peaceful. There were no paths on the mountains, and no boats or bridges across the waters (land and water remained unconnected, a metaphor for having no alternative routes or contrivances). All things lived together in groups and were joined in their dwelling places; birds and beasts gathered in herds, and plants grew luxuriantly (all living beings found their proper place). So animals could be tethered and still roam freely, and one could climb up to peer into a magpie’s nest (people and things had forgotten one another). In the age of highest De, people lived alongside birds and beasts and stood among all things. How could anyone distinguish noble people from commoners? When all were equally without knowledge, their De did not scatter; when all were equally without private desires, this was called “unadorned simplicity” (as soon as desires stir, ornamentation proliferates). With unadorned simplicity, the people’s nature remained whole.

Only when sages forced themselves to tiptoe in practicing benevolence and lift their legs in practicing righteousness did the world begin to grow suspicious. Only when they indulged in making music and bent themselves to practice ritual did the world begin to divide. (Suspicion and division give rise to factions and a loss of unity; when unity is lost, the Great Simplicity scatters. That is why the text below says that simplicity remains whole and unbroken, and so on.) If simplicity were not damaged, who would carve it into a sacrificial vessel? If white jade were not destroyed, who would polish it into a jade tablet? If the Dao and De were not abandoned, what need would there be for benevolence and righteousness? If true nature were not lost, what need would there be for ritual and music?

(The following passage can be translated from the relevant edition if the original post is incomplete.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

When colors are not jumbled, where do patterns come from? When the five notes are not jumbled, how can the six pitch standards harmonize?

Cutting and shaping plain timber into implements is the carpenter’s offense; twisting the natural Way and remaking it as benevolence and righteousness is the sage’s fault.

(The commentator says: This passage is full of dazzling claims, leaving those who have never heard of the Dao struggling to keep up. But seen through the eyes of the Dao, Zhuangzi is recalling the ancient age and wandering in spirit amid its pure and gentle customs: the Great Uncarved Simplicity remained untouched; people played games by striking the earth and beating drums of clay; they drank from rough cups and bowls; ritual and music had not yet arisen, and ornamentation had not yet appeared. How could carved wine vessels or jade tablets have come into being? And where did the five colors and five notes come from? In the age of the Three Sovereigns, there was only Dao and De, not benevolence and righteousness. By the time of the Five Emperors, civilization had become unavoidable. Once it began, the sages damaged Dao and De by turning them into benevolence and righteousness. Thus arose the matters involving carved wine vessels and the six things that follow, along with endless refinements of technique. All of the above are examples of human artifice rather than nature. “The carpenter’s offense, the sage’s fault” sums up what came before; the following passage develops the point by using horses as an analogy.)

---

Horses graze and drink on dry land. When pleased, they rub their necks together; when angry, they turn their backs and kick. Such is no more than the natural disposition of horses.

But once crossbars and yokes are fitted to them, and crescent-shaped ornaments placed on their foreheads, horses learn to resist and roll their eyes. They bend their necks against the bit, grow fierce, refuse restraint and charge about, pretend to accept the bit, and secretly chew through the reins. In this way they learn to steal. This is all the fault of Bole.

---

In the age of the clan of Hexu, people stayed at home without knowing what they ought to do, and walked along the roads without knowing where they were going. They played as they ate, patting their bellies as they wandered about. People could simply live this way.

Then the sages appeared. They bent ritual and music to correct the world’s outward forms, and held up benevolence and righteousness to comfort people’s hearts. Only then did the people begin to stretch up on tiptoe, flaunt themselves, and compete in the pursuit of cleverness—just as horses learned to cheat and secretly chew through their reins.

---

Key points:

Analogy	Natural state	After human alteration
Timber	Great Uncarved Simplicity, untouched	The carpenter cuts and shapes it into implements
Dao and De	Eating to their fill and patting their bellies	The sages create benevolence, righteousness, and ritual and music
Horses	Grazing and rubbing necks	Fitted with crossbars and yokes, they learn to cheat and secretly chew through the reins

The central point of the passage is that the ancient world was naturally simple and unspoiled, while the sages’ “civilization” actually damaged nature. This line of thought follows the same thread as Laozi’s call to “abandon sagehood and discard cleverness.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

(Commentary): “Do not stop at pursuing gain” (to prize cleverness and compete for profit is a path to losing both one’s life and one’s reputation)—this too is a failing of the sage. The word “failing” gathers up the three uses of “failing” in the whole text, echoing from beginning to end.

Fuguizi says: Though human beings and horses have different natures, the way of tending people and tending horses is the same. So in Bole’s time, one can only say that people “recognized horses,” not that they “knew how to care for horses.” I observe that in those days there were many methods: branding, trimming, carving, fitting with harnesses, bridling, hobbling, and confining in stalls. Yet horses often starved to death. Even with the threats of hunger and thirst, hard driving, strict regimentation, and the whip all brought to bear, most horses still died. How is this any different from potters boasting that they “know how to work clay,” shaping it to fit the compass when round and the square when square? Or from craftsmen boasting that they “know how to work wood,” making curves fit the hook and straight lines fit the cord? They do not understand that once the compass and square, hook and cord, are applied, the natures of clay and wood have already been cut apart.

Those who govern the people today lay dense nets of law and devise clever ways to make people comply or evade, yet still think they govern well. They do not realize that they are, in fact, “carving away the people’s nature” on a large scale. Those who govern well understand that weaving clothes and tilling fields for food are the people’s natural ways, and that “being one and not factional” is what Heaven allows. I imagine the age of utmost De: the people acted simply and looked with an unfocused gaze; no paths or tunnels crossed the mountains, and no boats or bridges spanned the marshes. Birds and beasts gathered in flocks, and plants grew freely to their full height. Animals could be tethered and led about without harming people, and people could climb up to peer at birds’ nests without harming the creatures. People lived alongside birds and beasts, and communities dwelt together with all things. Everyone under Heaven was a gentleman, yet no one knew the term “gentleman”; there were no petty people under Heaven, and no one knew the term “petty person.” Because they knew nothing, they had De; because they were free of desire, they were unadorned and simple. In that simplicity, the people’s nature was fulfilled.

Those who govern the world could still follow this way today. Why, then, do sages impose benevolence and righteousness on the world, so that people’s hearts begin to doubt? Why impose ritual and music, so that people’s hearts begin to divide? Doubt and division scatter the Great Simplicity. When simplicity is scattered, things become implements. Everyone knows that sacrificial vessels and jade tablets lend splendor to ancestral temples, but who knows that the pure and simple have been broken apart, and the white jade ruined, to the sorrow of the wise? Everyone knows that benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music serve the whole people, but who knows that they cast aside the Dao and De and part people from their nature and feelings, to the lament of the perfected?

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

“The Vaulting Open,” Chapter 10 of the Outer Chapters of the True Classic of Southern Florescence: A Plain-Language Reading

Most people know that beautiful patterns delight the eye and the six musical pitches please the ear. But who understands that muddling the five colors and confusing the five tones are precisely the harm caused by what is called “vulgarity at its worst”? Some say, “Without artisans, the natural simplicity of things would never be carved away; without sages, morality would never be corrupted.” Both remarks are sarcastic. Still, I cannot help explaining more fully the faults of the sage. To understand whether the sage’s faults in governing people belong to the same category as Bo Le’s faults in training horses, we must look more closely.

Bo Le knew that grazing and drinking were the horse’s nature. He also knew that horses rub their necks together when happy and glare and kick when angry—these are their natural ways. Yet he imposed harnesses, collars, bits, and reins on them. He relied on his skill at taming them, so that people would call them fine horses even when they had not been tamed willingly. That was Bo Le’s fault.

Such things would not even have been spoken of in the age of Hexu. What were the people like then? At home they lived peacefully and forgot scheming; when they acted, they forgot profit and advantage. They played with food in their mouths and wandered with their bellies full—what a splendid state that was! Ritual and music had never disturbed their hearts, and benevolence and righteousness had never stirred their minds. With the Dao and De present, the people’s nature remained whole.

In later ages, sages used ritual and music to correct themselves, but this only stirred the people’s desire for cleverness. They used benevolence and righteousness to settle their own hearts, but this only stirred the people’s drive to compete for gain. As knowledge multiplied, signs of collapse appeared; as the pursuit of profit became common, disaster followed, like earth giving way. Looking back to the age of supreme De, the sage may be called the foremost in achievement, but in truth was the chief culprit.

The main point of the whole passage: Governing the world through sage wisdom gives rise to people who “steal sage wisdom”; governing it through benevolence and righteousness gives rise to people who “steal benevolence and righteousness.” It would be better to discard both. Then thieves would arise no more, and the world could return to its ancient simplicity and sincerity.

To guard against petty thieves prying open chests, rummaging through bags, or opening cabinets, people make sure to tie the ropes tightly, reinforce the bolts, and secure the locks. This is what the world calls “cleverness.” But when a great thief arrives, he carries off the cabinet on his back, shoulders the chest, and runs away with the bag, wishing only that the ropes, bolts, and locks were stronger. What was earlier called “wisdom” has now become a way of storing up wealth for the great thief.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

(That is one way of looking at it.) So let us consider this: among those whom the world calls “clever,” is there no one who helps a great thief amass wealth? Among those whom the world calls “sages,” is there no one who guards a great thief’s wealth? (The point is that the ingenuity and virtue admired by the world often become tools for great thieves. A true sage, a truly great intelligence, should not be used this way.)

How can we know? In ancient Qi, its cities stood within sight of one another, and the crowing of roosters and barking of dogs could be heard across the land. Its fields for farming and hunting stretched more than two thousand li in every direction. Within its borders, ancestral temples were built, altars to the soil and grain were established, and cities, villages, and districts were administered. Was any of this not modeled on the sages? Yet one day Tian Chengzi (Chen Heng, a minister of Qi) killed the ruler of Qi, Duke Jian, and seized the state for himself, making the territory from east of Anyi to Langya his fief. Was the land all he stole? He stole the sages’ laws along with it. (In Qi, the official measure was large and the private measure small. Tian Cheng lent grain to the people using the smaller measure and collected it for the state using the larger one. He used the sages’ wise methods to serve his private ambition to seize the state: in the name of sage wisdom, he acted as a thief.) Thus Tian Chengzi, though named a thief, enjoyed a security like that of Yao and Shun. (He used the sages’ laws to carry out a thief’s schemes.) Small states did not dare criticize him, and great states did not dare attack him. For twelve generations, his descendants held Qi. (From Tian Jingzhong to King Wei of Qi, the line lasted twelve generations.) Did he not steal Qi, then use the sages’ laws and wisdom to protect his own position as a thief? (The usurpation of Qi by the Tian family and the use of cleverness by Robber Zhi both arose from laws established by the sages.)

Let us consider this further: among those whom the world calls “supremely wise,” is there no one who helps a great thief amass wealth? Among those it calls “supremely sage,” is there no one who guards a great thief’s wealth? (Adding “supreme” to wisdom and sagehood takes the argument a step further.) How can we know? In ancient times, Long Feng was killed by Jie; Bi Gan had his heart cut out by Zhou; Chang Hong was torn apart (the character is pronounced chi, meaning to rend; another account says he was disemboweled. He was a worthy minister of King Ling of Zhou); and Wu Zixu was cut into pieces (the character is pronounced mi. King Fuchai of Wu gave him a sword and ordered him to die, then had his remains cast into the river). Do not the clear insights of these four show that even the laws of supreme wisdom and sagehood can be taken up and used by great thieves?

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Even someone regarded as worthy and capable may still be unable to escape a violent death: the worthy cannot rely on their own virtue. Those who secretly make use of the “Way of the sages” often turn it to private advantage. So the disciples of Robber Zhi asked him, “Is there a code, a ‘Way,’ even for being a bandit?”

Robber Zhi replied, “Where could you go and find no Way? Guessing where valuables are hidden in a house is called ‘sagacity’; going in first during a raid is called ‘courage’; staying behind to cover the retreat is called ‘righteousness’; judging whether a robbery will succeed is called ‘discernment’; and dividing the spoils fairly is called ‘benevolence.’ Without all five, no one can become the leader of a band of great thieves. I have never seen anyone lacking one of these five virtues command a gang of robbers.”

It follows that a good person cannot stand without the Way of the sages, and Robber Zhi could not run rampant without it either. Good people are few in the world, while bad people are many. The sages bring the world little benefit and much harm. The sages’ Way may not itself be intended to harm anyone, but when a great thief puts it to use, it becomes a source of harm.

That is why people say, “When the lips are gone, the teeth grow cold,” and also, “Lu’s wine was weak, so Handan was besieged.” (Chu attacked Lu, using the weakness of its wine as a pretext; Liang attacked Zhao because Lu was unable to come to its aid.) Whenever a sage appears, a great thief follows. Some then say: “Eliminate the sages and spare the robbers, and the world will be at peace.” This is a sweeping generalization. If the world had no system of names and teachings established by the sages, Robber Zhi would not recognize the “Way” and could not steal the “five virtues” to use as a resource for banditry. This does not mean that the sages should truly be abolished and robbers allowed to go free. The same principle applies to all petty people who use respectable pretexts for private gain.

When rivers dry up, valleys seem empty; when hills are leveled, deep pools seem full. (Guo Xiang comments: This is not about deliberately draining rivers to empty valleys, or leveling hills to fill deep pools. It is a metaphor: the sages’ laws were not made for robbers, yet they end up serving as a resource for them.) Once the sages die, great thieves no longer arise, and the world is at peace. The way to stop theft is to remove desire, not to conceal the wisdom of the sages. When sages live, thieves arise; when sages die, theft stops. This means that great thieves can use the proper laws to satisfy their private desires; the same is true of petty people who seek profit. If the sages do not die, great thieves will not stop. Even if the sages are honored with the greatest reverence and their Way is used to govern the world, this merely gives Robber Zhi another useful “advantage.” Xiang Xiu says: “‘The sages do not die’ means clinging to old rules and failing to renew them day by day. Is it not only natural, then, that ‘great thieves do not stop’?”

Set up measures and bushels to measure grain for the world, and thieves will steal the measures and bushels too. Every rule that is established gives rise to a new kind of wrongdoing. What follows explains that even a good law cannot produce good results when it falls into the wrong hands.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This passage comes from a commentary on the Zhuangzi. It says that the rules people establish for society end up giving “great thieves” something to steal.

If laws are made to restrain people, great thieves will steal the laws and make them their own. If scales and weights are devised to measure fairly, they will steal the scales and weights too. If tallies and seals are carved to establish trust—tallies being tokens of agreement, often made of bamboo in ancient times and later of bronze, with each party holding one half, and seals being imperial stamps—they will steal the tallies and seals as well. If benevolence and righteousness are used to reform people’s hearts, they will steal their names and institutions too. How can we tell? A person who steals a small hook from someone’s belt can still be executed by the authorities according to the law. But a person who steals an entire state becomes a feudal lord. Yet the lords’ gates are still hung with signs of benevolence and righteousness. Is this not stealing benevolence and righteousness, along with sage wisdom? Having stolen the state, the lords then use benevolence and righteousness to protect it. So everyone goes to follow the “great thieves,” who openly borrow the names of benevolence and righteousness and steal the practical gains brought by measures of capacity, scales and weights, tallies, and seals. Such people care only about gain and loss; neither rewards nor punishments can change their resolve. Even the prospect of high office and fine robes cannot persuade them to stop, and the threat of axe and executioner’s blade cannot restrain them. This is to place great profit on the side of Robber Zhi, the legendary bandit; the desire to steal then cannot be suppressed. This may be called the sages’ failure in establishing laws.

Therefore it is said: fish cannot live apart from the depths; the state’s sharp instruments—its laws, methods of power, and the like—must not be displayed lightly. The commentator adds that this passage may refer specifically to “sage wisdom,” rather than to sages in general. When sages establish laws that people then steal, the root of the problem is that they should not have displayed the sharp instruments. Once the world knows the advantages these instruments offer, even devising ways to make people ignorant cannot stop them.

So abolish sagehood and discard wisdom, and great thieves will cease. Cast away pearls and jade, and petty thieves will not arise. Burn the tallies and break the seals, and the people will become simple and uncontrived. Destroy the measures and snap the scales, and the people will no longer contend. Abolish all the so-called sagely laws in the world, and the people will be able to discuss matters with one another on equal terms.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

(Lu Xixing says: This is a way of blocking off and cutting away the sources of disorder for all under Heaven. “Eliminate the sages and discard wisdom” and “eliminate benevolence and discard righteousness” both come from Laozi. He also says, “Do not prize rare and precious goods, and the people will not become thieves.” “Exhaust and remove” means to get rid of something completely. Only when the laws and standards handed down by sages have been entirely removed can the people return to simplicity; only then can one speak with them about the Dao. In general, such words should not be discussed in detail with ordinary scholars who cling to a narrow view.)

Pull out the Six Pitch Pipes (which disturb the people), melt down the yu and se zithers, and stop up the ears of Shi Kuang, the famous musician of antiquity; only then can people everywhere each preserve their inborn acuity. Erase patterns and colors, scatter the five hues, and glue shut the eyes of Li Zhu, the legendary sharp-sighted man; only then can people everywhere each preserve their inborn discernment. Destroy the hooks and lines used to measure curves and lengths, cast aside the compass and square, and break the fingers of Gong Chui, the legendary master craftsman; only then can people everywhere each preserve their inborn skill. Thus it is said, “The greatest skill seems clumsy.” Though this speaks from the perspective of skill, it also implies much more.

Erase the deeds of Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, renowned for their virtue, and clamp shut the tongues of Yang Zhu and Mo Di, debaters of the Warring States period. Cast aside the names of benevolence and righteousness, and the virtue of all under Heaven can return to mysterious unity. If people each preserve their discernment, the world will not be consumed by glitter; if they each preserve their acuity, the world will not be burdened by external things; if they each preserve their wisdom, the world will not be confused; if they each preserve their virtue, the world will not become crooked. Zeng, Shi, Yang, Mo, Shi Kuang, Gong Chui, and Li Zhu all established an external standard of “virtue” and used it to disturb the world. (“Yue” is pronounced like “yue”: it is like the searing, smoky glare of fire, which agitates and confuses.) These people showed off their skills and led everyone to compete to imitate them. People inevitably lost their original selves, and these figures became the chief causes of disorder in the world. From the standpoint of what the laws and standards are meant to do, all this is useless. Their purpose is simply to ensure that eyes can see, ears can hear, hands can work, wisdom can know, and virtue can be attained. Why establish things beyond people’s natural capacities, making everyone chase after them without being able to return to themselves?

Do you not know the age of utmost virtue? (The text lists ancient rulers who governed through Wuwei, using antiquity to criticize the present for failing to do so.) In ancient times there were Rongcheng Shi, Datting Shi, Bohuang Shi, Zhongyang Shi, Lilu Shi, Lixu Shi, Xuanyuan Shi, Hexu Shi, Zunlu Shi, Zhurong Shi…

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

In the time of Fuxi and Shennong, people recorded events by tying knots. Their food was delicious and their clothes beautiful; they were content with their customs and happy in their homes. Neighboring states could see one another, and the sounds of their chickens and dogs could be heard across the borders, yet people grew old and died without visiting one another. (From “people recorded events by tying knots” through this passage are Laozi’s words.) That was an age of perfect order.

Today, people stretch their necks and rise onto their toes to say, “There is a worthy person over there,” then shoulder provisions and hurry off to find them—a veiled reference to the followers of Confucius and Mencius, as well as Su Qin and Zhang Yi. They abandon their families at home and leave their rulers abroad; their footsteps reach the borders of the feudal states, and their carriage tracks extend for a thousand miles. This is the fault of those in power, who delight in clever schemes. If those in power truly delight in clever schemes and lack the Dao (the Way)—for delighting in clever schemes is contrary to the natural Way, and so is called “lacking the Way”—then the world will fall into great disorder: high and low will contend, short and long will be set against one another, and the world will grow ever more troubled.

How do we know this is so? When there are too many clever devices for bows, crossbows, bird nets, and spring traps, birds are thrown into confusion above. When there are too many clever devices involving hooks, bait, nets, and bamboo fish traps, fish are thrown into confusion in the water. When there are too many clever devices involving sharpened stakes used with nets, hand nets, snares, and falling nets, animals are thrown into confusion in the marshes.

As cleverness, deceit, accumulated malice, slippery sophistry, arguments that insist that hardness is whiteness, distinctions that disentangle disputes as dirt is shed, and debates that make sameness out of difference multiply—all ideas found in the writings of Gongsun Long—ordinary people become confused by argument. Thus the world is repeatedly thrown into great disorder, and the fault lies in delighting in clever schemes.

So everyone in the world knows to seek what they do not know—pursuing what lies outside themselves in search of the unusual—but they do not know to seek what they already know, what comes naturally and is easy to understand. Everyone knows to reject what they consider bad in others, but they do not know to reject what they themselves have already judged to be good; they do not see that what they affirm in themselves may also be wrong. Therefore…

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Great Disorder—the calamity brought about by the fashion for disputing names and analyzing principles, as in “gliding and slippery,” “hard and white,” “separating and blemishing,” and “sameness and difference”—obscures the light of the sun and moon above, exhausts the vitality of mountains and rivers below, and disrupts the proper transformations of the four seasons in between. Even creatures that breathe faintly and move softly, like snails, and those that flutter and fly, like butterflies and moths, can no longer each keep to their own nature. People delight in knowledge and compete to display clever devices, throwing the world into confusion. Matters have reached this point! This has been the state of things ever since the Three Dynasties.

Look at the state of the world from the time of the Three Dynasties down through the Spring and Autumn and Warring States periods. How can we not grieve over the present and long for antiquity?

People abandon the simple, unknowing folk who are content with their own nature, and instead draw close to sycophants who rush about seeking favor—going east when others go east, and nodding when others nod. They abandon quietude and Wuwei (non-action), and instead delight in ceaseless talk. As an old saying goes: “Many affairs breed resentment; many words diminish De (Virtue/Power).” Rushing about to curry favor means many affairs; ceaseless talk means many words. Such talk has already thrown the world into confusion. (The six sentences from “People abandon the simple folk” to this point bring the main argument of the whole passage to its conclusion.)

Fuguizi says: Zhuangzi and Laozi lamented the decline of De and the weakening of moral instruction. Seeing that people had already been carved and polished, they wanted them to return to simplicity. They developed the meaning of Laozi’s words: “Abandon sageliness and discard wisdom, and the people will benefit a hundredfold; abandon benevolence and discard righteousness, and the people will return to filial piety and compassion; abandon cleverness and discard profit, and thieves and robbers will disappear.” What they grieved over was that those who governed the world could not make the feelings of the world common to all through the Dao (the Way). Instead, everyone rushed about for profit and hurried after gain. On a small scale, there were thieves who pried open boxes and searched bags, and broke open chests and cabinets. On a large scale, there were thieves who carried off chests and trunks and made off with whole bags. Why? What the common world calls “sageliness and wisdom” often serves as a resource for great thieves; the sageliness and wisdom of a True Person is different. A great thief who steals goods is still a small matter. There are also those who steal states: Tian Chengzi not only stole the land to enjoy its benefits, but also stole the so-called laws of sageliness and wisdom to preserve his state. Long Feng, Bi Gan, Chang Hong, and Wu Zixu were all renowned for sageliness and wisdom, yet that reputation led to their deaths. Robber Zhi had no such reputation, but he appropriated the names of benevolence, righteousness, sageliness, wisdom, and courage—the “Five Virtues”—and used them for himself.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Virtue is used to bring great thieves to success. Here, “the sages” are taken up by good people to accomplish their own goodness, and by bad people to fulfill their own wickedness. When good people are few and bad people many, the sages bring little benefit to the world and much harm. Hence the saying, “When the lips are gone, the teeth grow cold.” From cases such as the weak wine of Lu bringing about the siege of Handan, and the relationship between lips and teeth, or Lu and Zhao, people know only that the sages meant to reform thieves. They do not realize that the laws established by the sages instead give rise to great thieves.

In the declining age, the net of laws is too dense. Some dissect and attack the sages’ laws, hoping to emulate Heaven’s net, which is wide-meshed yet lets nothing slip through. In the declining age, thieves gather in bands. Some indulge them and pardon their crimes, hoping to revive the ancient custom of opening nets and freeing captured creatures. When the true river dries up, the valleys empty of their own accord; when the hills are leveled, the deep pools fill of their own accord. If the sages’ laws were dead and no longer in use, great thieves would have nothing to steal. If those laws remain in force, great thieves will come to seize them. Once seizure begins, the more laws the sages make, the more Zhi the Robber—a legendary great thief—can use them as an excuse and a topic of conversation.

Whenever a law is established, a new fraud arises. Measures of capacity and weight, tallies and seals, benevolence and righteousness were all devised by the sages to guard against deception in the world. Yet great thieves dress themselves up in all of them, using them to conceal the true and present the false as right. A person who steals a hook may be executed, while one who steals a state escapes execution. What, then, of those who steal benevolence, righteousness, sagacity, and wisdom from the gates of the feudal lords? This is not so only in Qi: throughout the four seas and nine provinces, rule passes from one surname to another; the fiefs are divided and bestowed, and there is never just one ruler. Surely those who pursue great theft and seize states stand shoulder to shoulder. Neither noble robes and carriages can encourage people to do good, nor axes and halberds prevent them from doing evil. Hence the saying: “Fish must not be taken from the deep pools; the state’s sharp instruments must not be shown to people.”

To return to the beginning of Heaven and Earth, the state must have no chiefs or leaders. Therefore, sages and wisdom must be cast aside, and great thieves will cease. The people must have no cravings or desires; therefore, jade must be discarded and pearls destroyed, and petty theft will not arise. Customs must be free of doubt and false trust; therefore, tallies must be burned and seals broken, and the people will be simple and unadorned. At that time, the natural simplicity has not yet been damaged to make implements; therefore, measures must be smashed and scales broken, and people will not contend. Their way of life knows no fear or taboo; therefore, every law of the sages must be utterly destroyed, and only then can people discuss matters together.

Better to block Master Kuang’s ears, seeking to return to hearing. If I turn my hearing inward, then all under Heaven can hold their sense of hearing within and avoid being burdened by it. Better to glue shut Li Zhu’s eyes, seeking to look within. If I look inward, then all under Heaven can hold their sight within and cease to chase after things outside. The following passage continues with proposals such as “cast aside sages and wisdom,” meaning that only by removing the “laws” and instruments of authority established by the sages can theft be stopped and simplicity restored.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

If I turn my gaze inward, people everywhere will each preserve their inner brightness, no longer worn down by external things. It will be as though the master craftsman Chui no longer extends an extra finger to perform useless tasks and thereby harms what is truly beneficial. People will retain their own skills without being deceived by artifice. Strip away the deliberate displays of benevolence and righteousness associated with Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, silence the arguments of Yang Zhu and Mo Di, and abandon the man-made doctrines of “benevolence and righteousness”: only then can the virtue of the world return to its original state of mysterious unity.

I still remember the age when De was at its height. From the clan of Rongcheng to the time before the clan of Shennong, twelve sage rulers followed one another, and the custom of recording events by tying knots remained unchanged. People enjoyed wholesome food and fine clothing, lived in peace, and took pleasure in their work. Within each state, one heard only the sounds of chickens and dogs; people had no need to toil on journeys back and forth. Why do people today devote themselves to ceaseless competition, distancing themselves from those they ought to hold dear while drawing close to those they ought to keep at a distance? The feudal lords sweep their mats to welcome persuasive speakers, while advisers arrive in carriages—is this not the fault of those in power, who prize cleverness but have lost the Dao? When cleverness is prized without the Dao, the world gradually falls into great disorder.

As soon as a calculating mind stirs, contrivances arise; once they arise, their harms deepen. Thus came bows and crossbows, fish traps, and bird nets: birds can find no peace in the sky, fish no freedom in the water, beasts no refuge in the marshes, and every crawling creature is robbed of its nature. The wandering persuaders, whose clever words stir people’s hearts, bring harm more grievous than bows and arrows used in the hunt. Why do people everywhere know only to pursue what they do not understand and seek what is remote and mysterious, yet fail to turn back and settle into the clear awareness they already possess? They know how to criticize what they regard as bad, and so fall into recklessness and folly, but they do not know how to examine the “good” they already proclaim—the so-called sage wisdom, benevolence, and righteousness. As a result, baleful influences rise to affect the workings of Heaven and extend down to the insects. In the end, people reject the simple, unknowing common folk and welcome a spirit of ambition and flattery; they cast aside the way of calm, simplicity, and emptiness, and delight in ceaseless talk. Yet such talk is precisely what throws the world into disorder. When will this trend end? If all those who guide the world could devote themselves as the gardener of the lacquer tree did—that is, as Zhuangzi did—what reason would there be to fear that the world could not return to the ways of high antiquity?

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

The Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence

I have only heard of settling the world through “letting things be and granting them forbearance”; I have never heard of governing the world. “Letting things be” means allowing the people to live freely and at ease. “Forbearance” means allowing them, as they are nurtured, to find what suits them. The point is that people have a constant nature. Those in positions of authority should simply let them be free and treat them with forbearance, following their nature. They should not use harsh punishments and regulations to force everyone into uniformity.

The purpose of “letting things be” is to keep people from indulging their nature; anything done to excess is called “dissipation.” The purpose of “forbearance” is to keep people from turning their nature toward external things and thereby altering their De. “Nature” and “De” both refer to the natural order, a point on which Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism can converge. If people neither indulge their nature nor let their De be altered, what need is there to set about “governing” the world? That is why one should not impose the whole apparatus of rule.

In ancient times, when Yao governed the world, he made the people leap with joy and take pleasure as their guiding principle. This was not a state of tranquility: human nature cannot bear the addition of pleasure, for pleasure disturbs its stillness. When Jie governed the world, he made the people utterly weary and take suffering as their guiding principle. This was not a state of ease: human nature cannot bear the addition of suffering, for suffering destroys its ease. Neither tranquil nor at ease, the people could not embody De; yet the rulers still hoped to secure lasting peace. Such a thing is impossible. Joy without tranquility comes from a lack of “letting things be”; weariness without ease comes from a lack of “forbearance.”

Great joy inclines Qi toward Yang; great anger inclines it toward Yin. When Yin and Yang are both thrown out of balance, the seasons no longer arrive in order, and the harmony of cold and heat is lost. This, in turn, harms the body, for disordered weather brings illness. When rulers such as Yao and Jie make people’s joy and anger irregular, their living places unstable, and their thoughts unable to rest, people become anxious from morning to night. Their efforts then falter before they can take shape: they abandon things halfway through, and their work lacks order. Improper weather harms the body; indulgence of nature and displacement of De harm the natural order. At this point, many people have lost their constant nature.

People then begin to chase high and distant aims and put on affected airs—“exaggeration” here means going too far. They become excessively exacting in blaming others and pursue disputes to their limits. They set themselves apart on lofty heights and strike with fierce aggression, like a bird of prey swooping down. Only then do we see conduct like that of Robber Zhi, Zeng, and Shi. Though their actions differ in good and evil, all are people who have lost their true nature and thrown it into disorder. It is only when rulers govern the world that they need to distinguish good from evil and set rewards and punishments accordingly.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Robber Zhi and Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu (the two names merely use different words to distinguish the worthy from the unworthy)—so even the whole world’s power would not suffice to reward all the good, and the whole world’s power would not suffice to punish all the wicked. The world is simply too vast for rewards and punishments to manage everything.

From the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties onward, people have been in tumult (clamoring and scrambling, like waves chasing one another). They have always treated rewards and punishments as matters of first importance. Busy chasing rewards and avoiding penalties, how could they find time to settle into the natural state of life? To help people settle into that natural state, one must take rewards and punishments lightly and govern through forbearance (leniency and minimal interference). Only then might the world’s nature return.

---

It also says: Do you delight in brightness (admiring cleverness and clarity)? That is indulgence in form (being captivated by outward appearance, cleverness, and beauty). Do you delight in acuity? That is indulgence in sound.

The natural state of life is not disturbed by rewards and punishments alone. In stillness, there is originally nothing to cling to. Those who understand Heaven’s De act in response to things and pass on without leaving a trace. Those who do not understand this follow their delight in such things; that very attachment goes against the natural principles of life and becomes an obstacle. Thus, delighting in brightness and acuity means becoming absorbed in form and sound.

Do you delight in benevolence? That is confusion in De. Do you delight in righteousness? That is a violation of principle. De is the De of Heaven, and principle is Heaven’s principle; both arise naturally. To practice benevolence and righteousness with deliberate intent is to disorder De and violate principle. It is like gold dust in the eye, or auspicious stars and clouds: none of these belong in the vast emptiness. That is the same idea.

Do you delight in ritual? That encourages people to compete in artifice (schemes and contrivances). Do you delight in music? That encourages people to compete in excess (dissipation and indulgence in pleasure).

Do you delight in the sage? That encourages people to compete in skill (ability, which people commonly mistake for sagehood). Do you delight in wisdom? That encourages people to compete in deceit (defects and cunning; as deceptive cleverness grows more poisonous, flaws and afflictions multiply).

If the world is to settle into its natural state of life, these eight things (brightness, acuity, benevolence, righteousness, ritual, music, sagehood, and wisdom) may be present or absent; either is acceptable (when one is at ease with what is natural, even their presence is no burden).

But if the world cannot settle into its natural state of life and instead begins with these eight things, people become bound and twisted (as though tied up and curled inward) and agitated and chaotic (preoccupied and in disarray), throwing the world into confusion. Yet people still honor and cherish them. The people of the world are truly deluded.

---

Note: This passage belongs to the Zhuangzi tradition’s critique of rule through rewards and punishments and of reverence for the “eight virtues.” The commentary links together ideas such as Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu, Robber Zhi, forbearance, and the natural state of life. This modern interpretation follows the tone of the original commentary as closely as possible and adds no further doctrinal claims.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Are these bewildering practices really as simple as passing by and leaving? They fast and purify themselves before speaking, kneel respectfully as they make their offerings, and beat drums and dance to express their devotion. What good would it do for me to act the same way?

So when a noble person has no choice but to govern the world, it is better to practice Wuwei (non-action). Only through Wuwei can one settle the true nature of one’s life. To value oneself as the world—to regard one’s own body as the foundation of the world—is to be worthy of having the world entrusted to one. To care for oneself as the world—to cherish one’s own body as one would cherish the world—is to be worthy of having the world entrusted to one.

So if a noble person can refrain from dissecting the five organs—that is, from analyzing and dividing human nature—and from drawing out cleverness—that is, from flaunting one’s intelligence to outshine the world—then one lies still like a corpse while appearing like a dragon. One remains motionless, yet change is already at work within; thus the dragon does not appear in the fields but while lying still. One is silent as a deep pool, yet resounds like thunder. One makes no sound, yet the power to shake things is already there; thus thunder does not resound across the world but within silence. As soon as one’s spirit moves, Heaven responds: the Way of Heaven on the other side accords with me, like an echo answering a valley or a shadow following a form. One rests at ease in Wuwei, while all things naturally gather and disperse like rising smoke and drifting dust. Why, then, should I make time to govern the world?

Cui Qu asked Lao Dan, “If you do not govern the world, how can you bring it peace?” Lao Dan replied, “Whatever you do, do not disturb people’s hearts. When a heart is pressed down, it sinks; when it is lifted up, it rises. It is forever shifting between above and below. Its anxieties and delusions bind it like a prisoner; its fears torment it as if it were being executed; it clings like a quagmire…”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain Language Interpretation of the Nanhua Zhenjing Zhushu

The soft overcoming the hard

The saying “the utmost softness can overcome the utmost hardness” is like water: soft and yielding, yet able to overcome the hardest things.

Edges and corners being polished

“Edges and corners” means sharpness and pointedness; “polishing” means wearing them down. Young people have distinct edges and corners, but as soon as they enter the world, these are mostly worn away.

Its heat scorches like fire

This describes a person’s impatience, as if they were being scorched by fire.

Its cold congeals like ice

This describes a person’s trembling and shrinking back in fear, as if they had frozen.

Its swiftness: between one bow and one lift of the head, it reaches beyond the four seas

This describes how swiftly the mind races: between lowering and raising one’s head, a thought has already flown beyond the four seas.

At rest it is deep and still; in motion it hangs aloft in the heavens

When still, it is quiet like a deep abyss. Once it moves, it soars high and hangs in the air, like the sky, elusive and hard to grasp. The abyss and the sky are worlds apart, describing the great difference between the mind’s stillness and activity.

What is unruly and arrogant, impossible to bind—could it be anything but the human mind?

Perhaps only the human mind is arrogant, wild, and impossible to restrain. This describes a mind that is resentful and overbearing, difficult to subdue.

In ancient times, the Yellow Emperor first stirred people’s minds with benevolence and righteousness

In the past, the Yellow Emperor began to unsettle and rouse people’s minds with benevolence and righteousness.

Yao and Shun then wore away the hair on their thighs and shins to nourish the bodies of all under Heaven

Yao and Shun followed this approach: the fine hair on their thighs (“ba” means fine body hair) was worn away, and their shins became hairless. They did this to sustain the bodies of the people under Heaven, providing little for themselves while laboring and traveling far.

They made their Five Viscera suffer in the name of benevolence and righteousness; they restrained their vital energy and sinews to uphold laws and standards

They put their Five Viscera through hardship in order to practice benevolence and righteousness, and restrained their vital energy and sinews in order to follow laws and standards.

Yet they still could not overcome it

Even so, they still could not prevail: people under Heaven each had their own minds, and everyone competed in cleverness, making them difficult to unite.

Yao therefore banished Huan Dou to Chong Mountain, sent the San Miao to San Wei, and exiled Gong Gong to Youdu

Yao therefore banished Huan Dou to Chong Mountain, on the southern frontier; sent the San Miao—evil people likened to Taotie—to San Wei, on the western frontier; and exiled Gong Gong, an official likened to Qiongqi, to Youdu, on the northern frontier.

This was still a failure to overcome all under Heaven

Even this could not prevail over all under Heaven or completely subdue people’s minds. Even Yao and Shun were helpless in this regard.

When this influence reached the Three Kings, the world was greatly alarmed

When the influence of benevolence and righteousness reached the kings of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, the world was greatly alarmed—alarmed by such things as military campaigns and changes to the political order.

Below were Jie and Zhi; above were Zeng and Shi

Below were people as lacking in benevolence and righteousness as Jie and Zhi; above were people who practiced benevolence and righteousness, like Zeng Shen and Shi Yu.

Then Confucianism, Mohism, and the other schools all arose

Then the Confucian, Mohist, and other schools of thought arose together.

And so those who agreed became pleased and those who differed became angry, each suspecting the other; the foolish and the wise deceived one another; those who thought themselves right condemned those they deemed wrong

And so people were pleased with those who agreed with them and angry with those who did not, and they became suspicious of one another. The clever kept their knowledge to themselves, while the foolish and the wise deceived each other. Each thought themselves right and refused to yield; those who considered themselves good and those they considered bad attacked one another.

Delusion

(The original may contain a sentence with the word “delusion.” Here it is often treated as a function word or as a continuation of what came before, meaning that false and extravagant speech also arose amid this suspicion, deception, and mutual condemnation.)

Note: This passage reflects Zhuangzi-style thought. Through historical figures and the impossibility of controlling the human mind, it criticizes the attempt to “stir” people’s minds with benevolence, righteousness, and laws and standards, which still fails to prevail over the world. It then points to the later debates between Confucians and Mohists and the growing complexity of human relations. Proper names such as Huan Dou, the San Miao, Gong Gong, Chong Mountain, San Wei, Youdu, Zeng, and Shi are retained from the commentaries, with brief explanations in parentheses.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

《Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence》

When people praise themselves and mock one another, each faction claiming sincerity and accusing the other of hypocrisy, the world falls into decline. This decline means that the De of unity with the Dao, whole and without distinction, no longer prevails.

Once “great De” becomes divided into opposing positions that cannot coexist, people’s true nature and life are thrown into confusion and decay. “Rot” means corruption; “spread” means excess and disorder. The De of the Great Dao was originally the same for everyone, and people’s nature and life could have been preserved for a long time. But once “great De” was split into various deviant paths, many were led astray, and the truth of their nature and life was lost.

When everyone in the world pursues cleverness and competes to outdo one another, ordinary people are driven to exhaust their wits and struggle to keep up.

Then harsh laws and severe punishments appear, intended to use “deliberate effort” to guard against “deliberate effort.” Saws and axes are used to cut and shape; ink lines and measuring cords to mark and carve; hammers and chisels to pierce and sever—often referring to severe punishments such as mutilation. People trample and crowd one another (“jiji” means stepping on and pressing against one another), and chaos erupts everywhere. The root of the calamity lies in using benevolence and righteousness to provoke and unsettle people’s hearts. The sages use harsh punishments to intimidate the world, yet disorder still arises from this very practice. This is the inevitable result when benevolence and righteousness are pushed to their limits and punishment must follow.

The worthy retreat into mountain caves, while the ruler of a state with ten thousand chariots sits in his court, fearful and trembling, isolated and without support.

In the present age, people who have not committed capital crimes are put to death and lie piled beside one another; those in neck stocks and leg shackles follow one after another; victims of punishment and execution are everywhere. Yet scholars of the Confucian and Mohist schools rise on tiptoe and wave their arms, delivering lofty speeches among the stocks and shackles. Alas! Their lack of shame is so extreme that it is truly lamentable.

I would not dare claim that “sage wisdom” cannot become the crossbar and sockets of the stocks and pillory (hengyang and jiezhe), or that “benevolence and righteousness” cannot become fetters and shackles, with square holes and round pegs forced into mismatched shapes. A round peg and a square hole were originally fitted together to make shackles. Benevolence, righteousness, sagehood, and wisdom often bring guilt and punishment in their wake, and scholars of the Confucian and Mohist schools are hardly likely to escape.

Who, then, could be certain that a reputation for worthiness like that of Zeng Shen or Shi Yu would never lead to the same fate as Jie or Zhi?

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

The arrow’s report (like the first warning that heralds what is to come today)—this is why people say, “Abandon sagehood and discard wisdom, and the world will be well governed.”

Nineteen years after the Yellow Emperor ascended the throne (ten is the number of Earth and belongs to Yin; nine is the number of Heaven and belongs to Yang. The nineteen years of Cook Ding mentioned earlier, and the nineteen years here, both carry the implication of Yin and Yang, preparing the way for the later phrases “make Yin and Yang one’s officials” and “take the essence of Heaven and Earth”), his decrees were in force throughout the world. Hearing that Guangchengzi lived on Kongtong Mountain, he went to visit him and said:

“I have heard that you understand the Supreme Dao. May I ask about the essence of the Supreme Dao? (Here, ‘essence’ means the Limitless, the primordial ancestral Qi, the root of creation. With its essence one can cultivate the self; from there, the rest of the world and the state can be governed. Whoever obtains it holds the cosmos in the palm of their hand.) I wish to take the essence of Heaven and Earth (the essence is the precelestial One Qi. Where is the method for taking it? Lü Zu says: ‘Dig into the earth to seek Heaven, see the light of Heaven, and plant golden flowers and fruit’—this is strength. The Daoist tradition also has methods for gathering the sun’s essence and the moon’s radiance), so as to support the five grains and nourish the people. I also wish to make Yin and Yang my officials (so that Yin and Yang serve me, each fulfilling its office and following my commands. When Yin and Yang are in harmony, all living things naturally fulfill their natures), and thereby bring fulfillment to all beings. How should I do this?”

Guangchengzi said: “What you ask about is the substance of things (substance is the unscattered uncarved simplicity). What you wish to govern is what remains of things (what remains is the vessel formed after simplicity has been scattered). Since you began governing the world, clouds have rained before they could gather, and plants have withered before their leaves could turn yellow (zú means ‘to gather.’ Clouds move and rain falls in due season; plants turn yellow before falling—that is the proper order. Now these things happen before their time because Yin and Yang are out of harmony). The light of the sun and moon has also grown increasingly dim (huāng means ‘to fail’; the sun and moon are eclipsed. If we take the body as a point of comparison, the ears and eyes are the first to fall ill). And your petty, calculating heart—how could it be fit to discuss the Supreme Dao?”

The Yellow Emperor withdrew and relinquished the world. He built a secluded chamber, spread white thatch for a mat, and lived in quiet retirement (the word is pronounced like “idle”). After three months, he went again to seek an audience with Guangchengzi.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain-Language Interpretation

The Yellow Emperor followed the wind downstream, approached on his knees, and bowed twice, touching his head to the ground as he asked, “I have heard that you understand the utmost Dao. May I ask how one can cultivate the self and make life last?” Guangchengzi rose in alarm, then stood and said, “A good question!” (He praises the Yellow Emperor because he asks how to cultivate the self rather than how to govern the realm.) “Come, and I will tell you. The utmost Dao—its essence, its spirit—is subtle and obscure, beyond all forms. At the furthest reach of the Dao, the spirit is dark and silent, beyond sound and smell. Do not look; do not listen.” (The Dao cannot be seen, so there is nothing to look at; it cannot be heard, so there is nothing to listen to.) “Embrace the spirit and remain still; the body will naturally become upright.” (When the ruler within is at peace, all the body’s parts follow its command.) “You must be still; you must be clear. Do not tire your body or unsettle your Jing and Qi. Then you can live long.” (Stillness is the foundation of seated practice, so one must be still. If the mind’s source is not clear, one risks restless sitting, so one must be clear. Tiring the body prevents stillness; unsettling the Jing prevents clarity. Hence the injunction not to tire or unsettle: the way to long life and lasting vision lies here.) “Let the eyes see nothing, the ears hear nothing, and the mind know nothing. Then the spirit will guard the body, and the body will live long.” (Looking too much unsettles the Jing through the eyes; listening too much unsettles it through the ears; knowing too much unsettles it through the mind. When there is no looking, listening, or knowing, the Jing is undisturbed and the spirit settles of its own accord. The spirit governs the body; if it continually guards the body, the body will not decay and will live long.) “Be watchful within; close off what is outside. Knowing too much leads to ruin.” (Being watchful within means firmly securing the spirit; closing off what is outside means shutting the eyes and ears. Knowing too much leads to ruin because one must extinguish thoughts and deliberation. Yet the Dao has Yin and Yang, and these cannot go unrecognized.) “I will guide you above the Great Brightness—the utmost Yang—and take you to the source of that utmost Yang. I will lead you through the gate of subtle darkness—the utmost Yin—and take you to the source of that utmost Yin.” (To guide you above the Great Brightness is to reveal the radiance of utmost Yang; reaching its source is to see that radiance arise from the earth. To lead you through the gate of subtle darkness is to reveal the solemn stillness of utmost Yin; reaching its source is to see that stillness…)

---

Note: This passage comes from “In the World of Men,” a chapter of the Zhuangzi. The Yellow Emperor asks Guangchengzi about the Dao. The commentary interprets “embrace the spirit and remain still” and “Great Brightness/subtle darkness” through Neidan and Zuowang (sitting in forgetfulness), as states in the cultivation of Yin and Yang. Technical terms have been retained and briefly explained in keeping with the commentary.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Reading of the Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence

(Continuing the passage above, where the Yellow Emperor asks about the Dao.) The Dao begins in Heaven. Heaven and Earth each have their place and their function: Yin is still, Yang is active, and each keeps to its proper role. Yin and Yang contain and conceal one another: Yin holds Yang within it, and Yang holds Yin within it. Carefully preserve a body that “keeps to the feminine,” and all things will naturally grow strong. I preserve the “One”—the primordial Qi, or Golden Elixir—and so abide in balanced harmony, receiving the Qi of harmony from Heaven and Earth.

I have cultivated myself for twelve hundred years, and my appearance has never decayed. The Yellow Emperor bowed twice and touched his head to the ground, saying, “Master Guangchengzi truly may be called Heaven itself.”

Guangchengzi said, “Come, I will tell you: the ‘thing’—that is, the Dao—is endless and inexhaustible, unchanging and imperishable. Yet people believe it has an end, because they do not understand Yin and Yang and think this life is bounded. The ‘thing’ cannot be measured, for it does not become fixed in form. Yet people believe it has a limit, because they do not know how to nourish life and assume that life must end.

“Those who attain my Dao may be emperors above or kings below: above, they enact the Virtue of Wuwei (non-action) and become emperors; below, they act deliberately and become kings. Those who lose my Dao see light above, then turn to earth below: they are born beneath the light of the sun and moon, and in the end enter the soil and decay.

“Now all the flourishing things—that is, all things—are born from earth and return to earth. This applies not only to people but to all things: what is foul and decayed transforms into the wondrous, and what is wondrous transforms again into what is foul and decayed.

“So I am about to leave you, departing from the world of ordinary concerns, and enter the Gate of the Infinite, roaming the Boundless Wilds—that is, beyond Heaven and Earth. I share the brightness of the sun and moon, and I share the constant Dao of Heaven and Earth.

“When someone meets me in accord”—the word min suggests threads twisted together into a cord; a person who is ready to meet me knows how to guard what is within and close off what is outside. Such a person is like a cord that grows longer the more it is drawn out. “Those who distance themselves from me and go away remain benighted. They do not understand Yin and Yang and are ignorant; speak to them of the way to long life, and they will never believe it. Will everyone die while I alone endure?” Those who die are the ones who distance themselves from me; I endure by preserving the One and abiding in harmony.”

Cloud-General, the name of a cloud spirit, was traveling east. Passing the branch of Fúyáo—the wind, or, according to another account, a divine tree in the Eastern Sea—he happened upon Hóngméng…

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

[Note: Here, “Great Mists” (Hongmeng) is a metaphor for primordial Qi and the natural Dao.]

Great Mists was slapping his thighs, skipping and playing about. Cloud General (the name of a spirit who governs the clouds and Qi) saw him, stopped short, then stood respectfully and asked, “Who are you, sir? Why do you keep slapping your thighs and skipping about?” Cloud General introduced himself as a traveler and added, “I would like to ask your advice.” Great Mists looked up at him and said only, “Eh?” Cloud General went on: “The Qi of Heaven is out of harmony, the Qi of Earth is blocked up, the Six Qi (Yin, Yang, wind, rain, darkness, and light) are unbalanced, and the four seasons are out of order. I want to gather the essences of the Six Qi to nurture all things. How should I do it?” Great Mists kept slapping his thighs and skipping about, shook his head, and said, “I don’t know. I don’t know.” Cloud General got no answer.

Three years later, Cloud General was traveling east. Passing through the outskirts of the state of Song, he met Great Mists again. Delighted, he hurried forward and said, “Heaven”—here, referring to Great Mists—“have you forgotten me? Heaven, have you forgotten me?” He bowed twice and touched his head to the ground, hoping to hear his advice again. Great Mists said, “Drifting about, not knowing what one seeks; roaming freely, not knowing where one is bound. A traveler is too busy with worldly affairs to attend to appearances, and merely observes what is without delusion (the natural state of not acting presumptuously). What could I know?” The ways of the world, masked as carefree freedom, seek to observe the true workings of what is without delusion. The two cannot meet, so in the end he can only say that he does not know.

Cloud General said, “I thought I was roaming freely, yet the people followed me, and I could not turn them away. Now the people are imitating me again, and I want to hear a word from you.” Great Mists said, “When Heaven’s constant way is disturbed and the natural dispositions of things are violated, the dark Heaven cannot bring them to completion. Herds are scattered in terror, birds cry out at night (when deliberate schemes arise, even birds are frightened into crying at night), calamity spreads to plants, and harm reaches insects. Alas, this is the fault of those who deliberately set out to ‘govern people.’” Governing people through policies of deliberate action only creates disorder.

Cloud General asked, “Then what should I do?” Great Mists said, “Alas, what a poison! Go back!” (This refers to the long-lasting harm caused by the ways of governing practiced since the Three Dynasties; “go back” means that he should leave for now.) Cloud General said, “Even in the midst of this great calamity, I still hope to hear a word from you.” Great Mists replied again, “Alas…”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Nourishing the mind: You must nourish your own mind; this is the way of self-cultivation. Simply abide in Wuwei (non-action), and all things will transform and flourish of themselves. There is no need to disturb the constant patterns of Heaven or go against the nature of things. Through Wuwei, things can be transformed.

“Let your body fall away; cast off your cleverness”: Let go of attachment to the body and set aside cleverness and artifice. Become one with all things, forgetting the distinction between self and other; join with Heaven and Earth in the great unity of the undivided beginning, the vast primordial expanse called Xingming—the beginning before Qi arose.

“Untie the mind and release the spirit; be still, with no wandering soul”: Untie the mind’s attachments and release the constraints of the conscious spirit, the acquired awareness. Here, “soul” means the conscious spirit, or wandering soul. Once the conscious spirit is released, the wandering soul vanishes of itself.

“All things, countless and diverse, each return to their root”: All things, in their profusion, return to their root without knowing or noticing it. Ordinary people think the Dantian (energy center) is the root, but it is only the acquired root of breathing. The primordial root lies where the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) have not yet arisen, before one’s parents existed: the ancestral Qi of the primordial state. One must return to this root, like an infant who neither distinguishes nor knows.

“Be utterly undifferentiated, and never depart from this state throughout your life”: Remain in this undifferentiated state throughout your life. If you bore openings in yourself to acquire knowledge, the primordial undivided state would die, and the Great Dao would depart.

“Ask nothing of their names; peer not into their inner natures”: Things have no names in themselves. I make no distinctions and ask not their names. Things have no feelings in themselves. I follow their constant course and do not peer into their inner natures; then things return to their root and come forth of themselves. Things are the Dao.

Yun said: “Heaven bestowed De (Virtue/Power) upon me and showed me silence. I bowed low and sought it; today I have attained it. I bow twice, touching my head to the ground, then rise and take my leave.”

The earlier passages mostly argue for rejecting convention and withdrawing from the world. Many people regard them as strange, so the text now turns to worldly attitudes.

People in the world: They all like others to be the same as themselves and dislike those who differ. They desire what agrees with them and reject what does not, all because they make standing apart from the crowd their guiding aim.

“Making standing apart from the crowd one’s guiding aim”: If one makes being the same as the crowd one’s guiding aim, how could one ever truly stand apart from it? Rather than relying on the views of the crowd to reassure oneself about one’s own views, it is better to go along with the crowd.

(This commentary uses ideas such as “nourishing the mind,” “letting the body fall away,” and “returning to the root” to explain the Daoist principles of Wuwei, returning to the root, and forgetting the distinction between oneself and things. It also criticizes people’s tendency to welcome what is familiar and reject what is different, while making standing apart from the crowd their aim yet finding it difficult to escape worldly conventions.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

An accessible reading of the Commentary and Subcommentary to the True Classic of Southern Florescence

A person with many skills who nevertheless seeks to govern another’s state is coveting the benefits of the benevolence, righteousness, sageliness, and wisdom associated with the Three Kings—Yu of Xia, Tang of Shang, and Kings Wen and Wu of Zhou—while failing to see their harms. Such a person is gambling with another’s state: what chance is there of not losing it? The odds of preserving another’s state are one in ten thousand; to lose it takes only one mistake, and all is lost. How sad that those who possess land and rule the world do not understand this.

Those who possess land and rule the world possess the “great thing.” Nothing is held in higher esteem or of greater significance than wealth and rank. Whoever possesses this great thing must not be controlled or constrained by external things—not become the servant of the myriad things. Instead, one must “not be made into a thing by things.” Only then can one “make things into things”—that is, preside over and govern the myriad things. To understand that the one who can make things into things is not a thing—that whoever can govern the myriad things is not oneself governed by them—is to do more than govern the people of the world. One can also move in and out of the Six Directions, roam the Nine Provinces, and come and go alone, with the Original Spirit quietly at work. This is called “being alone”—being united with Heaven. The person who is alone is supremely precious, and that preciousness cannot be compared with the worth of the great thing.

The Great Person’s teaching responds without emotion, as the following images suggest: like form and shadow, like sound and echo, it answers every question and draws out all that the other person means to say, attending to both ends of an issue and exhausting its meaning. It is a fitting counterpart to the world, meeting each person in the way suited to them. It abides in silence, responding through stillness. It acts without a fixed direction, adapting to others without a set method. It takes you along to your destination, accompanying the world as it follows the Dao; it comes and goes, moving freely amid the bustle and roaming without limit. It enters and exits without a companion, coming and going alone, dependent on nothing. It shares no beginning with the sun: whatever has a beginning also has an end, but what has no beginning has no end.

In praising and discussing the body, it accords with the Great Unity, fitting seamlessly with the Great Dao. In the Great Unity, there is no end—there is no self. There is no self...

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain-Language Interpretation

“If you have already come to dislike ‘being,’ how can you still attain ‘being’?”

Commentary: A person who takes “being” (concrete existence) as fundamental is someone who “takes being as being.”

“Those who can see ‘being’” refers to this kind of person, who “takes being as being.”

“The exemplary people of antiquity” refers here to the sages who lived after the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou.

“Those who can see ‘nonbeing’” are people who take “nonbeing” as their guiding principle and emptiness as fundamental.

“Companions of Heaven and Earth” refers to immortals, Buddhas, and the like. This state is not attainable only by those attached to “being.” Who can truly be a companion of Heaven and Earth? Since the passage above discusses both “observing being” and “observing nonbeing,” there is a risk that readers will divide being and nonbeing into two wholly separate realms. So what follows speaks of what is above without discarding what is below, and of principle without discarding things. The argument at the end of the “In the World, at Ease” chapter is often no different from that of Confucianism.

---

What is lowly yet cannot go unused is the myriad things.

The Dao is esteemed and things are lowly, but things cannot ultimately be cast aside. Therefore, they cannot go unused.

What is humble yet cannot be done without is the common people.

The Dao is honored and people are lowly, but in the end one cannot do without people. Therefore, one cannot do without them; each depends on the other.

What is obscure yet cannot be left undone is the business of the world.

The Dao is clear, while affairs are obscure. Their obscurity is no reason to dismiss them and take no care of them. Hence, they cannot be left undone.

What is rough yet cannot be left unpresented is the body of laws and institutions.

The Dao is subtle, while laws are coarse. Their coarseness is no reason to let them lapse and go unused. Hence, they cannot go unstated or unenacted.

What seems distant yet cannot be abandoned is righteousness.

Righteousness emphasizes distinctions and may seem far removed from the Dao’s undivided wholeness. Yet it cannot be forsaken.

What seems intimate yet cannot be confined is benevolence.

The Dao makes no distinction between closeness and distance. Although benevolence centers on affection, it cannot be kept narrow or limited to a small circle.

What is regulated yet cannot be left unaccumulated is ritual propriety.

Ritual forms are extensive—such as the “three thousand and three hundred” regulations—and cannot be completed by one person at one time. Hence, they must be accumulated through daily practice over time.

What is centered and upright yet cannot be left unraised is De.

Ritual propriety governs formal distinctions and may seem to compel people, yet it cannot be left unaccumulated. Although De is something all can share, it also has a quality of standing out on its own. Hence, it cannot be left unexalted.

What is undivided wholeness yet cannot be left unadapted is the Dao.

The Dao is fundamentally one, yet it must adapt to the circumstances of the time. Hence, it cannot remain unchanged.

What is numinous yet cannot be carried out without human action is Heaven.

The way of Heaven is distant, while the human way is near. People must still do all they can in human affairs. Thus, although Heaven is supremely numinous, its course must be realized through human action.

---

Therefore, the sage observes Heaven without “assisting” it—without promoting things or acting recklessly. This is acting without acting: doing what must be done without clinging to the idea of doing it.

Accomplishing oneself through De means fulfilling one’s own proper part through De.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Interpretation

Do not deliberately “accumulate merit” (build De without intent; without seeking distinction, De becomes naturally exalted). Follow the Dao without calculation (deliberate scheming loses the Dao’s naturalness; acting without plotting is what it means to follow one’s nature and call it the Dao).

Be in accord with benevolence without relying on it (if you rely on benevolence, you will seek favor and repayment from others, and that is not true benevolence. “Not relying” means benefiting others without claiming credit).

Let righteousness be applied sparingly, without stockpiling it (act righteously when the moment calls for it; there is no need to insist on righteousness in every situation. Adapt rather than copy rigidly, and you will avoid the faults of following old conventions).

Observe ritual when it naturally calls for it, not out of forced concern for taboos (ritual should arise naturally, not from a desire to avoid what is forbidden).

When something must be done, do not yield needlessly (act when action is called for, without shrinking back).

Conform to the law without creating disorder (apply the same standards to the people, without arbitrarily changing the rules).

Rely on the people without sacrificing yourself (though the people may be relied upon, do not lightly give yourself up for the sake of the crowd and lose who you are).

Make use of things without abandoning what is true (though things may be put to use, do not comply with them at the cost of your truth).

External things are not fit to rule us, yet we cannot avoid acting in some way (“acting without action, acting while not acting” is Wuwei (non-action)).

If you do not understand Heaven, your De will not be pure (Heaven is the source of De. If you study without understanding Heaven, attending only to a narrow view that pleases you, your De will inevitably be impure). If you do not understand the Dao, you will have nowhere to settle (the Dao is the guiding source of all things. If your understanding does not reach the Dao, then however broad your knowledge and experience, you will know the prevailing trends but not where to turn. Where, then, can you find a place to rest?).

Those who do not understand the Dao are to be pitied. What is the Dao? That which is Wuwei and sovereign is the Dao of Heaven (the heart-mind of the Dao); that which acts and becomes burdened is the human way (the human heart-mind). The ruler belongs to the Dao of Heaven; the minister belongs to the human way. The Dao of Heaven and the human way are far apart, and this distinction must be understood.

---

Fugui Zi says: Zhuangzi’s learning is rooted in Laozi; from the Supreme One onward, no teaching of Dao and De surpasses it. Later masters of the Daoist tradition and Chan Buddhism often took it as their model. It is said that the world can only be “allowed to exist and left in peace”; it cannot be governed solely by laws. If everyone is allowed to live freely, without being disturbed by excessive interference, their nature will remain whole—how serene that would be. If everyone is allowed to dwell in peace, without being harmed by forced action, their De will remain intact—how joyful that would be. To know the joy of one’s nature is good.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain-Language Interpretation

Without first seeking peace of mind, one still knows that the very nature of suffering brings unhappiness—Yao and Jie both suffered from it. Where there is contentment and joy, there are also delight and anger. When these emotions become excessive, they disturb Yin-Yang, bring on imbalances of cold and heat, and turn people’s thoughts upside down. Thus, different kinds of people—fierce, crafty, reckless, and sage—began to appear in the world, and various ways of rewarding the good and punishing the wicked were devised. This is to govern the world through “law.” If one cannot let the world be and interfere as little as possible, how can one keep life from harm?

Trying to govern through intelligence and benevolence and righteousness instead leads people to indulge in sights and sounds and stray from the principles of De. Trying to govern through ritual and music, and sage wisdom, instead draws people toward technique and into excessive artifice. Even if these eight things—intelligence, benevolence and righteousness, ritual and music, and sage wisdom—offer some benefit to life, they have almost nothing to do with whether life endures or perishes. How much less can they benefit life when the world still reveres and trusts them, recites and performs them, and sings and dances to them? Why insist on all this? All eight are forms of deliberate action; the more one governs through them, the more disorder grows. Better to practice Wuwei (non-action), so the true nature of life can remain whole. First one must understand how to cherish one’s own life; only then can one be entrusted with the lives of all under Heaven. Keep the Five Natures within and close off the senses without. Without moving or speaking, appear like a dragon; dwell in stillness like a corpse, while thunder lies hidden in the silent depths. Shen (spirit) moves here, and the human follows Heaven thereafter. At ease and practicing Wuwei, all things find their proper place, as easily as ash blown away. Let things be, and embrace them; there is no need to govern so much.

Cui Qu wanted to govern the world and then be able to conceal people’s hearts. Laozi said: “Take care never to ‘stir people’s hearts.’” The human heart, though confined to a tiny space, can sink or rise; it can be imprisoned or killed. It can be pliant and yielding, or hard and strong; it can be carved and polished. It can grow hot without fire or freeze without cold. It can make what is near seem far, or what is far seem near; make what is still move, or what moves become still. It can turn inward or outward, sink to the depths or reach the heavens. Such is the arrogance and unruliness of the human heart, and how hard it is to control. In the past, both the Yellow Emperor and Tang Yao stirred people’s hearts with benevolence and righteousness and set up rules, yet could not overcome them.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain-Language Interpretation

When figures such as Xia Yu, Tang of Shang, and King Wu of Zhou governed through conquest and unconventional methods, the whole world was greatly alarmed. Once tyrants like Jie and Zhi, along with “worthy men” such as Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, had appeared, the teachings of the Confucians and Mohists arose one after another.

People then began to distrust and deceive one another over their likes and dislikes, their foolishness and intelligence. They denied and mocked one another over what was good or evil, genuine or false. Could this still be a peaceful and flourishing age? I see that when everyone considers themselves virtuous, life’s original nature is lost; when everyone clings to a little “cleverness,” the people’s real needs are drained away. And when the whole apparatus of saws, ink lines, mallets, and chisels is brought in—that is, when ritual rules and punishments are used to “straighten” people—the world becomes less and less able to bear it.

What are called sage wisdom, benevolence, and righteousness, along with figures like Zeng and Shi, were originally meant to establish rules, bring stability to the world, and accord with the natural dispositions of life and nature. But rules can never cover every circumstance. When they are imposed rigidly, sage wisdom becomes shackles and instruments of punishment; benevolence and righteousness become handcuffs, fetters, and chisels and mortises forced to fit where they do not match. Zeng and Shi, too, might be called the first warning signs of the troubles Jie and Zhi would stir up. In short, governing the world is less important than first cultivating oneself.

The Yellow Emperor visited Guangchengzi on Mount Kongtong, hoping to draw on the essence of Heaven and Earth to nourish the people, regulate Yin-Yang, and bring all things to fulfillment. But Guangchengzi did not readily tell him the Dao in its highest form. Why? Because the Yellow Emperor had not yet brought Yin-Yang into harmony: clouds would not gather to bring rain; plants would not shed their leaves when they should; and even the sun and moon suffered eclipses. How could he be fit to discuss the Dao in its highest form? The Yellow Emperor then withdrew, fasted, and bowed repeatedly as he asked about the way to cultivate the body and attain longevity.

Guangchengzi said: “The essence of the Dao in its highest form is deep and obscure, without appearance. The utmost of the Dao is dark and silent, without sound. Do not pursue external things with your eyes and ears; turn your gaze inward and listen within. Hold fast to your spirit and quiet your mind. Let your mind be like a withered tree, and your body will naturally become upright; be still as dead ashes. The human mind loves quiet: first become still, and then desires will not pull you along. The spirit loves clarity: first become clear, and then the mind will not be confused. Do not wear out your body—this nourishes what is outward to preserve what is within. Do not agitate your Jing and Qi—this secures what is within and strengthens what is outward. In this way, you may live long: your Shen will endure. When the eyes do not see and the ears do not hear, Jing and Qi are less depleted through them, though this alone has its limits. When the mind knows nothing, Jing and Qi no longer stir chaotically within it, and the Shen becomes peaceful of itself. When the Shen guards the body, the body can endure. Guard what is within you carefully, so that your inward intentions do not leak out; close off what is outside, so external things cannot intrude. Those who practice the Dao often fail to reach its end because knowing too much can itself cause harm. These words are meant to awaken them.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

The Yin and Yang within the human body can be understood only after first grasping the Yin and Yang of Heaven and Earth and then comparing them with those of the body. I, Laozi, will guide you: the source of utmost Yang lies above the “Great Brightness,” and that is on Earth; the source of utmost Yin lies within the Gate of Darkness, and that is in Heaven. The alchemical classics say that anyone who hopes to become an immortal of the Great Luo Heaven must understand how “Yin and Yang are reversed and turned around.” This is what they mean.

Yin and Yang divide, and Heaven and Earth each keep to their proper place; here, “office” means their duties and order. Yin contains Yang, and Yang contains Yin, so each has its own storehouse and place of return. To let nothing leak out from within and nothing enter from without is to be careful in guarding yourself. My body belongs to pure Yang, and the myriad things—here referring to the “medicinal substances” of alchemy—will naturally grow strong. These “things” are the substances used in Neidan (internal alchemy). I guard only the True Primordial One Qi, and dwell in Great Harmony, so that even after twelve hundred years my body does not decay. This Way is inexhaustible: those above who follow my Way of Wuwei (non-action) become emperors; those below who follow my Way of action become kings. If this Way is lost, even what is miraculous turns into foul decay, just as all things are born from earth and return to earth.

I will leave you, enter the boundless, and wander in the limitless, shining with the sun and moon and enduring with Heaven and Earth. Those who draw near to me and align themselves with me are like a hemp thread that grows longer and longer as it is drawn out. Those who grow distant and turn away from me are like night growing deeper and darker. Everyone else dies—but why do they die? I alone endure—but why do I endure? These are questions worth pondering deeply.

The Cloud General (the spirit of clouds, symbolizing the blood and Qi of human affairs as they gather and disperse) meets Primordial Chaos (the spirit of primordial Qi, symbolizing the True Qi in the human body that should be cultivated and preserved over time). The Cloud General wants to join the essences of the Six Qi (Yin, Yang, wind, rain, darkness, and brightness) to nurture living beings. Primordial Chaos initially says he does not know, fearing that once intellectual knowledge awakens, the Great Way will become turbid. They meet again and are asked again; he still replies that he does not know. He also says: “Floating and drifting, I do not know what I seek”—there is no fixed object of seeking. “Rushing about wildly, I do not know where I am going”—there is no fixed destination. In a state of seeking no fixed thing and going nowhere in particular, if one still hopes to unite the Six Qi of the cosmos and contemplate the truth of what is real and free from delusion, “How should I know?”

After the Cloud General has asked three times, Primordial Chaos finally says: “You disturb the order of Heaven and go against the natural inclinations of things. Mysterious Heaven will not protect you; birds and beasts will be frightened, plants and trees will suffer, and insects will be harmed. Is this not the fault of governing people—using intellectual knowledge and political instruction to rule the world?” The Cloud General wants to ask more, but Primordial Chaos then… (The following commentary continues the warning against “governing the world.”)

Note: The first part is a commentator’s explanation in Laozi’s voice of Neidan (internal alchemy): reversing Yin and Yang, guarding the primordial Qi, and refining the body through Great Harmony. The second part returns to Zhuangzi’s parable of the Cloud General asking Primordial Chaos, emphasizing the preservation of the Way through “not knowing” and criticizing how governing the world through human intelligence only disrupts Heaven’s order and harms living things.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

The “heart” is where life and Heaven’s mandate are gathered and brought together; it shares the same nature that belongs to all people. If you can cultivate yourself through the heart, at ease and free of constraint, that is “letting all under Heaven rest in peace”: simply abide in Wuwei (non-action), and all things will transform and flourish of themselves.

“Let your body fall away” means nourishing the heart without nourishing the body; “set aside your sharp senses” means leaving your cleverness unused. Forget social bonds and all things alike, and regard everyone as equal. Why? Because the Great Dao reaches back to the vast, primordial darkness, before the original Qi (vital energy) existed. Unravel the knots of the heart and release Shen (spirit); become indistinct, without a separate soul. This is to turn inward and contemplate the heart, until the clinging “heart” no longer remains within it. The myriad things scatter and flourish, each returning to its root. A plant’s return to its root is easy to see; the tortoise can regulate its breath, and the deer can circulate the Governing Vessel. Even these creatures know to return to the root and prolong life. Human beings possess the ancestral Qi of their innate nature and so are born with a root. If one does not scorn life while valuing wealth, how could a great man hear the immortal master’s secret of returning to the root? Lü Dongbin said, “To seek the treasure of Heaven, you must use the wealth of the world”—without knowledge, one cannot enter the Dao. He also said that returning to the root without knowing it means that only through “unknowing” can one attain the Dao. Remain utterly muddled and chaotic, never departing from the return to the root throughout your life. Add even one layer of “knowing,” and you have left the root. The danger is gaining the Dao and then adding another layer of knowledge: once chaos is carved open, the Dao is no longer yours. The names lead and mercury, dragon and tiger, and the like in alchemical texts are all provisional labels. I simply return to the root; there is no need to ask whether names exist or not. Of the thousands who study the Dao, fewer than one in a hundred truly hear it. I simply nourish the heart to return to my root. Why ask whether human feelings are true or false? Then things that have passed away will arise again, restoring my innate Jing (essence), Qi, and Shen.

The question concerns “letting all under Heaven rest in peace” and the multitude of living beings, yet the answer speaks of “returning to the root”: first govern yourself, then govern others. If you do not understand that worldly people like what is alike and dislike what is different, how will you know that only by being like everyone else can you avoid public criticism? Those “men of this sort” know only the benefits of following the benevolence, righteousness, sageliness, and wisdom of the Three Kings; they do not know their harms. Few preserve a state for its people; many bring about its ruin. Those who possess land must understand this. They possess a great thing, but they cannot treat the myriad things merely as “things” to be put to use. One who understands this Dao uses its excess to govern the people and its essence to cultivate the self, going alone and coming alone.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

The Original Spirit moves unseen in the depths. This is called “being alone”: it can return to its root on its own. Is that not more precious than possessing all things?

Thus, although the great person—the one who has attained the Dao—teaches through form and shadow, sound and echo, questions and answers, these teachings move others without intention and accord with Heaven and Earth, so that everything falls naturally into place. At rest in silence, this person shows the teaching without words; moving without a fixed course, this person reveals the Dao that does not become stuck. Guide people to follow what they desire, and the world, too, will be like me: without sound, without fixed course.

Such a person comes and goes, entering and leaving, and no one knows where they end. Who can see where they begin? Form and spirit both become wondrous and unite with the Great Dao. Where, then, are “having a self” and “having no self”? With no self, everything is absent—so how can one speak of “having”?

Those who see “what is” are the sages and worthy rulers of old; those who see “what is not” are friends of Heaven and Earth, immortals and Buddhas. Adapting to things and to the people, laying down laws and establishing affairs—all these see “what is.” Dwelling in righteousness and extending benevolence, accumulating ritual and lofty virtue—these, too, see “what is.” The Dao changes with the times, and I change with it. Heaven is inherently spirit, yet it takes up its abode in human beings; I, too, fulfill the Way of Heaven in the human realm. Those below the sage also see “what is,” yet within purposeful action they practice Wuwei (non-action), and their nature and life have their source in Heaven.

The sage observes what comes of itself, suffers no loss from Heaven, and neither borrows from people nor seeks to add to or assist it. To follow what comes after is to be good in De (Virtue/Power). The sage’s De is complete, yet no increase in it can be seen; at times it rises high, but never becomes a burden. The sage emerges from the Dao without mixing in human schemes, meets benevolence without relying on it as a favor, keeps to the barest measure of righteousness without accumulating it to the harm of one’s nature, and acts in accord with ritual—not out of fear of violating a taboo. When action is called for, the sage acts, engaging with affairs without holding back.

To draw a single line is a rule; to revise and reshape without causing disorder is also a rule. The people are those one may rely on; those who do not sacrifice their lives lightly for another are also the people. Things are what one should follow; not discarding things and thereby losing one’s true nature is also following things. Heaven is the source of De, and the Dao is the root of affairs. Without understanding Heaven, De cannot be pure; without understanding the Dao, there is nowhere from which one can act.

The Dao has its heavenly aspect. When people act without striving and yet are honored, this is the Way of Heaven; it is also the ruler’s way, natural of itself. When people act purposefully and become burdened, this is the human way; it is also the minister’s way, and is not natural. If a ruler wishes to embody Heaven and follow the Dao, yet does not honor Wuwei, can it be said that the ruler understands the Dao? This is called “letting the world dwell in freedom,” not “governing the world.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Nanhua True Scripture: An Annotated Commentary, Outer Chapters, “Heaven and Earth,” Chapter Twelve — A Plain-Language Interpretation

General Introduction (Commentary)

The Dao is inherently natural. To govern by following people’s nature is the highest form of rule; to cultivate oneself by following one’s nature is the highest De. This means simply letting go of clever contrivances and needless burdens.

Main Text

Though Heaven and Earth are vast, their nurturing and transformation are impartial (the Liji tong says that Heaven and Earth arise from primordial Qi and are the ancestors of all things). Though the myriad things are many, the way they are governed is one.

(Lü Jifu: The Dao gives birth to the One, which extends to the myriad things. How can they be governed? Precisely because each returns to its own root without knowing it, this is the way of governing—not because anyone imposes a guiding framework.)

Though people are numerous, a ruler governs them (Heaven and Earth govern the myriad things; a ruler governs the people). A ruler is rooted in De and comes to fruition through Heaven, so he is called “mysterious” (without De, good governance cannot emerge; without Heaven, De cannot be realized. Heaven is the mysterious Heaven, and the ruler has mysterious De. The Son of Heaven calls himself zhen; zhen carries the meaning of the mysterious).

The rulers of ancient times governed the world through Wuwei (non-action); this was simply the De of Heaven (only Wuwei can be called the De of Heaven. Once one acts deliberately, one follows the human way rather than the De of Heaven).

Viewed through the Dao, the titles and ranks of rulers throughout the world fall into proper order; viewed through the Dao, the duties of ruler and minister become clear; viewed through the Dao, the abilities of people ensure that each office is governed as it should be; viewed broadly through the Dao, all things have their responses in readiness.

(Lu Xixing: The De of Heaven is the Dao of Heaven. The Dao disperses into forms, and everything in the world that has a name and appearance is dispersed from the uncarved simplicity of the Dao. Thus, when words are viewed through the Dao, titles are settled and the ruler’s name is made proper; when divisions are viewed through the Dao, the positions of higher and lower are established and the duties of service become clear; when abilities are viewed through the Dao, different offices suit different capacities and the world’s administration is ordered; when viewed broadly through the Dao, nothing stands alone without a counterpart, and the responses of the world are complete.)

That which connects with Heaven and Earth is called De; that which operates among the myriad things is called the Dao. Governing people from above is called an affair; mastering a particular skill is called a technique.

(Lu Xixing: De is the rectitude of nature and life; the Dao is the principle of what should be. These belong to the realm above form. Governing people from above is an affair, and developing a capacity is a technique; these belong to the realm below form.)

Technique is subordinate to affairs, affairs to duty, duty to De, De to the Dao, and the Dao to nature.

Main Idea

This passage presents one and the same logic for governing the world and cultivating oneself:

Level	Main point
Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things	Their nurturing and transformation are impartial; governance is rooted in the One
The ruler	Rooted in De and brought to fruition through Heaven; Wuwei embodies the De of Heaven
Four ways of viewing through the Dao	View words → the ruler’s title is proper; view divisions → ministers’ duties are clear; view abilities → offices are well governed; view broadly → responses are complete
De → Dao → nature	Technique → affair → duty → De → Dao → nature: each level leads back to a deeper source

The central idea remains consistent with Zhuangzi’s position throughout: follow nature and minimize human contrivance, joining one’s De with Heaven’s rather than burdening oneself with cleverness.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

De embraces the Dao, and the Dao embraces Heaven. What is subtle is “Dao and De”; what is coarse is “affairs” and “skills.” Subtle and coarse are not truly distinct; both arise from nature. Thus skill is affair, affair is art, art is De, De is Dao, and Dao is Heaven. There is no higher or lower, no subtle or coarse. Hence the saying, “De embraces the Dao, and the Dao embraces Heaven.” Here, “embraces” means to unite as one. Once they are split into two, Dao and the vessels are separated. This discussion is exceptionally precise.

Therefore it is said: Those in ancient times who nurtured the world had no desires, and the world was content of itself; they took no action, and all things transformed of themselves; they were deep and still, and the people were at peace of themselves.

The Record says (a work by Laozi): “When one is joined with the One, all affairs are complete; when one gains without intent, even ghosts and spirits submit.” To be joined with the One and have all affairs complete means that “a whole world is hidden within a grain of millet.” Ordinary people must first feel that something is lacking before they speak of gaining insight; this is all acquired contrivance. The original mind has never lacked anything; it is wholly innate and unconditioned. What, then, could it gain? Nature and ghosts and spirits naturally accord in matters of fortune and misfortune, and so the spirits submit.

The Master says: The Dao covers and sustains the myriad things, vast and boundless. A noble person must open the heart (only by letting go of acquired perception can one enter the Dao of nature).

• To act through Wuwei (non-action) is called Heaven (acting spontaneously accords with the Dao of nature).
• To speak through Wuwei is called De (one who has gained something in the heart will not casually reveal it).
• To love people and benefit things is called benevolence.
• To unite what is different as one is called greatness (uniting what differs as one).
• To act without deviation or contrived distinction is called breadth (when each side follows its own path, there is narrowness; when there is no division between sides, there is breadth).
• To encompass all kinds of difference is called abundance (one who governs Heaven and Earth and makes the myriad things a storehouse is called abundant).
• To hold fast to De without letting oneself run wild is called discipline (De has great and lesser forms: great De is the guiding principle, lesser De is discipline. Great De hits the mark without effort; when one must carefully examine and uphold the details of conduct, it is called discipline).
• To bring one’s De and work to completion is called standing firm (standing distinctly on one’s own, unmoved by external things).
• To follow the Dao in one’s conduct is called completeness (the Dao originally contains every goodness; following the Dao makes one complete, for the Dao itself is whole).
• To keep one’s aims from being thwarted by external things is called wholeness (when external things do not burden the heart, one’s very being receives them and returns whole).

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

If one understands these ten points—possessing these ten virtues, one esteems the inner and regards the outer lightly, treating all things and life and death as one—then one can hold the mind that attends to affairs within a vast expanse. “Tao” means to contain and bear; when the mind is great, nothing lies beyond its capacity. One can also flow abundantly along with the coming and going of all things. “Shi” means to depart and return: the comings and goings of all things are without end, and I too share in that endlessness.

The next four lines speak of not letting one’s body harm the Dao: burying gold in the mountains and sinking pearls to the depths, one does not covet wealth and profit or attach oneself to riches and rank. The following four lines speak of not letting things harm the Dao: one does not rejoice in longevity or grieve over an untimely death, feel honored by success or ashamed of poverty. One does not claim the profits of an age as one’s private share, nor regard ruling the realm as a position that makes oneself illustrious. However great the profits of an age, one does not appropriate them; however weighty the power over the realm, one does not treat oneself as exalted. What is made clear is the understanding that “all things return to a single storehouse, and death and life are alike in form.” One’s virtue makes one illustrious, not one’s rank: above, one has the virtue of an emperor or Son of Heaven; below, the way of a hidden sage and uncrowned king. In my narrow view, ruling the realm does not make one regard oneself as illustrious. If anything is made illustrious, it is the insight that all things share one storehouse and death and life are alike in form: there is no division between self and other, and no burden of coming and going. This is the utmost fulfillment of “hollowing out the mind.”

The Master also says: The Dao dwells in deep stillness, unmoving, clear and vast, pure and without admixture. Metal and stone cannot make sounds if they are wholly “nothing”—if they were entirely nothing, how could metal and stone sound? Metal and stone therefore possess the capacity to sound, but that capacity is not itself a sound. A sound must be stirred into being; unless struck, they do not sound. Yet if sound is thought to exist in them as something fixed, they do not sound unless struck. Among all things, who can determine exactly where sound and the Dao reside? Seen this way, the Dao encompasses both sides. Is the one that sounds the Dao? Is the one that strikes the Dao? If the Dao resides in the metal and stone, why do they not sound when unstruck? If it resides in the striker, why do other sounds differ from those of metal and stone? If it resides in empty space, why is there no sound when they are struck? Who can decide each point once and for all? In the end, Heaven does not depend on people, yet people cannot come to fruition without Heaven. The striker is not the Dao, but what makes the striking possible is the Dao.

This section comes from the commentary tradition on related chapters of the Zhuangzi, including discussions of “hollowing out the mind” and “the ten.” It develops Zhuangist reflections on the equality of things, life and death, freedom from attachment to fame and profit, and the debate over the Dao, things, and sound. It is not a general formula for cultivation; specialized concepts have been retained briefly in keeping with the commentary’s meaning.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Those who possess the Virtue of a king always act in accord with what is genuine. They regard entanglement in worldly affairs as shameful (“shi” here carries the sense of going forward or proceeding straight). Their minds are ordinarily clear and still; they do not lightly become caught up in particular affairs or outward forms. Hence the phrase “shameful to be entangled in affairs.”

Yet they take their stand on the source, like water at its spring, and are in communication with the spirit. This does not mean avoiding affairs. When something arises, they can perceive it and respond to it. This is what is meant by clarity abiding in the person and one’s purpose and vital energy being like spirit. Their Virtue is therefore expansive. What arises within them still contains something that can be gathered. The commentaries explain this “something” as the Primordial True One Qi; “gathering” carries the sense, in cultivation, of taking the medicine and gathering essence. These are terms used by the commentators and need not be conflated with the main text.

Without the Dao, physical form cannot come into being; without De, life cannot become clear. A body with form depends on the Dao to come into being, and life depends on De to become manifest. The commentary explains: “Brightness arises from darkness, and form is established at the source.” De is the Dao received in the heart-mind; clarity is knowing that the myriad things each have their own patterns. Thus, “without De, life cannot become clear” also points to being in communication with the spirit.

To preserve the body and exhaust the possibilities of life is to investigate each thing as a Taiji of its own; to establish De and illuminate the Dao is to see that the myriad things are unified in the Great Taiji.

Without the Virtue of a king, one goes astray. Those who possess it are vast and unbounded: they emerge suddenly, move with force, and the myriad things follow them. “Emerge” suggests taking the lead among the many things; at each movement, a response follows. The myriad things follow as they do when a sage acts and all things behold him.

They see in darkness and hear in silence: they alone discern the dawn within obscurity and hear harmony where there is no sound. Thus, they are deep upon deep, yet able to engage with things. They see and hear in a way that is not dependent on ordinary perception, but neither does it deny perception. Though unfathomable, they can respond to and answer the myriad things.

They are spirit upon spirit, yet able to be subtle and precise: spirit reaches its utmost and is present in every direction, while its subtle radiance appears everywhere.

When they meet the myriad things, they are utterly empty, yet satisfy what is sought: empty, they are never depleted; in motion, they give forth ever more. Through Wuwei, nothing is left undone. They go forth at the proper time and bring things to rest in their rightful place: they come and go at the fitting time, and can settle each thing where it ought to stop. This is what the commentators call a person who possesses the Virtue of a king.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Commentary on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence (Nanhua Zhenjing Zhushu): A Plain-Language Reading

---

I. “Going forth is called distance; distance is called return”

“Going forth is called distance; distance is called return”: When movement reaches its utmost point, it returns to stillness.

“Supply” means to provide. “Gallop” means to race freely. “Unite” means to encompass and bring together. “Lodging” means a destination or place of return.

“Great and small, long and short, near and far”: The Dao may be great or small, long or short, and may extend far. This is the nature of the Dao itself. It is what the Doctrine of the Mean means by “vast and yet hidden.”

---

II. The Yellow Emperor Loses the Dark Pearl (Neidan Commentary)

“The Yellow Emperor traveled north of the Red River”: The commentary says, “The gate through which I am born, the door through which I die—how many are alert, how many awaken?” In Neidan, the region of the Red River often serves as a metaphor for Kan water and the threshold between life and death.

“He climbed Mount Kunlun, looked south, and then returned”: “Return” is read as “turn back.” Looking south means advancing the Yang Fire; turning back means withdrawing the Yin Talisman. One cycle of firing time is complete.

“He lost his Dark Pearl”: “Lost” means mislaid. The Dark Pearl is true Yang. Once the Qian body is broken, it takes on the image of the Li trigram.

“He sent Knowledge to search for it, but it could not be found; he sent Li Zhu to search, but it could not be found”: It cannot be found through “knowledge,” meaning keen discernment.

“He sent Chigou to search for it, but it could not be found”: “Chi” is read like “gap,” and “gou” like “thick.” Chigou refers to verbal argument. It cannot be attained through debate or forceful probing.

“Then he sent Xiangwang, and Xiangwang found it”: Xiangwang refers to the firing process: when it comes, it seems to have a form; when it recedes, it has no fixed shape. Adepts say it should be “neither too old nor too young,” so it was found as soon as it was sought.

“The Yellow Emperor said, ‘How strange! Xiangwang was able to find it!’”: In the Qian body it is the Dark Pearl; in the Kan body it is Xiangwang. It was lost by the Red River and found again there: Kan is taken to fill Li. Zhuangzi and Laozi nearly expressed the whole teaching in just a few words. In later generations, countless people studied the Dao, yet very few truly understood it. I once received the secret formula from an immortal master. I dare not keep it to myself, but offer it as a guide to the world. Whether people understand or condemn me, I do not count the cost.

---

III. Could Nie Que Be Matched with Heaven?

Lineage of transmission: Yao’s teacher was Xu You; Xu You’s teacher was Nie Que; Nie Que’s teacher was Wang Ni; and Wang Ni’s teacher was Bei Yi.

Yao asked Xu You, “Could Nie Que be matched with Heaven—that is, rule the world and take the emperor’s throne? I intend to ask Wang Ni to recommend him.”

Xu You replied, “That would be disastrous! The world would be ruined. Nie Que is clever, wise, and exceptionally quick-witted, yet he uses human capacities to receive Heaven. Heaven’s endowment is complete from the start; this is called receiving Heaven. But when he relies on his own cleverness and forces interpretations to deal with worldly affairs, this is called using human capacities to receive Heaven.

“He concentrates only on preventing faults, and does not know where faults begin.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Reading of the Nanhua Zhenjing Zhushu

General meaning of the passage

On what grounds can a person claim to have been born able to accord with the Dao of Heaven? In truth, he relies on human artifice and loses what is “Heaven”—the natural state of things. He thinks he is preserving himself, yet sets himself against all things: first he asserts “I,” then treats things outside himself as objects. Thinking himself noble and wise, he shines about like a flame, only to be driven by petty affairs and tightly bound by external things. Looking everywhere and responding to everything is not stillness. Accommodating others and fitting in everywhere is not freedom from intention. Changing along with external things without ever being constant—how can this be called accord with Heaven? These are all ways of acting through knowledge and deliberate effort, and they are not enough to accord with Heaven.

Even so, the argument now turns. A clan honors its ancestors; one may be a father to the people, but cannot be “the father of the fathers of the people.” (A father of the people can still stand above them, but going further would take one farther from the Dao; so no one can be the “father of all fathers.”) Such a person, when governing the world, becomes pivotal in bringing order or disorder. Serving as a minister in the north brings harm; ruling as a sovereign in the south brings ruin. (A minister should act through Wuwei and carry out the ruler’s commands. A ruler who stubbornly follows his own will invites disaster, whether as minister or sovereign.)

Yao went to visit Mount Hua. The border warden, known as the Hua fengren, said, “Ah, Sage! Let me wish you long life.” Yao declined. The man then wished him wealth, and Yao declined again. He wished him many children, but Yao declined once more. The warden said, “Long life, wealth, and many children are what people wish for. Why do you alone refuse them?” Yao replied, “Many sons bring many worries, for fear they will grow arrogant and extravagant. Wealth brings many troubles, and long life brings many humiliations. These three are not what I desire, so I dare not accept them.”

---

Note: The material in parentheses was originally a line-by-line commentary on the text by Cheng Xuanying and other commentators of the Jin dynasty. The explanation above has incorporated their comments into the plain-language reading. Proper names such as Yao, the ancient sage ruler; Hua, Mount Hua; and fengren, a border warden who oversaw sacrifices to mountains and rivers, have been retained and briefly explained.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

(Continuing the discussion above of wealth, honor, and longevity.) Wealth brings many troubles in its wake, for the impulse to outdo others never ends. Longevity brings many humiliations, since people are easily taken lightly and insulted. None of these three is a way to nurture De, so Yao declined them. (If Yao had held in his heart the thought “I do not want them,” he would already have been acting deliberately, rather than abiding in natural Wuwei.)

The border warden said, “At first I took you for a sage. Now I see that you are merely a gentleman. Heaven gives birth to the myriad people and assigns each a role. With so many people, men and women each have their own work—what is there to worry about? If the wealthy share their wealth with others, what task could remain unfinished? A sage lives like a quail, with no fixed dwelling, and eats alongside the hatchling (the mother bird does not feed it directly, and it eats without intention). The bird flies through the sky, leaving no trace behind—an image of spontaneity without intention. When the world follows the Dao, the sage flourishes along with all things; when the world is without the Dao, the sage cultivates De in quiet retreat. After a thousand years, weary of the world, the sage departs, ascends to immortality, and rides the white clouds to the imperial realm. The three troubles—youth, adulthood, and old age, as in the Surangama Sutra’s image of the Ganges’ sands—never reach him; his body is always free of calamity. What humiliation could there be?” The border warden left. Yao followed and asked him a question. The warden said, “Please step back.”

(The decline of the age, growing ever worse, is expressed here through the stories of Yao, Shun, and Yu.) When Yao governed the world, Bocheng Zigao was appointed a feudal lord. When Yao passed the rule to Shun, and Shun to Yu, Zigao renounced his fief and returned to farming. Yu went to see him and found him plowing in the fields. Yu hurried over and stood downwind of him before asking, “In the days when Yao governed the world, you were made a feudal lord. The rule passed from Yao to Shun and then to me, yet you renounced your fief and took up farming. May I ask why?” Zigao replied, “In Yao’s time, the people worked diligently without being rewarded, and stood in awe without being punished. Now you use both rewards and punishments, yet the people still lack benevolence. De has declined as a result, and punishments have been established; the disorder of later generations begins here. Please go back, sir, and do not interrupt my farming.” He bent low and plowed on, his body moving rhythmically (yiyi), without looking back.

At the Great Beginning there was nonbeing; within nonbeing there was no “nonbeing,” and there was no name. The One arose from this; the One existed, but had not yet taken form.

A continuous reading in plain language:

Wealth, honor, and longevity cannot nurture De, so Yao declined them. The border warden said he was not a sage, described how the sage lives without intention and ascends to the imperial realm, and said that when the three troubles do not reach him, he suffers no humiliation. Then the warden told Yao to step back. The passage next recounts how Bocheng Zigao renounced his fief and farmed. In Yao’s time, the people worked diligently and stood in awe without rewards or punishments. In Yu’s time, rewards and punishments were used; De declined, punishments arose, and disorder began. Zigao bent to his work and plowed on without looking back.

At the Great Beginning there was only “nonbeing.” Yet one cannot speak of “nonbeing” as though it were itself a thing—that would be an attachment to “nonbeing within nonbeing”—and it had no name. The One arose from this; the One existed, but had not yet taken concrete form.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Commentary on the True Scripture of Nanhua

---

The One has not yet taken form. Things receive life through it; this is called De (Virtue/Power).

(“The One” stands in relation to the formless and the Supreme Ultimate: the One is being and nonbeing. Above even nonbeing, there is something that governs all things: this is “the One.” At its origin, there was not only no being, but not even “nonbeing.” How, then, could it have a form? This “absence of nonbeing” makes it inevitable that the myriad things come to life and possible for them to become things. This is called De (Virtue/Power), a word that also suggests “receiving.” The greatest De of Heaven and Earth is giving life.)

---

What has not yet taken form already has distinctions; yet it remains continuous and without separation. This is called destiny.

Before things take form, they seem already to have distinctions. Yet Yin-Yang opens and closes, comes and goes without stopping, and still cannot be divided apart. This is what Heaven’s destiny means.

---

Movement gathers and gives rise to things; when things take shape, their organizing principles arise. This is called form.

Destiny is originally still and undifferentiated, with no visible appearance. When primordial Qi (vital energy) gathers and remains here, it sets in motion the mechanism by which the myriad things sprout, and things come into being. Wherever there is a thing, there must be a governing principle; principle accompanies it. This is called form: the vessel, or physical body, is never separate from its principle.

---

The bodily form preserves Shen (spirit); each has its own proper order. This is called nature.

Shen governs the body, but without form, Shen would have nowhere to dwell. The body therefore serves to preserve Shen. The limbs and bones move together with primordial Shen, each following its own proper, fixed order. This is nature within Shen. How could principle ever be separate from the vessel, the bodily form?

---

When nature is cultivated, one returns to De. When De is fully realized, one becomes one with the beginning; becoming one brings emptiness, and emptiness brings vastness.

Nature is De, so why speak of “returning to De”? Only when nature has been lost does one cultivate it. Cultivation is like the return to it attributed to Tang and Wu; hence the phrase returning to De. When learning acquired after birth is cultivated to its utmost, it becomes one with the beginning before birth. The original substance has not a trace of impurity, so the text says, “Becoming one brings emptiness.” Emptiness can contain everything, so “emptiness brings vastness.”

---

When beaks join in calling, and the calls join together, they become one with Heaven and Earth.

(Beak means a bird’s bill. Calling with joined beaks is like many mouths speaking with one voice.) Though the people’s minds may be foolish, when they come together they become sage. Do they not thereby join their De with Heaven and Earth?

---

Their union is seamless, as though they were foolish and bewildered. This is called dark De, and it is one with the Great Accord.

This union blends together seamlessly, as though foolish and bewildered. It is like what Laozi says: “Everyone is bright; I alone seem dim. Everyone is discerning; I alone am muddled.” This is called dark De, and it is one with the Great Accord: the utmost ease and the natural order.

---

Explanation: The commentary above explains related passages from Zhuangzi. Using concepts such as De, destiny, form, nature, returning to De, and dark De, it links the process from “life arising from nothing” to “things taking shape,” from form to nature, and then cultivation and return to the source. The final passage uses “beaks joining in calling” and “as though foolish and bewildered” to point to the state of joining one’s De with Heaven and Earth and becoming one with the Great Accord.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This is called Mysterious De (profound and far-reaching virtue), and it is united with Great Accord (complete attunement to the natural order). Great Accord means following the way things are in themselves, without mixing in private desires and imposing them on others. This is how one cultivates one’s nature and returns to one’s original De.

Confucius asked Laozi about the Dao: “If people who cultivate the Dao seem to imitate and accommodate one another, is that acceptable? Is it right to use what I consider ‘acceptable’ to show that others’ views are ‘unacceptable,’ and what I consider ‘right’ to show that others are ‘wrong’? Is it good not to casually agree with the crowd?”

A disputant said: “If someone can split apart and carefully distinguish propositions such as ‘hard’ and ‘white,’ making them as clear as the sun and moon hanging in the sky, can that person be called a sage?”

Laozi replied: “That is the work of people who take turns at a job and make their living by their skills. They wear out their bodies and unsettle their spirits. People are always thinking about how to leash a hunting dog that catches raccoon dogs; they are always thinking about how to capture a nimble gibbon from the forest. A sage does not show off his intelligence, and so is never ultimately burdened by it.”

“What I, Qiu”—Confucius’s self-reference—“have told you is something your ears cannot take in and your mouth cannot express. What is it? It is the Limitless (the inexhaustible source). It is what was meant earlier by ‘at the Great Beginning there was nonbeing and nothingness.’”

“People who have a head and feet but no heart or ears are ordinary folk. ‘Having a head and feet’ means having a physical body from crown to heel. The ‘multitude’ described as having no heart or ears refers to those without the capacity for learning the Dao, or who have not encountered a true teacher. Having no ears means not yet having heard of the Dao that accords in De with Heaven and Earth and endures as long as Heaven and Earth. The formed and tangible— the four limbs, the hundred bones, and Jing—and the formless and unseen—Qi and Shen—will all be lost if they cannot be preserved together. Ordinary people wear out their bodies and agitate their vital energy. They do not know how to refine Jing into Qi or Qi into Shen. So when Jing is exhausted, the body perishes; when the body perishes, the tangible layer perishes with it.”

“In their activity and stillness, birth and death, decline and flourishing, they have never differed from other people. This cannot be called truly drawing near to the Great Dao.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

The “means by which” something is so, if different from a person, refers to that which has neither form nor shape.

The way to govern the world lies in people letting go of attachment to external things and of deliberate striving toward Heaven. This is called “forgetting oneself.” One who can forget the self is said to “enter into Heaven.”

The self encompasses both people and things; Heaven, in turn, is the source of the self, of people, and of things. Rulers in later ages often governed people by relying on their own intelligence, already making distinctions among things in their minds. In high antiquity, people governed people without even knowing that there were “things” in their minds. How, then, could they be attached to where things came from and call it “Heaven”? They not only made no distinction between self and things in bodily form, but also let go of their limbs and intelligence, forgetting even the self. In name they were human, yet in truth they roamed above the nine heavens; neither people nor things lay beyond their scope.

To speak of “forgetting Heaven” and then “entering Heaven” is like a skilled swimmer first forgetting fear of the depths, and only then truly entering them.

---

Jiang Lü Mian went to see Ji Che and said, “The ruler of Lu sent me to speak about the way of governing the state. I could not refuse, so I have already spoken to him. I don’t know whether my advice was sound. Please assess it.”

“I told the ruler of Lu that he must be reverent and frugal in his own conduct, appoint public-spirited and loyal people to office, show no favoritism, and then how could the people fail to live in peace?”

Ji Che laughed heartily and said, “Your words, applied to the Virtue of an emperor, are like a mantis raising its forelegs to block a cart wheel: its strength is too small, and it is bound to fail.

“Besides, if you really act that way, your own position will be in danger. Your high terraces offer a grand view, your possessions are plentiful, and although many people come to seek refuge with you—”

Self-discipline through reverence and frugality, appointing people who are public-spirited and loyal, having no partisan bias, and allowing the people to find their proper place may indeed be called good government. But the way of emperors prizes Wuwei (non-action) and regards deliberate action as inferior. That is why Ji Che laughed at Lü Mian: what he practiced might not match what he said. Like a mantis trying to block a cart, anyone with insight knows he is bound to fail; and like building a high viewing platform to make a great display, even if many people come to follow him—

(The text continues with the original phrase, “then he is bound to fail,” meaning that outward bustle is still inadequate in relation to the Great Way.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Jiang Lǚmiǎn (the character miǎn is pronounced like “xì” and describes a state of alarm) said in surprise, “I can hardly understand what you have just said, sir. Even so, I would still like to hear you explain the general meaning of the old teaching.”

Ji Che said, “The Great Sage governs the world by transforming people’s hearts as plants and trees sway naturally in the spring breeze. People are guided into learning and their customs change; together they put an end to the ‘thieving mind’—the deliberate habit of scheming at every turn and contending with others—and each advances their own ‘solitary aspiration,’ the clear-minded resolve to hold to oneself and not follow common custom. It seems as though their nature itself has brought this about, while the people do not know how they came to be this way. The Sage follows what is natural in the people’s hearts, allowing each person to fulfill their nature. What is called establishing instruction and changing customs is simply to inspire and guide, so that the spirit may unfold completely. When the people cast aside the impulse to harm one another and deepen their clear-sighted, independent resolve, they follow the great Way and its great transformation as though it were already inherent in their nature. How could they still remember whose kindness they owed? If things were truly so, why would they revere the way Yao and Shun instructed the people as an elder brother, while despising the virtue of Mingxi (the name describes a state of bowing one’s head and willingly accepting one’s lot) as a younger brother? The rule of Yao and Shun arose from deliberate effort; the people of Mingxi were without intent and acted naturally. The Sage hopes only that the people may all return to De and each find what brings them ease.”

Zigong was traveling south in the state of Chu. On his way back to Jin, he passed through Hanyin and saw an old man preparing garden beds in his vegetable plot. He had dug a passage down to a well and was carrying water in a jar to irrigate the beds. Exhausted and panting, he was laboring hard for little result. Zigong said, “There is a device that can irrigate a hundred beds in a day, with little effort and great effect. Wouldn’t you like to use one?” The old gardener looked up at him and asked, “How does it work?” Zigong said, “You carve wood into a device, heavy at the rear and light at the front. It draws up water like a pump, swiftly as boiling water—that is, it draws water with speed and little effort. It is called a well sweep.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This passage recounts the story of Confucius' disciple Zigong encountering an elderly vegetable farmer. When the old man saw Zigong using a well-sweep (an ancient irrigation tool) to water the fields, he disapprovingly remarked:

"My master taught me that those who use mechanical devices inevitably become crafty, and crafty people develop calculating minds. When the mind harbors calculations, one's original pure nature becomes incomplete. With an impure nature, the Shen (spirit) grows restless. Those with unsettled spirits cannot embody the Dao. It's not that I don't know mechanical tools save labor—I simply find such methods shameful."

Zigong hung his head in shame. The old man continued: "Aren't you the one who imitates sages through superficial learning, overwhelms crowds with pretentious mannerisms, and boasts to gain reputation? If you can't even govern your own spirit and body, how could you possibly govern the world? Be on your way—don't interfere with my work."

After leaving, Zigong walked thirty li in a daze before regaining composure. His disciples asked: "Who was that man? Why did you become so distraught?" Zigong sighed: "I once believed Confucius was the only sage in the world, yet now I've met such an extraordinary person. Confucius teaches efficiency (like labor-saving well-sweeps), but this elder warns mechanical tools damage one's nature. Clearly, my understanding of the Dao remains shallow."

(Note: The "pure white" refers to humanity's original untainted state, while "calculating mind" denotes utilitarian scheming. This dialogue exemplifies Daoist opposition to artificial cleverness and advocacy for returning to natural simplicity.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Vernacular Interpretation

“Most people today are not like this. (Only the old man of Hanyin was.) When one holds fast to the Dao (the Way), De (Virtue/Power) becomes complete. When De is complete, the body becomes complete; when the body is complete, the spirit becomes complete. A complete spirit is the way of the sage. Entrusting one’s life to the world, walking alongside the common people, yet not knowing where one is headed—what a state of undivided simplicity, how whole it is!

“Self-interest and clever contrivances are bound to unsettle the human heart. A person like this one—the old man of Hanyin—does not do what his heart is unwilling to do, and does not entertain thoughts his heart is unwilling to hold. Even if everyone under Heaven praises him, they are only saying that his actions suit the place they occupy in the world; he remains unconcerned. Even if everyone under Heaven criticizes him, they are only saying that his words do not suit their place in the world; he remains free and untouched. The praise and criticism of all under Heaven neither diminish nor benefit him. This is what is called a person of complete De.

“‘The people I spoke of are people stirred by the winds and waves’—that is, people easily moved.” He returned to Lu and told Confucius about what had happened. Confucius said, “That man is one who has entrusted himself to the practice of Hundun’s art—the art of the ancient age of Wuwei (non-action). He knows the One but not the Two: his mind does not divide. He cultivates the inner, not the outer. He understands plainness and simplicity, returns to simplicity through Wuwei, embodies his nature and embraces his spirit, and moves about among worldly people. Are you going to be astonished by this and cling to your surprise? (You do not yet understand this Dao, so it is only natural that you are astonished.) Besides, how could you or I be capable of understanding Hundun’s art?”

Zhun Mang, a person not yet carved or polished, was about to travel east to the Great Ravine—the sea, whose waters one might also cross by boat—and met Yuan Feng on the eastern shore. Yuan Feng asked, “Where are you going?” He replied, “To the Great Ravine.” “What will you do there?” “The Great Ravine is something into which waters flow without filling it, and from which they may be drawn without exhausting it. I am going there to wander and look around.” Yuan Feng said, “Have you no concern for the people with eyes set crosswise—that is, human beings, unlike animals, whose eyes are set straight? I would like to hear about the sage’s rule.” Zhun Mang said, “The sage’s rule? He assigns duties without letting them fall into neglect, and promotes people without assigning them beyond their abilities…”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

When governing the state, the sage sees each person’s true circumstances clearly, then lets them do what needs to be done. Each acts according to their real situation, without affectation or pretense. Their actions and words serve their own needs, not those of others, and the world is transformed of itself. A wave of the hand or a glance is enough for people from every direction to come in throngs, all responding to his wishes. This is called sage governance.

Someone asked, “I would like to hear what a person of De is like.”

The reply was: “A person of De thinks of nothing while at rest and makes no plans when acting. They keep no notions of right and wrong, beauty and ugliness in their heart—what is meant by not thinking of good or evil. They are glad when all under Heaven share in the benefits, and at ease when everyone has enough to live on, as though they were mayflies dwelling between Heaven and Earth, almost forgetting they have a body. They are desolate, like an infant who has lost its mother; they drift without knowing whom to rely on. They are bewildered and pensive, like someone walking who has lost the road, with no interest in worldly affairs. They have more than enough possessions, yet do not know where they came from; they eat and drink their fill, yet do not know where the food came from. They make no effort to seek anything, so others do not see them as deprived, and they are always content. This is the appearance of a person of De: they have forgotten fame and achievement.”

Someone else asked, “I would like to hear about the Spirit Person.”

The reply was: “The Spirit Person is above. Their spirit rises on high, while the light of the sun and moon shines below. They merge with their physical form until both disappear. Though they have a body, it is as if they do not; they can pass through metal and stone without hindrance. This is called Illumination of the Vast Expanse: the great cosmos shines out, illuminating open space, no longer bound by bodily form. They fulfill their life and bring their nature to completion: to fulfill life is to exhaust Heaven’s allotment, and to bring nature to completion is to let every feeling that arises accord with due measure. Heaven and Earth rejoice, and the myriad things vanish into emptiness at its utmost; all things return to their original nature. This is called Merging into Obscurity: to merge is to become one, and obscurity is to forget even illumination—what is called the primordial chaos.”

Men Wugui and Chizhang Manji watched King Wu’s army. Chizhang Manji said, “Wouldn’t it be better to be like the Youyu clan? That is why these calamities have come about.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

The Gatekeeper of No Ghosts said, “The world ought to be at peace to begin with. Does it really need Yu Shun to ‘govern’ it? Or did it first fall into disorder, and only then did he step in to put things right?” Red Zhang Manji replied, “If the world were already at peace and everyone had their proper place, why would anyone need to praise Yu Shun’s virtuous rule and raise him up as Son of Heaven? Clearly, the world had fallen into disorder, and only then did people seek Yu Shun’s help.”

When the Youyu clan—Yu Shun—governed the world, it was like smearing medicine on a body with no sores, wearing a wig despite having no bald spot, or seeking a doctor when one is not ill. If the world was not already in disorder, why insist on having a “sage king” govern it? Seeking order in the midst of chaos is not as good as having no need for governance at all, with everyone in the world living peacefully alongside one another.

A dutiful son holds out medicine to treat his father’s illness, his face full of worry. Even the sage feels embarrassed for him. His intentions are good, of course, but it would be better if his father were not ill and needed no medicine, and if his face did not bear that look of anxious concern. What makes the sage “embarrassed” is this constant worry: it is less at ease than the thoughtless, unguided life of Hundun.

In the age of Perfect Virtue, no one proclaimed the worthy or appointed the capable, because there were not yet such labels as “worthy” and “capable,” let alone anyone to “admire” or “appoint.” Those in high positions hung above the people like treetops, with no intention of pressing down on them. The people lived as freely as wild deer, without suspicion or wariness toward one another. People acted uprightly without knowing it was called “righteousness”; they cared for one another without knowing it was called “benevolence”; they treated others honestly without knowing it was called “loyalty”; they did things properly without knowing it was called “trustworthiness.” All creatures stirred and helped one another, yet none thought of this as a favor bestowed. Their actions left no trace, and their deeds spread no fame. In an age like this, among people like these, what need was there for “disorder”? And what need was there to seek “order”? Taken as a whole, this describes the customs of ancient times: King Wu was not as good as Yu Shun, and Yu Shun was not as good as the ancients. If those who govern the world could all think as Zhuangzi did, they could attain the state of ancient times simply by sitting still.

A dutiful child does not flatter their parents; a loyal minister does not fawn on the ruler. Yet when children are truly dutiful and ministers truly loyal, they nod at whatever their parents say and approve of whatever they do. The common world then calls them “unworthy”—not like proper people, not fit for anything.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

If what you say agrees with what the ruler approves, and what you do is praised as good by society, people will call you an unworthy minister. But do you know that this must be so? The question is rhetorical: it shows that this is not inevitable. You should not casually agree with the ruler or your parents in what you say; still less should you agree with society.

If you call right what society calls right, and good what society calls good, you will not be called a flatterer—a person who fawns and ingratiates themselves. The point is that blindly following society can keep you from being seen as a flatterer. But is society more exacting than your parents, or more exalted than the ruler? The charges of disloyalty and unfilial conduct are grave, so people refuse to accept them.

If someone calls you a “Daoist,” you flare up, unwilling to accept the label “flatterer”; if someone calls you a “flatterer,” you flare up too. Yet all your life you have been a “Daoist,” and all your life you have been a “flatterer.” Society dislikes people who flatter rulers and parents, yet likes people who flatter themselves. You dislike being called a flatterer, while spending your life doing what flatterers do. Why is it called right to plan for the ruler and your parents, but wrong to plan for yourself?

“To unite analogies, embellish words, and gather a following” means using many comparisons to make your ideas clear, dressing them up in elegant language, and drawing scholars from across the realm to join your school. This is another kind of flattery: using learning and fine words to please the world.

“To let beginning and end, root and branch, fail to meet” is to seem to follow a separate set of principles, with each side speaking for itself and neither covering the other. It means keeping one appearance on the surface and another in practice.

You wear flowing robes, display fine colors, and arrange your bearing to charm the age, yet do not admit to being a flatterer. You go along with the crowd and blur right and wrong, yet do not admit to being one of the crowd. Is this not the height of foolishness? The crowd calls what is right right and what is wrong wrong; you join the common multitude, yet refuse to see yourself as one of them.

“One who knows their own folly is not greatly foolish”: to be foolish about how things work but know that you are foolish is not great folly. “One who knows their own confusion is not greatly confused”: to be confused about the world but know that you are confused is not great confusion. Those in great confusion never find their way out; those in great folly never come to clarity.

If three people travel together and one is lost, they can still reach their destination because the lost person is in the minority. If two are lost, they will struggle and get nowhere because the lost are in the majority. Now everyone under Heaven is lost. Even if I wished to pray for guidance and blessings, I could not obtain them.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence

“Is this not sad?”—Do people under Heaven not know whether they have lost their way in the arts of the Dao or the arts of governance? Is it the Buddhist school that has gone astray, or the Confucian school? Confucians speak only of the Virtue of the Three Dynasties of Yao, Shun, Yu, and Tang, and revere purposeful action, yet do not know that in high antiquity there was also the Dao of Wuwei (non-action). This is the Confucian delusion. The Chan school speaks only of illuminating the mind and seeing one’s nature, without knowing that only dual cultivation of nature and life counts as true Buddhism. This is the Buddhist delusion. Heterodox practitioners know only to sit in stillness and practice breathing exercises in pursuit of long life, without knowing that the Great Dao never departs from Yin-Yang, and is mysterious beyond mystery. This is the Daoist delusion. Zhuangzi and Laozi wrote the Southern Florescence Classic and spoke to people with earnest persistence—but who is willing to listen? Is this not sad?

“A great sound does not enter rustic ears”—People in the lanes and alleys do not enjoy the refined, correct notes of great music.

“Breaking Willow and Yellow Blossoms”—The name of a little tune popular in the lanes and alleys. As the saying goes, “When vulgar tunes prevail, the highest words are buried.”

“Then they burst into laughter”—So the crowd joined in singing the tune with a clamor.

“That is why lofty words do not settle in the hearts of ordinary people”—Here, “settle” means “enter and remain.”

“The highest words go unspoken, and vulgar words prevail”—The highest words are obscure; vulgar words gain the upper hand and find an audience among vulgar ears.

“Confused by two earthen jars and a bell, one cannot find one’s way”—Jars and bells were earthenware vessels from Qin. If two people played jars and bells as music, people would be delighted by the novelty and become confused, leaving no one to listen to ancient music. Music is used here as a metaphor.

“And now the whole world is confused”—Today, everyone under Heaven is lost.

“Though I have the wish to entreat and guide them, how could I succeed?”—Though I wish to appeal to people and guide them, how could I possibly do so?

“Knowing that I cannot succeed, to force the matter would be yet another delusion”—The world is already deeply confused about the arts of governance and the arts of the Dao. If I were to force the Dao of Wuwei and the Golden Elixir upon people, they would remain unable to understand it throughout their lives. Forcing it on them would only add another layer of delusion.

“So it is better to let it go and not press it”—“Press” here means to seek or insist upon something.

“If I do not press it, who would share my sorrow?”—If I stop pressing the matter, knowing that no one in the world can share my understanding, whom can I still hope to find who will share my sorrow? Zhuangzi and Laozi’s concern for the world is conveyed in understated language; the passage seems to end, yet does not quite conclude. This is a writer’s consummate art.

“A man with leprosy fathered a child at midnight. He hurriedly fetched a light to look, anxiously fearing that the child might resemble him”—An ugly man had a son in the night and rushed to fetch a light, afraid the child would look like him.

Note: The original annotations have been incorporated into the text. Proper names such as the Southern Florescence Classic, Zhuangzi and Laozi, the Golden Elixir, and dual cultivation of nature and life have been retained and briefly explained.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This passage says that once people depart from their true nature, they are essentially alike, no matter how “upright” or “noble” they may appear.

Some people seem to understand a great deal, yet do not even realize that they are wicked or foolish. Those who go through their whole lives without awakening are worse than even the most violent people.

A tree a hundred years old could have grown naturally in the forest without harm to its nature. If it is cut down and made into a sacrificial vessel, then painted in blue and yellow, it may look splendid; another piece of the same tree may lie broken in a ditch and rot. The sacrificial vessel and the rotten wood in the ditch are worlds apart in beauty and ugliness, but both have lost the tree’s original vitality. In that respect, they are exactly the same.

Robber Zhi and Zengzi, Shi You, Yan Hui, and Shi Qiu differ greatly in conduct: one is a notorious bandit, while the others are Confucian sages. Yet in “losing their nature”—departing from what is true—they are no different. (The painted sacrificial vessel represents the cultivation associated with figures such as Zengzi and Shi You; the broken wood in the ditch represents the degradation of Robber Zhi. Though one sacrifices oneself for righteousness and the other for profit, both lose what is true.)

There are, moreover, roughly five causes of losing one’s nature:

First, the confusion of the five colors disturbs the eyes and dims their clarity.

Second, the din of the five sounds disturbs the ears and dulls their hearing.

Third, the five odors overwhelm the nose and block the head and eyes, as their force rises to the forehead.

Fourth, rich and heavy flavors spoil the palate and dull the tongue.

Fifth, the disorder of preferences and desires unsettles one’s nature, making people restless and flighty.

These five are all roots of harm to the life-giving nature. Yet the followers of Yang and Mo strain and stand on tiptoe amid benevolence and righteousness, proudly believing they have attained the Dao. In my view, they are merely fixated on one side. How can that be called “attainment”?

If what is called “attainment” means trapping and binding oneself, can it really be attainment? Would a dove or owl shut inside a cage not also count as having “attained” something?

What is more, people chase sounds and colors and make choices in pursuit of material desires, piling up barriers within their hearts. They wear leather caps and feathered hats, hold tablets, and bind their waists with sashes, using ritual to constrain their outward form. Within, they are filled with desire; without, they are bound by the teachings of social convention.

Zhuangzi, as explained in the commentaries, opposes treating benevolence, righteousness, ritual, music, sounds, and colors as things one has “attained.” Like the evil of Robber Zhi and the ornamentation of the sacrificial vessel, they all amount to losing one’s nature. The followers of Yang and Mo each cling to one side and take pride in themselves; they are no different from birds in a cage. True attainment means returning to one’s nature and living spontaneously, rather than filling the heart with barriers made from external things and binding the body with clothes and ceremony.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

An Argument Against People Who Claim to Have Attained the Dao

Though plainly bound by chains and ropes—filled within by cravings for sights and sounds, as if shut behind bars, and tightly constrained outwardly by official robes and rank—they still imagine that they have attained the Dao and achieved perfection. If this counts as “attaining the Dao,” then should not prisoners with their hands bound behind their backs and their fingers pinched, or tigers and leopards locked in cages, also be able to claim that they have attained it?

Further explanation in the commentary: Those who chase after sights and sounds and make choices for the sake of fame and profit use this as grounds to mock people throughout history who were “wealthy and powerful but without Dao and De.” They failed to understand Wuwei (non-action) in governing from above and offended their rulers; they could not govern well below and offended the people; their hearts were full of desires, so they could not truly put benevolence and righteousness into practice, offending the sages; and their dress was improper and their outward appearance at odds with their inner selves, offending the moral teachings and bringing disaster upon themselves. Zhuangzi and Laozi likened such people to criminals wearing cangues and tigers and leopards in cages, despising and loathing them to the utmost. Yet people of this kind often manage to reach the end of their lives unscathed. Why? They may escape the net of human law (the king’s law), but they cannot escape Heaven’s judgment (the retribution of Yin-Yang and the Dao of Heaven). Those who escape calamities in the human realm will surely not escape calamities of Yin-Yang. This is precisely what is meant by “Heaven’s net is vast; its mesh is wide, yet nothing slips through.”

Fugui Zi says:

Nothing is greater than Heaven and Earth; nothing is more revered than Dao and De. The Dao of the sage encompasses and sustains all things, and so it can be named alongside Heaven and Earth. Though Heaven and Earth are vast, they shelter and sustain all things without partiality, transforming and nurturing them equally. Though the myriad things are numerous, Heaven brings them into being and brings them to death, governing them all in the same way. Though human beings are many, each honors their own ruler and belongs to their own people; a ruler remains a ruler. The distinction between rulers and lords has its basis in the greater or lesser measure of their De: people establish it, while Heaven brings it to completion. Heaven is the mysterious Heaven, and a ruler possesses mysterious De; hence the phrase “the rulers of the primordial age who governed the world through the mysterious.” In the age of the Three Sovereigns, they ruled through Wuwei: their De was the De of Heaven, and their Dao was the Dao of Heaven. If one uses this Dao to assess speech and station, the ruler will be enlightened above and the ministers virtuous below. If one uses it to assess talent and function, the officials will fulfill their duties and the myriad things will come to no harm. When Heaven, Earth, and humanity are united as one, this is De; when this is extended to the myriad things so that nothing fails to accord with it, this is the Dao.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Those who occupy positions of authority and govern the people should also keep their work simple. How could it be as elaborate as the crafts used every day by everyone?

It is better to let skill be guided by affairs: allow things to unfold naturally. Let affairs be guided by what is right: act in keeping with what ought to be. Let what is right be guided by De: take De as the foundation, carry forward innate goodness, and fulfill one’s nature. Let De be guided by the Dao: let it arise from the Dao that extends from the Limitless to the Supreme Ultimate. Let the Dao be guided by Heaven: follow what is natural. Heaven is the principle of nature, so when there is no desire, all under Heaven is content. Heaven is the natural order, so through Wuwei all things transform of themselves. No desire and no action bring deep stillness. When all under Heaven is content and all things transform of themselves, the people’s hearts also settle completely. The Record says, “Grasp the One, and all affairs are complete”: understand this “One,” and all affairs are complete. It also says, “With no mind, one gains the allegiance of ghosts and spirits”: the workings of creation can command those who possess awareness, but cannot command those who do not.

The “One” is the Dao. Though the Dao covers and sustains all things, only the noble person can set aside perception and dissect the heart—that is, abandon a calculating mind—and bear the Dao. Thus the noble person has “action through non-action” and “speech without words”; the benevolence of loving others, sameness without uniformity, and a generosity that makes no distinctions; a wealth that possesses nothing, and a guiding order that clings to nothing; a self-standing independence, a completeness that embraces every excellence, and an integrity that does not let things defeat the will. Once these ten are understood, gold is naturally found in the mountains and pearls in the depths. Outward wealth and rank are on a par with long or short life; hardship and success, obscurity and prominence, are equal. All things are seen as familiar parts of one’s own body—what difference could there be among them? Life and death are seen as waking from dreams at daybreak or falling asleep at night—how could their paths seem different?

This Dao is silent and still, yet can answer every sound under Heaven. If the Dao is the standard, why should metal and stone need to be struck in order to ring? If the Dao is the standard, why would striking empty space produce no sound? No thing, then, can determine where the Dao resides. Only those whose De is kingly understand this: their learning has a source, so their knowledge is like spirit; their De is broad and all-encompassing, so they respond to things with perfect accord. People know that form arises from the formless, but do not know that when De is established, the Dao becomes clear of itself. In the dark, they see what is hidden—this is inward vision, called clarity. In silence, they hear what cannot be heard—this is listening inward, called acuity. Within what has no things, they can bring things into being; through spirit upon spirit, they can give spirit to the spirits. Why is this so? Could it be because they take it to be nothing? Nothing can give rise to being. For if being supplies being, it is limited; if nothing supplies nothing…

(The final passage may be incomplete in the transmitted text. Its general meaning continues the themes above: “being” arises from “nothing”; De makes the Dao clear; inward vision and inward listening, together with the all-encompassing responsiveness of kingly De, connect with the “ten” qualities and the idea that the “One” is the Dao.)

For a close comparison with the original Nanhua Zhenjing and a complete edition of its commentaries, please specify the volume or chapter so the passages can be examined line by line.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain Language Reading of the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Nanhua

One. What has an end returns to nonbeing; the Dao has its source

General meaning of the original:

What appears to be without end ultimately returns to “being”; when being comes to an end, it returns to “nonbeing.”

In pursuing it, one must grasp its guiding principle. It has a way of encompassing the great and the small, the long and the short, the near and the far—this is the Dao.

Plain language:

“Being” may seem endless, but in the end it still comes back to “being”; when it reaches its limit, it returns to “nonbeing.”

In pursuing it, one must grasp its key: the Dao can be great or small, long or short, near or far. This is what the Dao is like.

Two. Wuwei in the highest De, deliberate action in the lesser De

General meaning of the original:

To preserve it without losing it is Wuwei (non-action) in the highest De (Virtue/Power), the pure substance of Qian. To lose it and then try to recover it is deliberate action in the lesser De, like taking Kan to fill Li.

Plain language:

To hold on to it without losing it is the Wuwei of the highest De, like the pure Yang substance of Qian.

To lose it and then struggle to get it back is the deliberate action of the lesser De, like the artificial process of taking Kan to fill Li.

(Taking Kan to fill Li is a Neidan (internal alchemy) term. It refers to using the water of the Kan trigram to fill the fire of the Li trigram, deliberately regulating the breath and refining Qi.)

Three. The Yellow Emperor travels by the Red River and loses the Dark Pearl

General meaning of the original:

The Yellow Emperor traveled north of the Red River—the source of the “river where the medicine is produced” in alchemical texts. He climbed Kunlun Hill, looked south, and then turned back.

He should have returned with the Great Dao, but instead he “turned back” having lost the Dark Pearl.

The immortal master said: The Dark Pearl flew to the top of Kunlun. If you wish to find it, you must seek Wangxiang (the Formless Image).

It is also called Great Yin, Dark Pearl, the Immortal Maiden in Red, and Rosy Cloud Qi;

it is also called the Marrow of the Red Phoenix of the Southern Heavens, the Fat of the Fire Dragon of the Purple Palace, Spring Snow of Qujiang, the Immortal Peach of the Sea House, Heavenly Wine of the Jade Pool, and the Bestowed Golden Flower—

all of these refer to the wondrous form within the body.

Plain language:

The Yellow Emperor went traveling north of the Red River—the source of the medicine in alchemical texts.

He climbed Kunlun Mountain, looked south, and then returned.

He should have brought the Great Dao back with him, but instead he lost the Dark Pearl.

The immortal master said: The Dark Pearl flew to the summit of Kunlun. To find it, you must seek Wangxiang (the Formless Image).

The Dark Pearl has many other names: Great Yin, the Immortal Maiden in Red, Rosy Cloud Qi;

the Marrow of the Red Phoenix of the Southern Heavens, the Fat of the Fire Dragon of the Purple Palace, Spring Snow of Qujiang, the Immortal Peach of the Sea House, Heavenly Wine of the Jade Pool, and the Bestowed Golden Flower—

all of these refer to the same wondrous form within the body.

Four. The Dark Pearl is within the body; it cannot be sought through knowing

General meaning of the original:

Within the body is the spirit of primordial chaos, the Elixir that restores the treasure of life.

This pearl cannot be sought through knowledge, seen through sharp observation, or explored through discussion.

The Yellow Emperor sent Wangxiang, and only then could it be found. The image is not nothing; “formless” is not something. Neither being nor nonbeing: this is the true timing of the immortal’s fire.

The pearl comes from outside and arises from emptiness. It is in the positions of Kun and Dui, not Qian and Xun. It is primordial Qi, called Dark Wine.

To become intoxicated with the Primordial Elder, one needs the support of Dao companions and the hidden merit of virtuous conduct in order to attain it.

Plain language:

Within the body lies the primordial spirit of chaos: the Elixir that restores nature and life.

This pearl cannot be sought through knowledge, seen through cleverness, or explored through argument.

The Yellow Emperor sent Wangxiang, and only then was it found. An image is not nothing; “formless” is not something. Neither being nor nonbeing: this is the true timing of the immortals’ fire.

The pearl comes from outside and arises from emptiness. It is in the positions of Kun and Dui, not Qian and Xun. It is primordial Qi, called Dark Wine.

To become intoxicated in the presence of the Primordial Elder, one needs the support of Dao companions and the hidden virtue of good conduct in order to attain it.

Five. Yao asks Xu You: the Dao cannot be sought with intention

General meaning of the original:

Yao asked Xu You about the Dao of governing the world. Xu You considered the question dangerous: the Dao cannot be sought with intention or attained through cleverness.

Heaven acts through Wuwei; people act deliberately. To use deliberate action to imitate Wuwei is certain to fail.

Thus it is said: relying on human effort without following Heaven, and having a body unlike other forms, makes it impossible to be without a self. Esteeming knowledge and rushing about like fire makes it impossible to discard knowledge and old assumptions.

In this way, one becomes a servant of the world, bound by things and unable to free oneself.

Looking in every direction and responding to things means things have not yet forgotten the self; responding to the crowd means the self has not yet forgotten things.

To transform along with things is to be carried along by them. With no constancy, one loses the self in its natural state. How, then, could one accord with Heaven?

Plain language:

Yao asked Xu You how to govern the world, and Xu You thought the matter dangerous: the Dao cannot be sought with intention or attained through cleverness.

Heaven acts through Wuwei, while people act deliberately. Trying to imitate Wuwei through deliberate action is bound to fail.

So it is said: relying on human effort without following Heaven, and having a body distinct from other forms, makes it impossible to be without a “self.” Valuing cleverness and rushing about like fire makes it impossible to let go of knowledge and preconceptions.

This leaves one at the mercy of the world, bound by things and unable to free oneself.

To look around and respond to things means that things have not yet been forgotten;

to be on the verge of responding to the crowd means that I have not yet forgotten things.

To transform along with things is to be carried along by them. Without constancy, one loses the self in its original state. How, then, could one accord with Heaven?

Six. A lineage and its founders: Nie Que heard the Dao

General meaning of the original:

Even so, the Dao has a lineage and founders: Nie Que, too, is said to have heard the Dao, and can serve as an example.

Plain language:

Even so, the Dao has a lineage and its founding teachers. Nie Que, for example, is said to have heard the Dao and can serve as a model.

Summary

Theme	Main point
Dark Pearl	The primordial spirit within the body; neither being nor nonbeing; attained through Wangxiang
The highest and lesser De	Preserving it without loss versus losing it and trying to recover it
Xu You	The Dao cannot be sought with intention; using deliberate action to imitate Wuwei is bound to fail
Forgetting the self	As long as things have not forgotten the self, and the self has not forgotten things, one cannot accord with Heaven

This passage brings together Zhuangzi’s parable of the Yellow Emperor losing the Dark Pearl and Wangxiang finding it, and the story of Yao questioning Xu You. It connects them with Neidan terms such as the Dark Pearl, the timing of the fire, and Dark Wine to explain that the Great Dao is within the body. It cannot be reached through knowledge or cleverness. One must be like Wangxiang, neither attached to being nor to nonbeing, and let go of the self, knowledge, and the pursuit of things in order to approach accord with Heaven.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

“The father of the many” is the leader of the people, but he must not become “the father of the father of the many,” the leader of all leaders. The ruler’s Way values Wuwei (non-action). Nie Que could not practice it, and so became the source of disorder and a model of calamity. If one cannot assist the ruler through Wuwei, one becomes a danger to those who occupy the minister’s place, facing north. If a ruler insists on acting but governs by the methods of a minister, he becomes a usurper in the ruler’s place, facing south.

Zhuangzi’s account of Yao inspecting the domain of Hua concerns adapting to circumstances while moving through the world. The guardian at Hua’s border taught him that when duties are distributed among many men, each keeping to his own role, people do not fall into disorder; when wealth is shared among the people, everyone knows contentment and has no worries. Quail do not choose where they live, fledglings do not choose what they eat, and birds fly through empty space: all express acting without intention and following nature. The sage lives in the world in the same way. When the world has the Dao, the sage flourishes along with all things, as the Confucians say that one comes forth when the Way prevails. When the world lacks the Dao, the sage cultivates De and lives in quiet retirement, as the Confucians say that one withdraws when the Way does not prevail. As for rejecting the world, the border guardian’s instruction that Yao ride the clouds to the “Imperial Realm” shows that he was no ordinary person.

Sadly, the age grew ever more troubled, so Yao, Shun, and Yu are invoked to make the point: Yao did not use rewards and punishments, yet the people still encouraged one another and felt awe; Yu used rewards and punishments, yet could not bring disorder under control. From then on, trouble in the world was unavoidable. Bocheng Zigaode gave up his position as a feudal lord and went to farm; perhaps he stood apart from such debates altogether.

The Great Change (Taiyi) is the stage before Qi has become manifest; the Great Beginning (Taichu) is the beginning of Qi. Thus the “nonbeing” of the Great Beginning is the Great Change, while “being and nonbeing” is also used to encompass the Great Change. The Great Origin (Taishi) is the beginning of form; it is also what the Laozi calls “the nameless, the beginning of Heaven and Earth.” As soon as “nonbeing” is spoken of, it is set against “being”; once “being” is spoken of, the designation “One” arises. This still belongs to the Great Beginning, the origin of Qi: there is the “One,” but it has not yet taken form. The One is the Great Beginning. Things cannot help but become things in some way. When things become capable of coming into being, this is called De (Virtue/Power)—De means “to attain.” The great De of Heaven and Earth is giving life. Before form has emerged, all principles are already present. Yin and Yang divide, each with its own discernible order, yet the roots of Yin and Yang remain blended together, inseparable. This is what Heaven imparts as destiny. “Congealing” means becoming fixed and condensed; when what has congealed moves, things are born. This is the mechanism that sets all things in motion and brings them forth. Once things are born, the principle by which life begets life is properly realized in each thing. What takes form once and cannot be changed is the Great Simplicity (Taisu). According to the sequence commonly used in commentaries, the text may proceed here to Taisu; the version you cite ends with “Great,” perhaps omitting the rest.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Interpretation

As soon as physical form appears, it is accompanied by “the form within form”—that is, Shen (spirit, the ruling principle). Form is Shen’s dwelling; Shen is the master of form. The Daoist idea of the Original Shen, and the Buddhist idea of Buddha-nature, both refer to this.

Everything has its own proper measure; this is called nature: wherever there is a thing, there are its guiding patterns. Cultivating one’s nature centers on returning to De. When De is complete, one connects with the primordial state of “no-nothing.” Emptiness means that Shen returns to emptiness; at its utmost, emptiness can contain everything. If the mind still clings to “becoming one with the Dao,” it remains caught in what exists—how could it truly unite? The key is no-mind and naturalness. Flocks of birds join their beaks and sing—not to “speak,” yet their cries naturally form words. To speak without speaking, so that speech is like silence: this is to align one’s De with Heaven and Earth. That harmonious, dimly aware state, seeming foolish and dazed, is Mysterious De. To reach this point is to enter an unobstructed state and accord with Great Accord—what Laozi called “Great Accord.”

Confucius asked Lao Dan about the way to govern people. Lao Dan said: To take “acceptable or unacceptable” and “right or wrong” as standards, to dress up cleverness in pursuit of novelty, and to dissect the argument about “hardness and whiteness” as though showing off a feat suspended in midair—what is this but putting one’s inner concerns on display? How is it any different from using physical forms to manipulate one another and using skills to ensnare one another? The body grows weary and the mind and spirit become alarmed, like a hound on a leash or a monkey in a cage. All this comes from bringing trouble upon oneself through some particular skill. The sage does not flaunt ability and intelligence, and will never allow them to become a burden.

Confucius then said to Lao Dan: To ask about “what cannot be heard” and “what cannot be spoken” is to ask about nature and the Way of Heaven. One with a head and toes, from crown to heel, can be said to have human form. One without mind or ears, wholly unaware and unable to hear, can be said to be close to having “no human feelings.” Those with form stand alongside the formless, the shapeless that nevertheless endures. The sage who embodies form and fulfills nature can preserve both aspects; one who casts away the formless and shapeless altogether is merely an ordinary person. What is called “fulfilling the formless” means that amid movement and rest, life and death, decline and renewal, people are turned by things, while what makes this so belongs to Heaven. Only one who can forget things can forget Heaven; only one who can forget Heaven can cease clinging to the self. Then Heaven and humanity become one, and the ladder of Heaven—the steps of the Way of Heaven—lies as if in the palm of one’s hand. This is called entering Heaven.

Jiang Kaihu (a personal name) said to the Lord of Lu: “Respectful, frugal, employing worthy people, and free of partiality”—he believed he had attained the Dao, but in fact… (The original text breaks off here; the commentary may cite another story. The general point is a warning that employing people and governing a state cannot rely solely on outward virtue.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

The Way to pacify the people has been explained sufficiently. Ji Che, however, mocked him: he was like a praying mantis raising its forelegs to stop a cartwheel, unaware that it could never bear the force; or like someone worried that his viewing platform would draw a crowd, without realizing that such an arrangement could not last.

For an emperor, De is most honored when expressed through Wuwei (non-action), and least valued when expressed through deliberate action. Rulers govern the world and transform customs, yet the people remain unaware. If this is so, why honor the Way of Yao and Shun while disparaging the De of Mingxing? It is simply a matter of hoping that the people will all return to De. Mingxing refers to the age of Hongmeng, when rule was without action—the “great unity with Mingxing” described in the “Yun Jiang” chapter. By the time of Yao and Shun, deliberate action had begun.

After traveling to Chu, Zigong was returning to Jin when he met an old man from Hanyin carrying a jar to water his garden beds. The work was arduous, yet he was ashamed to use the device Zigong proposed. A device is a small matter, but once there are mechanical contrivances, do they not bring many entanglements? Such contrivances are still external; from this we can see that if one harbors a calculating mind, would its contamination not run deeper still? The Supreme One, Laozi, said: when the spirit terrace contains nothing, it is called clarity; when not a single thought arises, it is called stillness. Clarity and stillness leave no calculating mind. An empty room gives birth to light: release the boundless radiance of the spirit, and it shines through the ten directions. If even the slightest calculating thought remains within, pure brightness is incomplete and the spirit becomes unsettled, as though it no longer dwells in its own house.

The Great Dao does not carry what lies beyond it. Why would the old man from Hanyin stoop to such mechanical contrivances? It is like teaching Zigong to forget his spirit and vital energy, to be without a calculating mind, to let go of his bodily form and have no self. One must first cultivate oneself before one can govern the world. Only then did Zigong realize that seeking what is feasible, striving to complete tasks, and achieving much through little effort are not the Way of the sage.

One who holds to the Dao has De complete; one whose De is complete has bodily form complete; one whose bodily form is complete has spirit complete. The old man’s Way was perhaps a way of keeping the spirit whole. How could it belong to someone who understood mechanical devices? Only when one acts according to the inclinations of one’s own heart and will, unaware of praise or blame, is one’s De complete. Anyone who hears talk of calculating minds or mechanical contrivances is inevitably unsettled by the old man. That is why I call such people those who live amid wind and waves.

As soon as the Master heard this account, he said the old man was using human affairs as a pretext to cultivate the art of Hundun. Hundun was an ancient ruler, wholly imbued with Dao and De. He held to the One without dividing his mind, cultivated what was within and thereby kept De complete; he did not cultivate what was external, and so he forgot his bodily form.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

It is a thing. (Continuing from what came before) That is all.

Only a venerable person of complete virtue—a Perfected One—can be utterly pure and free of deficiency, and so enter the Great Simplicity, the most primal, undifferentiated state. Through Wuwei (non-action), such a person returns to the Uncarved Block, its unadorned original nature, holding fast to one’s inborn nature and protecting one’s spirit while wandering among ordinary people.

But this is not an age of primordial chaos. How could you or I be capable of knowing the Way of chaos?

Zhunmang, the one earnestly bent on governing the world, was heading for the Great Abyss—the sea, where the Sea Lord is said to dwell in these tales. On the way, he happened upon Yuanfeng, a figure who uses the wind to teach the world. The Great Abyss is such that no amount of water poured into it can fill it, showing its boundlessness; nor can anything drawn from it ever exhaust it, showing its depth, like a spring. I will go there and wander.

What, then, would an age of perfect order be like? No official post would lie vacant, and no worthy person would be overlooked in appointments. Everyone would express what was in their heart, attend to practical matters, and avoid empty displays. Without anyone deliberately acting for others, the world would transform of itself. A glance or a gesture would bring joyful responses from people in every direction.

A person of De (virtue and power) is different. At rest, they have no schemes; in motion, they have no worries. They do not harbor what is wrong—so where could wrongdoing be? They do not harbor what is beautiful—so where could ugliness be? Throughout the world, people share in one another’s benefits and rejoice, and share in one another’s provisions and feel at ease. To lose such a person is like an infant losing its loving mother, or a traveler losing the valuables lying by the road. It is like having food in abundance without knowing where it came from. A person of De forgets their achievements.

A spirit person goes further still. Above, the spirit rides upon light, reaching what lies beyond the Great Brightness; the person’s form vanishes, entering the gate of the profound darkness. This is called illuminating the vast expanse: the light reaches every mountain, river, and plain, yet the spirit person does not think of themself as illuminating anything; they simply feel open and at ease. To fulfill life is to let every being in the mountains, rivers, and plains live out its proper life; to fulfill feeling is to let each attain its proper nature. Heaven and Earth rejoice, and above and below flow together with them. All things dissolve away, and in stillness align with the De of Yin; all beings return to their true feelings, and in movement flow with the waves of Yang. Those who dissolve do not know it; those who return do not know it; nor is there awareness of the dissolving or the return. This is called chaos. The spirit person forgets themself.

The army with which King Wu overthrew the Shang could not match the yielding courtesy of the ruler of Yu. Why wait until Chizhang Manji before recognizing this? To seek order only after disorder is like the ruler of Yu treating a sore: to fit a wig after going bald, or to seek a doctor after falling ill. A filial son may prepare medicine for his loving father, but this is never as good as being healthy and having no need for medicine.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Medicine should not be used indiscriminately, and needless treatment should be avoided; the sage considers it shameful to do otherwise. In the age of utmost De, people did not exalt the worthy or deliberately appoint the capable, and there was no picking and choosing. Those above were like branches hanging naturally, with no intention of looking down upon the people below. The people were like wild deer, with no thought of relying on those above. Both sides cherished only what truly needed to be done, without such labels as “benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trustworthiness.” Creatures moved by instinct served one another: those who made use of others did not know they were doing so, and those being used did not know they were being used. Thus, in high antiquity, actions left no trace—not that there were truly no traces, but that no one made much of them. Deeds were not publicized—not that there was nothing to publicize, but that no one held on to the publicity.

People in the declining age also know that not fawning or flattering is the highest form of filial devotion and loyalty. Yet obeying one’s ruler or father to his face and merely acting filial and loyal already marks a decline. When others agree, why agree in turn? When others attach themselves, why attach oneself in turn? Why is this not called “guiding flattery”—leading others into sycophancy? People of the world dislike others guiding their rulers and parents into flattery, but enjoy being flattered themselves. They dislike the name of sycophancy, yet practice it all their lives. The common world has no settled view; there is no point debating with ordinary people. There are also those who delight in novelty, piling up metaphors and fine phrases and gathering followers to lecture. Their arguments contradict one another, yet they claim to be seeking favor and do not admit that they are guiding others into flattery. Those who study under them echo their claims and condemn what they condemn, sinking into their folly without realizing it. Those who know they are foolish will not be fooled by them; those who know they are confused will not be led astray. If the confused are few, one may still avoid confusion. But when they are many, even those who are clear-minded may be confused along with them. Those deeply deluded remain so throughout their lives, with no day on which they will be freed from delusion. Those deeply foolish remain dull throughout their lives, with no time when they will become perceptive.

Today, all under Heaven are confused. Among the Confucians, who is a true Confucian? Who understands nature and life as one through the Three Teachings, and sees the human and the heavenly as a single path? Daoism has no true Dao: since ancient times, who has understood the “grafting and joining” method of the immortals, and known how to treat the old with medicine and care? Buddhism has no true Buddhism: people know Guanyin seated upon a lotus, but who knows that Guanyin is born within the lotus? Even if a realized person used the Great Dao to dispel their confusion, they would surely refuse to believe it. Why? Great sounds do not enter unschooled ears; lofty words do not settle in the hearts of the multitude. The highest words go unheard, while worldly talk prevails. Suppose two people, one playing the se and the other striking a bell: people would be confused by the novel sound and fail to appreciate refined music. A deaf person at least knows they are deaf. Why do the deeply deluded not know?

(The term “grafting and joining” refers to a Neidan cultivation method. “Guanyin seated upon a lotus” is a metaphor for the distinction between Buddhist appearances and reality; the commentator uses it to mock people who cling to empty names in all Three Teachings without understanding their true meaning.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

They do not know that they have been deluded. The sacrificial vessel with its blue and yellow patterns is used to illustrate the cultivation of Zeng Shen and Shi Yu; the severed body in the ditch illustrates how Dao Zhi sullied his nature. If cultivation instead causes one to lose De, and De then returns to its original state, that would be a genuine attainment. Why, then, insist on ranking Zeng Shen and Shi Yu above Dao Zhi? True color is not color in itself; the five colors disturb it. True sound is not sound in itself; the five tones disturb it. The five odors cloud the nose, the five flavors muddle the mouth, and choices and rejections unsettle the heart—all in the same way. When the heart has no choices to make, yet is thrown into confusion by making choices, its natural nature is lost.

The followers of Yang and Mo neither hear the Great Dao nor escape the choices that unsettle the heart. They imprison themselves in their own doctrines, yet claim to have attained fulfillment. A dove or owl shut in a cage might as well be called “fulfilled.” Those without Dao and De who enjoy wealth and rank fill their minds with choices, sounds, and colors. Their caps and robes constrain their limbs; their insides are packed with wooden barriers, while heavy cords and snares are fastened on the outside. Others see them making themselves suffer in this way, yet they consider themselves fulfilled. A criminal bound with his arms twisted behind him and his fingers stretched apart, or a tiger or leopard trapped in a cage, might as well be called “fulfilled.” When reading the Nanhua Jing, one should reach this point and understand how to undo the restraints without and remove the barriers within. Follow the way of the formless image, seek the Mysterious Pearl together, and ascend Kunlun with it—what could be difficult about that?

Outer Chapter: The Way of Heaven, Chapter Thirteen

This chapter takes Heaven and Earth as its foundation, Dao and De as its central concern, and the natural order as its means. The root is above and the branches below; the essentials concern the ruler, while the details concern the ministers.

The Way of Heaven moves without stagnating, and so all things come to completion. (Heaven brings all things to completion by circulating with a single Qi.) The Way of the Emperor moves without stagnating, and so all under Heaven turns toward him. (The emperor gathers the people through the abundance of a single De.) The Way of the sage moves without stagnating, and so all within the seas submits. (The sage ruler wins the allegiance of the four seas by placing himself sincerely in others’ hearts, joining his vital energy with that of his age.)

One who understands Heaven, is in accord with the sage, and sees clearly the virtue of emperors and kings—whose six directions open through all four quarters, unobstructed—acts without self-consciousness, in a state of obscurity, and remains entirely still. (To be open in all six directions and four quarters is to see clearly. Clarity takes darkness as its foundation: this is what is meant by “the bright Dao seems dim.” In obscurity, one returns to stillness.)

The sage’s stillness does not mean becoming still by deliberately pursuing “stillness.” Rather, the sage is good, and therefore still. All…

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This passage comes from a commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi). Its central point is that the heart-mind is naturally still; stillness is not produced by forcibly suppressing it. Emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei form the foundation of all things, and the same foundation underlies the sage’s governance, withdrawal from public life, and achievement.

Stillness is the heart-mind’s nature, not something produced through cultivation

Nothing outside you can truly disturb your heart-mind, so it is still by nature. The commentary says that stillness is there from the beginning; it is not a matter of first becoming unsettled and then forcing yourself to calm down. All things arise through the “I”—the Dao, or original heart-mind—but this “I” itself neither comes into being nor passes away. Who, then, could stir it? When it is undisturbed, it is still; when still, it settles, and wisdom can arise from that settled state.

The heart-mind compared to water: still water reflects clearly; a still heart-mind reflects Heaven and Earth

When water settles, it can clearly reflect even the finest features of a face. Craftsmen also use a calm water surface as a level. If still water can shine so clearly, how much more so can the human spirit? When the sage’s heart-mind is still, it becomes a mirror for Heaven and Earth, and a mirror for all things.

The commentary emphasizes that stillness is the passage’s central theme, while “spirit” runs through it from beginning to end. This is not the stillness of sitting motionless in lifeless silence, but a clear and luminous stillness. Still water reflects only what lies within its reach; a still heart-mind can reflect without limit.

Emptiness, stillness, calm, quietude, and Wuwei: the balance of Heaven and Earth and the highest attainment of Dao and De

Emptiness, stillness, calm, quietude, and Wuwei are the state in which Heaven and Earth maintain their balance, and the highest expression of Dao and De. Emperors and sages alike find rest in this state: they cease their striving and settle into it.

When activity ceases and the heart-mind is free of clutter, this is emptiness. When emptiness reaches its utmost, subtle presence arises from true emptiness; this is fullness. When that fullness gathers into coherence, the transformations of things become orderly, like a river whose channels and courses are clearly traced. This is natural order and structure.

Emptiness is the substance of stillness; movement is its function, and each takes root in the other. Stillness reaching Wuwei does not mean neglecting affairs. It means that each thing fulfills its own responsibility: the many kinds of beings each do what they do, and responsibility naturally falls where it belongs. This is Wuwei, through which nothing remains undone.

With Wuwei, the heart-mind rests in ease and contentment. Worry and trouble cannot enter; the spirit remains whole, and life can be prolonged. Emptiness, stillness, calm, quietude, and Wuwei are the foundation of all things.

The same clear stillness makes one a ruler, a minister, or a recluse, and enables one to serve the world

Understand this way of being:

• Sitting facing south, one can be a ruler like Yao.
• Facing north in audience, one can be a minister like Shun.
• In a position above others, one embodies the De of an emperor or Son of Heaven.
• In a position below others, one follows the Way of the Mysterious Sage and Plain King: the path of a sage who has De but no official rank, and reigns through the Dao.

With this understanding, one can withdraw and roam freely among rivers and seas, earning the respect of those who dwell in the mountains and forests. One can also enter public life, care for the world and bring peace to the people, achieve great merit and lasting renown, and unite all under Heaven. This is the complete meaning of “in acting, one succeeds; those who take on affairs each fulfill their responsibility.”

Key points

Concept	Plain meaning
Stillness	The original heart-mind is undisturbed by external things; it is not lifeless silence.
Emptiness → fullness → order	When the heart-mind is empty, subtle presence arises; from that presence, all things fall into order.
Wuwei	Refrain from reckless action and let all things fulfill their own responsibilities; in this way, nothing is left undone.
Reflection and mirror	A still heart-mind reflects Heaven and Earth and all things, more widely than clear water can.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain-language interpretation

In stillness, one is a sage; in action, a king—what Confucian thought calls inner sageliness and outer kingship: cultivating the heart as a sage does, and handling affairs and governing the state as a ruler does. One is revered through Wuwei (non-action)—following nature rather than imposing one’s private desires. The commentary says that among all the ways under Heaven, none is more precious than Wuwei.

Plain and unadorned, one is beyond anyone’s power to rival in “beauty.” One remains still and does not act recklessly, yet allows all things to move of themselves; this is why Wuwei is honored. One is simple, without piling on literary ornament, yet gives rise to the highest form of eloquence; this is why no one can rival one’s beauty.

Those who understand the De of Heaven and Earth may be said to have grasped the great root and the governing principle—the foundation and overall order. They accord with harmony with Heaven, and so can bring balance to all under Heaven and accord with harmony among people. Those who are in harmony with Heaven belong to the same kind as Heaven; those who are in harmony with people belong to the same kind as humanity. Harmony among people is called human joy; harmony with Heaven is called Heavenly joy. Joy arises from harmony, which is why the two are distinguished as human joy and Heavenly joy.

Zhuangzi says: “My teacher! My teacher!”—referring to emptiness and stillness.

All things arise, perish, and change, replaced day after day as if by the stroke of a knife. This is simply how things are of themselves; it does not mean the teacher is harsh or cruel. His grace reaches through ten thousand generations, yet he does not claim to be “benevolent.” The benevolent love everything without exception, but the Perfected Person—one whose cultivation has reached its utmost—does not deliberately bestow favors, so the world does not recognize his benevolence. He extends from ancient times to the present, yet gives no thought to longevity. Like Heaven and Earth, he covers and sustains all things; like a sculptor, he brings every form to completion, yet does not boast of his skill. Skill is a human refinement; in Wuwei there is no need to speak of skill. This is what Zhuangzi takes as his model. The commentary says this insight can split open the secret passed from heart to heart among the sages.

This is called Heavenly joy. Joy is not forcibly added from outside, which is why it is called “Heavenly.”

Thus, those who understand Heavenly joy—not merely through what they hear and see, but by silently joining with Heaven—

In life, they follow the course of Heaven: they act naturally in accordance with its principle, as though no separate “me” had been added to birth.

In death, they undergo the transformation of things: they perish and change like all things, as though no separate “me” had been added to death.

In stillness, they share the virtue of Yin—Yin cannot “kill” them. In action, they move with the current of Yang—Yang cannot “bring them into being.” Yin and Yang, so to speak, are in their hands.

Thus, those who know Heavenly joy have no resentment toward Heaven and no blame from other people, for they do not cling stubbornly to what lies outside themselves. They are not burdened by things and incur no reproach from spirits, for they do not cling stubbornly to what lies within themselves. Hence it is said: their movement is like Heaven, and their stillness like Earth—as if the cosmos were in their hands. With the mind settled as one, they rule all under Heaven, and ghosts do not cause harm.

---

Note: This passage belongs to The Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence. It is a subcommentary interpreting Zhuangzi’s ideas and emphasizes taking emptiness and stillness as one’s teacher, Heavenly and human joy, the transformation of life and death into things, and ruling all under Heaven without movement. It may be read alongside the original Zhuangzi and other commentaries.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Interpretation

Heavenly Joy: The sage’s heart is what nurtures the world. (When my heart is always still, the hearts of the myriad things connect with it. When they connect, they submit; when they do not, they rebel. The sage nurtures the world through this Heavenly Joy.)

The virtue of emperors and kings takes Heaven and Earth as its foundation, Dao and De as its guiding principles, and Wuwei (non-action) as its constant practice. (Heaven and Earth, Dao and De—in the end, all come down to the principle of non-action.)

With Wuwei, one person can make use of the world and still have more than enough. With action, the world’s resources are not enough to serve one person. (With non-action, the ruler governs the world as a single person, and the world supplies what he needs, so there is more than enough. With action, the ruler uses the world’s strength to carry out his own will, and it is not enough. All of this refers to emperors and kings.)

That is why the ancients prized non-action. If the ruler above practices non-action and those below do the same, then those below share the ruler’s virtue and are no longer his subjects. If those below act and the ruler above also acts, then they share the same way and he is no longer their ruler. The ruler above must practice non-action and put the world to work; those below must act and serve the world. This is an unchanging principle.

(An axe can carve wood, but it is the craftsman who wields the axe. Ministers can carry out affairs, but it is the ruler who employs them. The ruler’s way is non-action; the ministers’ way is action: the ruler rests while the ministers labor. If the ruler takes over the ministers’ work, he ceases to be a ruler; if a minister assumes the ruler’s way, he ceases to be a minister. When each fulfills their own role and those above and below each find their proper place, the Way of non-action can be achieved while sitting at ease.)

Thus, the ancient rulers of the world: though their knowledge encompassed Heaven and Earth, they did not deliberate for themselves (the world deliberated for them); though their eloquence could give form to the myriad things, they did not speak for themselves (the world spoke for them); though their abilities could reach to the farthest limits of the seas, they did not act for themselves (the world acted for them).

Heaven does not produce, yet the myriad things transform. Earth does not cultivate, yet the myriad things grow. Emperors and kings practice non-action, yet the world’s accomplishments are fulfilled. (Heaven and Earth do not produce or cultivate, yet the myriad things transform and grow of themselves. Emperors and kings practice non-action, and the world finds joy and benefit of itself. Who, then, occupies the seat of inaction and brings all this to completion?)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

The claims and their application: who puts them into practice? It is the Dao that guides and propels them. Thus it is said: nothing is more numinous than Heaven, nothing more abundant than Earth, and nothing greater than the sovereign. The sovereign’s De, therefore, accords with Heaven and Earth. This is the way to govern Heaven and Earth, set the myriad things in motion, and employ people.

The root is above, the branches and leaves below; the essential matters belong to the ruler, the details to the ministers. (Here, too, the text draws a distinction between root and branch through the contrast between Wuwei and purposeful action, showing that purposeful action is the branch and that one should understand Wuwei as the root. The earlier passage explained this by presenting Shun as a minister who faced north: a minister should practice Wuwei. It also said that the branch lies below and detailed matters belong to ministers. The earlier passage spoke of their state of mind; this one speaks of their roles.)

The conduct of the three armies and the use of the five weapons are the branches of De. The establishment of rewards and punishments, benefits and harms, and the Five Punishments are the branches of instruction. Ritual, laws, measures and ranks, the names of punishable offenses, comparisons and categories, and exhaustive detail are the branches of governance. The sounds of bells and drums and the forms of dance with feathers are the branches of music. Weeping and mourning garments, from the heavier to the lighter, are the branches of grief. These five branches require the movement of spirit and vital energy, and the activity of the mind and its methods; only then can they follow. (Spirit and vital energy, and the mind and its methods, are the root of the five branches. Stillness, emptiness, nonbeing, and Wuwei are in turn the root that preserves spirit and vital energy and clarifies the mind’s methods. If one nurtures the root, the branches will follow.) The ancients did study the branches, but these are not what should come first. (What should come first is simply emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei.)

The ruler leads and the minister follows; the father leads and the son follows; the elder brother leads and the younger follows; the old lead and the young follow; men lead and women follow; the husband leads and the wife follows. The distinctions between higher and lower, and between what comes first and what comes after, are the workings of Heaven and Earth. Thus the sage takes these as models. (Xunzi mocked Zhuangzi for being confined to Heaven and ignorant of human affairs. Yet in this passage, how could Zhuangzi be ignorant of human affairs? From the words “leads” and “follows,” he draws out many distinctions of social roles, showing that the Dao has a natural order: those who should lead lead, and those who should follow follow. Hence he calls it “the workings.” How is this really different from the Confucians?)

Heaven is exalted and Earth is lowly: this is the station of the spirits. Spring and summer come first, autumn and winter follow: this is the sequence of the four seasons. The myriad things transform and arise, sprouting and taking distinct forms; their flourishing and decline unfold in stages, not all at once. This is the principle of Heaven and Earth.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Gradual progression, ordered sequence, and distinctions in rank—these refer to the levels through which all things change and unfold. Although Heaven and Earth are supremely wondrous, they still have an order of precedence and succession; human society is even more so.

In the ancestral temple, kinship is honored (the order of the Zhao and Mu generations is observed); at court, rank is honored (official positions follow an order); in the village, age is honored (the young and old have their proper order); and in affairs, worthiness is honored (appointments are made in a fitting order). These are all the order of the Great Dao. To speak only of the “Dao” without explaining its order is not truly to speak of the Dao. If what is being discussed is not the Dao, how could one attain the Dao? The point here is to explain, step by step, how root and branch, and what comes first and later, should be made clear.

Thus, those in ancient times who understood the Great Dao first understood “Heaven,” then spoke of “De”. “Heaven” is the ultimate ground of nature and life. Heaven is established first as the root, so that learning can then unfold in its proper sequence. “De” comes after it, because the Great Dao originates in Heaven, and possessing De means succeeding in putting the Dao into practice.

Once Dao and De have been made clear, one speaks of benevolence and righteousness—echoing Laozi’s saying, “When the Dao is lost, then comes De; when De is lost, then comes benevolence; when benevolence is lost, then comes righteousness.” Once benevolence and righteousness have been made clear, one speaks of assigned duties. As the uncarved simplicity is divided into implements, the sage makes use of them as officials and leaders, so duties must be defined. Once duties have been made clear, one speaks of form and name—using form to make something manifest and name to designate it. Once form and name have been made clear, one speaks of assignment according to capacity—appointing people in keeping with their abilities and responsibilities. Once such assignments have been made clear, one speaks of leniency and review—granting pardon, examining, and verifying in order to determine who can carry out a task. Once leniency and review have been made clear, one distinguishes right from wrong. Once right and wrong have been made clear, one sets rewards and punishments. Once rewards and punishments have been made clear, the foolish and the wise each find their proper place, the high and the low each occupy their proper position, and the true dispositions of the benevolent and worthy, and of the unworthy, are revealed. Abilities must be distinguished, and each person must be appointed according to their name—so that name and reality correspond.

If this approach is used to serve those above, care for those below, govern things, and cultivate oneself, then there is no need to display one’s cleverness. All must return to Heaven: everything accords with principle, is free of selfish contrivance, and returns to the natural order of Heaven.

Brief notes on specific terms

• Zhao and Mu: The order in which ancestral tablets are arranged to the left and right in an ancestral temple.
• Leniency and review: Granting pardon, examining, and verifying.
• The true dispositions revealed: Here, this means that each person’s nature is allowed to manifest as it is.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

(Bringing order to the world) means no more than letting all things return to their natural state. This is what is called “Great Peace,” the highest achievement of governance. Thus the old books say: form and name—“form and name” refers to institutions that existed even in ancient times, but they are not the foundation of governing a state. The “foundation” means the origin and the Great Dao; what “is not to be put first” is knowledge of secondary matters.

In ancient times, those who discussed the Great Dao said: Once the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) transform, forms and names can be established. (Only after the Five Phases transform do the myriad things come into being. Those who understand these transformations can institute rites and music, establish cultural forms to record them, and use names to make them known; then forms and names can be put into practice.) After nine transformations, rewards and punishments can be discussed. (Nine is the old Yang, which must transform into the young Yin. Reward belongs to Yang, punishment to Yin. Since the Five Phases arise from Yin-Yang, only those who understand its transformations can exercise the authority to praise goodness and condemn evil, rewarding the good and punishing the wicked in order to teach the people.)

But those who rush to speak only of forms and names do not understand the foundation—the Great Dao; those who rush to speak only of rewards and punishments do not understand the origin—the Great Dao. Those who speak in ways that depart from the Dao (discussing forms and names but not the Great Dao), or debate in ways that violate the Dao (discussing rewards and punishments but not the Great Dao), can only manage people; they cannot bring peace to the world. To rush into talk of forms and names, rewards and punishments is merely to know the tools of governance, not the Dao of governance. Such tools are not enough to govern the world. People of this kind are called disputants, narrow in their outlook. Rites, laws, measures, forms and names, and detailed comparisons were all known to the ancients. They are ways for those below to serve those above, not the foundation by which those above nurture those below.

---

Once, Shun asked Yao: “How does the Son of Heaven apply his mind?”

Yao replied: “I do not look down on those who have no support, nor abandon the people in poverty. I grieve for the suffering of the dead, cherish the young, and show compassion for women. This is where I apply my mind.”

Shun said: “That is good, but it is not broad enough.”

Yao asked: “Then what should I do?”

Shun said: “Govern by bringing forth Heaven’s De (Virtue/Power), and let the world be at peace: the sun and moon shine, the four seasons proceed without disorder, day and night each follow their constant course, and clouds move and rain falls.”

(Govern from the De of Heaven, and all things will be at peace of themselves. The sun shines of itself, the seasons turn of themselves, day and night follow their constant course, and clouds move and rain falls. What does Heaven set its mind on in relation to the myriad things? Each thing fulfills itself. This is what is called “the Way of Heaven moves on without obstruction or stagnation.”)

Yao said: “Then your restless, painstaking concern is in accord with Heaven, while mine is in accord with humanity. Heaven and Earth are what the ancients held in the highest esteem; the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun all took them as their model…”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

“Everyone claims their own standard of beauty; so what, then, did the rulers of the world in ancient times actually do? They did no more than follow Heaven and Earth.”

Confucius wanted to place his writings in the Zhou royal library, where they might be preserved as reliable records for later generations. Zilu suggested, “I have heard that an old archivist named Lao Dan, who once served in the Zhou library, has retired and returned home. If you want to deposit your books, Master, why not visit him first?” Confucius agreed and went to see Lao Dan.

At first, Lao Dan refused. Confucius then expounded on the twelve classics at length, hoping to persuade him. Before he had finished, Lao Dan found his words tedious. “That is too far-fetched,” he said. “I would rather hear the essential point.” Confucius replied, “The essential point is benevolence and righteousness.”

Lao Dan asked, “May I ask whether benevolence and righteousness are part of human nature? Human nature is originally still and empty, silent and clear, with nothing attached to it.”

Confucius said, “Yes. Without benevolence, a noble person cannot establish himself; without righteousness, he cannot accomplish anything. Benevolence and righteousness are the nature of a genuine person. What else could be needed?”

Lao Dan asked, “May I ask what you mean by benevolence and righteousness?”

Confucius said, “To share springtime within oneself with all things, and to care for all without bias—this is the true substance of benevolence and righteousness. Care for all is benevolence; impartiality is righteousness.”

Lao Dan said, “I fear you are already a step behind. Is caring for all not itself an unnecessary detour? And when you say ‘impartiality,’ you have already fallen into partiality. If you wish the people of the world not to lose their proper nurture and place, Heaven and Earth already follow their constant way; the sun and moon already shine; the stars already keep their courses; birds and beasts already live in their own groups; and trees already stand in their proper places. Just let people follow their own De and proceed along the great Way, and they will have arrived. Why labor so hard to exalt benevolence and righteousness, like beating a drum to search for a runaway child? A fugitive who hears the drum will only run faster; governing the world by exalting benevolence and righteousness will only hasten its disorder. I suspect that you are disturbing people’s nature.”

Shicheng Qi went to see Laozi and asked, “I have heard that you are a sage. I was not deterred by the long journey and have come especially to seek an audience with you.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Shi Chengqi said, “You carry a heavy burden, and the heels of your feet are thick with calluses, yet you dare not rest. Now I see that you are no sage. You discard surplus vegetables in the shadows beside the rat hole; this is unkind. When you cannot finish fresh food, you pile it up and store it away. Is that not being miserly?”

Laozi gave no reply.

The next day, Shi Chengqi came to see him again and said, “Yesterday I mocked you. Now my mind has become upright. Why is that?”

Laozi said, “Those who are wise and accomplished, those who are sacred, I consider myself their inferior. If you call me an ox, I will be an ox; if you call me a horse, I will be a horse. If the substance is truly there, I accept whatever name others give me. If I refuse it, I will suffer calamity again. I wear coarse cloth, and this is what I have always worn; I do not have some other fine garment that I put on just for a while. Those who do not understand may call me an ox or a horse, and I take no offense. Those who understand know that De (Virtue) accords with Heaven and Earth: called an ox or a horse, in substance it is a Kun ox or a Qian horse. The Book of Changes says that Qian is the horse and Kun is the ox.”

Shi Chengqi turned sideways to avoid Laozi’s shadow, then stepped forward and asked how to cultivate himself. Laozi said, “Your face is stern, your eyes bulge, your forehead is high, and you are arrogant and discourteous.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This passage criticizes a hypocrite who looks imposing on the outside but is calculating within. It draws on Laozi’s words to explain how the perfected person preserves the root of the Dao and avoids being burdened by the world.

Some people hold their mouths wide open (kanran, the look of an open mouth), rise onto their toes, and strike a pose of self-possession and conceit (yiran and diqi). Outwardly, they stand still like a tethered horse, but although their bodies are still, their minds and spirits have already raced away. Every movement is like a mechanism springing into action, driven by calculation and a scheming mind. They inspect everything closely and judge it clearly, yet their hearts are knotted with cunning. Relying on petty cleverness, they display arrogance and self-importance. Once they resort to artifice to appear impressive, they are bound to be clumsy at holding to simplicity. All these are signs of insincerity and unreliability.

In the borderlands there is a kind of person called “the thief.” The people of the frontier have not heard the great Dao of self-cultivation. Even if they occasionally say a few things that sound like passages from the classics, they have stolen or picked them up from others, so they are not to be taken seriously.

Laozi says:

The Dao has no limits in what is vast, and excludes nothing in what is minute. Thus it encompasses all things: it is so expansive that nothing lies outside it, and so deep and hidden that it cannot be fathomed. This resembles the meaning of “vast yet hidden” in the Doctrine of the Mean: its reach is visible and extensive, while its depths are concealed and unfathomable.

The great Dao has no form. Only when form arises does it manifest as De (Virtue/Power), benevolence, and righteousness. These are not the metaphysical root, but the outermost branches of spirit. “Branch” is set against “root”: the Dao’s governing principle may be called spirit; emptiness, stillness, and serenity are its root, while form, De, benevolence, and righteousness are its branches. Who but the perfected person can determine what is root and what is branch?

For the perfected person, possessing the world is no great matter, yet the world cannot burden them. While people everywhere struggle for power and authority, they do not join in their corrupt conduct. Their spirit is settled, and external things cannot disturb it, so worldly affairs do not weigh them down. Others grasp the handles of power; they hold to their own purpose and do not go along with them. They discern what is genuine and unfeigned, and are not swayed by profit. They probe the reality of all things and hold fast to the root. Thus they stand beyond Heaven and Earth and forget the myriad things, while their spirit is never confined.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Things do not associate with one another as members of the same kind—this is a matter of transcending the world. Neither sinking into indulgence nor being consumed by it, how could the spirit become exhausted? When one is attuned to the Dao (the Way) and united with De (Virtue/Power), places benevolence and righteousness behind, and treats ritual and music as guests, the heart of the perfected person finds its settled place. (Benevolence and righteousness are set behind rather than put first; hence “behind.” What comes first is Dao and De. Ritual and music are treated as guests because one’s nature and feelings are the true hosts. This is where the perfected person’s heart takes root and gathers itself in its authentic stillness; there it becomes fully settled.)

What the world prizes as the “Dao” is often found in books. Yet books themselves are not precious; what is precious is the meaning in their words. (When people come upon a book from the ancients, they pass it down and treasure it, supposing the Dao is in the book and valuing the book because they value the Dao. But they fail to see that a book is only words. One must still seek what gives those words their value.) What gives words their value is meaning. Meaning points beyond itself, and what it points to cannot be conveyed fully in words. Yet people pass books down because they prize words. Even if the world prizes them, they are still not truly precious, for what is being prized is not what deserves to be prized. (Since words cannot fully convey where meaning points, neither words nor books are truly precious. What is prized in this way is not truly precious; hence the phrase “not what deserves to be prized.”)

What can be seen is form and color; what can be heard is name and sound. It is tragic that people think form, color, name, and sound are enough to grasp the nature of “that.” But form, color, name, and sound cannot in fact capture its nature. (Books and words relate to meaning just as form, color, name, and sound relate to nature. If nature cannot be fully grasped through form, color, name, and sound, how could meaning be fully grasped through books and words?) Thus, those who know do not speak, and those who speak do not know. How could people understand this? (Those who know do not seek the Dao in words and books; to seek it there is not to know. This passage from Laozi urges people to forget images and words. It brings the preceding discussion to a close and introduces what follows.)

Duke Huan was reading a book in the hall, while Wheelwright Bian, a craftsman, was shaping a wheel below. He set down his mallet and chisel, went up into the hall, and asked Duke Huan, “May I ask what words Your Highness is reading?” The duke replied, “The words of the sages.” Bian asked, “Are the sages still alive?” The duke said, “They are dead.” Bian said, “Then what Your Highness is reading must be the dregs of the ancients”—what has fermented and rotted away. Duke Huan said, “I am reading a book. How dare a wheelwright presume to criticize it?” (Later, Wheelwright Bian will explain that the knowledge gained from shaping a wheel cannot be put into words. This carries forward the point above that meaning cannot be fully conveyed in words.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A. The Wheelwright’s Parable: The Dao Lies Beyond Words

“How could anyone discuss it? If it can be explained, it can be passed on; if not, it dies with its possessor.”

Wheelwright Bian said: (The story of Wheelwright Bian is a metaphor: it shows that words cannot convey the full meaning.)

“Judging from my own work: when I shape a wheel, if I go too slowly, the fit is smooth but not firm; if I go too fast, it is rough and the piece will not fit. Only by going neither too slowly nor too fast does the right measure come to my hands and accord with my heart. My mouth cannot put it into words, yet a certain measure is at work between them.”

(“Slow” means easy and unhurried; “fast” means hurried. Going slowly makes the fit smooth and easy, but not firm; going fast makes it rough and difficult to fit. The work depends on neither haste nor delay, but on finding the right measure. Here, “measure” means the proper degree or standard.)

“I cannot explain this to my son, and my son cannot receive it from me. That is why, at seventy, I am still an old wheelwright. The people of antiquity have died, taking with them what they could not pass on. So what Your Majesty reads must be no more than the dregs and husks of the ancients!”

(Lu Xixing: Zhuangzi wants people to move beyond what is heard and spoken, and set aside what is merely seen and known, so that they may grasp the meaning inwardly. His point lies beyond words, images, and measures: whether or not there are books, all are but reflections; whether or not there are words, all are but traps for catching fish. If one merely recites the words and forgets their flavor, one has kept the dregs and husks while losing the spirit and marrow—and cannot escape the wheelwright’s ridicule.)

---

B. Fu Gui’s Commentary: Stillness Governs the Chapter, and Spirit Runs Through It

Fu Gui says: What is the Dao? Movement and stillness are each the root of the other.

Those who speak well of the Dao describe what is still as unseen, yet begin by speaking of its movement: Heaven, having received the Dao’s constant movement, brings forth the myriad things; the ruler and the sage, having received that same constant movement, bring the world to their allegiance. These are all the Dao at work. Where there is movement as the Dao’s unfolding, there must also be stillness as its governing source. Thus the sage’s heart is still.

Even still water can clearly reflect one’s brows and whiskers and serve as a level for the carpenter. How much more so the still heart of the sage! The word “stillness” governs the whole chapter, while the words “spirit and vital energy” run through it. Within this stillness, the work of transformation is already present; it is not mere inert quiet.

For such a person, Heaven and Earth lie within their scope, and none of the myriad things escapes their insight. One may call them the mirror of Heaven and Earth, or the reflection of the myriad things. Then my destiny is in my own hands, the law proceeds from me, and the Dao is put into practice through me.

Stillness arises from emptiness. Once still, nothing lies beyond stillness; hence the state of emptiness, stillness, tranquility, and detachment.

---

Key Ideas

Metaphor	Meaning
Shaping a wheel neither too slowly nor too quickly	Skill depends on finding the right measure, which words cannot fully convey
Dregs and husks	Books do not embody the Dao itself; do not recite words and forget their flavor
Stillness and spirit	Not dead silence, but the settled state that governs movement

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

If you don’t believe it, come to the East Gate and see for yourself.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Vacant offices can perhaps still get things done. When a minister acts this way, he is carrying out his duties with respect; when a ruler does so, it is like taking the cook’s place at the stove. The ruler should practice Wuwei (non-action), allowing all under Heaven to function; ministers, by contrast, should act, serving all under Heaven. This is an unchanging principle, from antiquity to the present.

From this we can see that Zhuangzi’s teachings also accord with Confucianism and do not simply favor non-action. The sage rulers of antiquity possessed the wisdom to survey Heaven and Earth, yet did not impose their own schemes; they had the eloquence to distinguish among the myriad things, yet did not boast of it; they had the ability to manage all affairs within the realm, yet did not take everything upon themselves. In this way, Heaven and Earth transformed and nourished the myriad things, just as the sovereign transformed and nurtured all under Heaven. The ruler’s Wuwei thus accorded with the Wuwei of Heaven and Earth. The subtle workings and abundance of Heaven and Earth were encompassed by the ruler’s broad governance; the ruler’s De (Virtue/Power) could match that of Heaven and Earth precisely because he governed through Wuwei. Directing the myriad things and employing the people, too, are accomplished through Wuwei.

Those who understand principle regard Wuwei as the root and action as the branch; therefore, ruler and minister, higher and lower, each have their proper place. They regard Wuwei as the central aim and action as practical detail; therefore, rulers and ministers each have their own responsibilities. If one does not understand that weapons and punishments are merely secondary to moral instruction, one cannot investigate its root. If one does not understand that ritual, law, bells, and drums are merely secondary to governance and musical instruction, one cannot examine their root. If one does not understand that weeping and wearing mourning clothes are only outward expressions of grief, one cannot trace grief to its source. These five kinds of expression all emerge from the human spirit and heart. Although the ancients also practiced them, they did not place them first. Clearly, action comes later, and Wuwei comes first.

I observe that the five fundamental human relationships all follow an order, without the slightest confusion. Why is this so? The sage takes as a model the order in which Heaven is exalted and Earth is low, as well as the sequence of spring, summer, autumn, and winter. Even the generation of the myriad things has its waxing and waning: flourishing does not suddenly reach its peak, and decline does not arrive all at once; change always unfolds gradually. Would the sage value affection, distinctions of rank, elders, and the worthy, yet pay no heed to order?

The source of the Dao lies in Heaven, so one must first understand the Way of Heaven in order to understand the source of the Dao. Following the Dao and gaining from it is called De. Once the Dao and De are understood, the Way of Heaven can truly be grasped. From there, one proceeds in order to benevolence and righteousness; distinctions of status and duties; names and actual responsibilities; assigning tasks according to ability; examination and verification; distinguishing right from wrong; and rewards and punishments. These matters each have their proper sequence and follow one another. Further, one must distinguish the foolish from the wise, the noble from the lowly, and the benevolent and worthy from the unworthy, so that each person receives what is fitting and occupies the proper place.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Interpretation

Why must one reveal one’s true intent, spare no effort, and follow one’s name?

Because those who understand the Dao and De serve their superiors, care for their subordinates, govern external affairs, and cultivate themselves without relying on people who act deliberately to make plans. Instead, they follow the heavenly Dao of Wuwei (non-action). Thus the ancient books say: once form and name exist, they are recorded through ritual, music, and cultural objects, and made known through reputation. These things cannot be entirely absent from governing the world, but they must never be put first.

When the ancients spoke of the Great Dao, one had to understand how the Five Phases generate and overcome one another, and how their transformations work, before discussing form and name. Without knowing the roots, how could one speak of the branches? One must also understand why nine represents mature Yang, and the subtle workings of Yin-Yang generation, overcoming, and transformation, before discussing rewards and punishments. Without knowing the starting point, where could one arrive? Even if someone insists on discussing form and name, rewards and punishments, they know only the instruments of governance, not its fundamental Way.

A subordinate serving a superior is not the same as a superior caring for a subordinate. It is said that Yao devoted himself to pitying those in distress, sympathizing with the poor, grieving for orphans and widows, and showing kindness to the young and vulnerable. Yet Shun still felt Yao had not reached the highest greatness. That would mean bringing peace to the people through heavenly De: like the sun and moon shining without preference, the four seasons proceeding in order, and day and night following their regular course, so that everyone understood. Clouds moved and rain fell, spreading their benefit everywhere. Shun had already become aligned with Heaven, while Yao remained aligned with humanity. Since ancient times, all who governed the world took Heaven and Earth as their models.

Confucius once traveled west to the Zhou royal library. He had compiled the essentials of the Twelve Classics and wished to explain them to Lao Dan, but Lao Dan found them too elaborate and asked to hear their core. Confucius replied: “Their core lies in benevolence and righteousness. Benevolence and righteousness are the nature of the perfected person: the heart harmonizes with things, and one loves all without partiality. These are the feelings of benevolence and righteousness.”

Lao Dan said: “Isn’t loving all without distinction too far-fetched? And what you call impartiality is itself a kind of partiality. If you want the world to remain well cared for, without violating the regular ways of Heaven and Earth, dimming the brightness of the sun and moon, disturbing the order of the stars, startling flocks of birds and beasts, or unsettling trees rooted in place, then let De unfold and act, and follow the Dao. But to display benevolence and righteousness to people is like beating a drum to search for a lost child. The more urgently you beat it, the farther the child runs. Alas, benevolence and righteousness disturb people’s original nature.”

Shicheng Qi went to see Laozi and asked: “I have heard that you are a sage. Seeing you now, you do not seem like one. You have plenty of food despite eating simply, yet you are insatiable in your hoarding.” Laozi gave no reply. The next day, Shicheng Qi came to see him again…

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Interpretation of the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence

Laozi said: “People who rely on cleverness and intelligence and are regarded as ‘sagely’—I used to think I could avoid being given such a name. In the past, when people called me an ox, I accepted being an ox; when they called me a horse, I accepted being a horse. Only someone with the genuine ability deserves the name. If name and reality do not match, and a person refuses to accept their proper place, disaster will sooner or later befall them. I have always worn coarse clothes, and I wear them this way deliberately.

“There is no other scheme in my heart. I simply use these coarse clothes to appear dull in front of others.”

Shicheng Qi hurried along, trying to escape his own shadow, and approached Laozi to ask how to cultivate himself. Laozi said: “Your bearing is as rigid as a cliff, and your gaze is piercing and forceful. You do not seem like someone whose heart is empty and still, who turns inward to observe. Your forehead bulges, and your mouth keeps opening and closing, as if delivering a stern moral lecture. You do not seem like someone whose great eloquence appears inarticulate, whose dignity is inwardly restrained. Your body is like a tethered horse, but the wild horse in your heart is still loose. Before you have even spoken, your clever mind has already sprung into action like a trigger. Your intelligence is written all over your face, and you make a great show of your bearing. These are all signs of what is unreal. A person like you can be read at a glance on the outside, and is easy to see through within. What you have heard and seen is only borrowed learning. How could it qualify as talk of self-cultivation?”

The Master, Laozi, continued: “In general, what is great cannot also be small. Only the Dao (the Way) is vast without end, yet leaves nothing small out. It is so expansive that it contains everything, so deep that it cannot be fathomed, and so wondrous that it cannot be named. Form, De (Virtue/Power), benevolence, and righteousness are all merely the Dao’s outermost branches. Only the Perfected One can look down on worldly conventions, treat weights and measures lightly, and cast aside favor and profit. He follows what is genuine and rejects what is false, keeps to the root and forgets the branches. His spirit roams beyond heaven and earth, rising above all things; wherever he goes, there is nothing but Dao and De. To him, benevolence and righteousness are secondary, and ritual and music are like visitors from elsewhere. His heart rests solely in Dao and De.

“When the Perfected One departed, his spirit went with him, leaving only books for later generations. People honor the Dao and so honor books, yet they do not realize that books are merely records of words. Words are used to express meaning, but what meaning points to cannot be fully written down or spoken. Could it be that what people prize is not, in fact, what deserves to be prized? Books cannot exhaust the Dao, just as form, color, names, and sounds cannot grasp a person’s true feelings. Indeed, those who understand the Dao do not search for it in words and books; those who search for it in words and books may not understand it. Yet who in the world would admit that books do not deserve to be valued so highly?”

The text then cites Bian the Wheelwright’s reply to Duke Huan as evidence that books are not worthy of such reverence: Duke Huan was reading in the hall, and what he valued was the book itself.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Related Passage from the Commentary and Subcommentary to the True Classic of Southern Florescence

Wheelwright Pian asked, “What are you reading?” Duke Huan replied, “The words of the sages.” Wheelwright Pian asked, “Are those sages still alive?” Duke Huan said, “They have been dead for a long time.” Wheelwright Pian said, “Then what Your Highness is reading is nothing but the dregs and lees left behind by the ancients”—the residue of wine, a metaphor for the surface of written words.

The phrase “dregs and lees” is key to how Zhuangzi and Laozi convey the spirit of their teachings to later students, beyond what can be put on the page. Students should ask: where within these dregs and lees is the true flavor? That flavor is a person’s true nature, or true spirit. Wine becomes dregs and lees when its residue is separated out; people, by contrast, lose their true nature through embellishment and affectation. It is lamentable.

Wheelwright Pian went on to explain that although wheelmaking is a humble craft, it contains the Dao. If he swings his adze too slowly, the work feels smooth but the blade will not bite; if he works too fast, it catches and the blade cannot enter the wood. At neither too fast nor too slow, his hands are skilled and his mind is in accord: he understands it in his heart and spirit, yet cannot explain the measure of that “neither too fast nor too slow” in words. It exists only in the work itself. He cannot teach this skill to his son, and naturally no one else can understand it; his son cannot learn it from him, and no one else can inherit it. That is why, at seventy, he is still making wheels. The ancients and the thing that cannot be conveyed in words have both died together.

These words are stern and piercing. Their purpose is to awaken later generations: one must find what can still be transmitted within what cannot be transmitted, and what does not die within what has died. Only then can one claim to be a true reader. What Your Highness is reading, then, is the dregs and lees of the ancients. Where there are dregs and lees, there must also be spirit—the living principle, the true essence. These two cutting remarks are not mocking Duke Huan, but readers of the Nanhua in generations to come: those who merely plunder its fine phrases without knowing that the Great Dao contains a method for long life and deathlessness. Even if they read the Nanhua, they might as well not have read it.

Outer Chapter: “The Course of Heaven,” Chapter Fourteen

(Through a succession of questions about the transformations of the cosmos, the text urges readers to seek the power that governs and directs them, thereby establishing a standard for the ruler’s way. Its central themes are to esteem Wuwei (non-action), disparage action, value the Dao and De, and set benevolence and righteousness in a lesser place.)

Does Heaven revolve? Does Earth remain still? Do the sun and moon strive to advance in their appointed places? (Heaven moves ceaselessly through Qi, while Earth, supported by its form, abides without moving. The sun and moon each follow their fixed courses, coming and going in alternation: when they meet, the moon wanes into darkness; when they meet again, it returns to brightness as the new moon. It is as though they are “contending for their places.”) Who, then, directs and governs all this?

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Who holds the threads of Heaven and Earth, doing nothing himself while allowing everything to proceed according to some kind of “intention”? Could there be hidden mechanisms binding things together, compelling them to be this way? Or does everything operate on its own, unable to stop? (Note: To say that someone directs the threads of creation still implies purposeful action. True Wuwei (non-action) is wholly detached and does nothing. The so-called hidden mechanism suggests something to which things are bound; this is Taiji (the Supreme Ultimate). When it silently sets things in motion, it remains inactive while transformation and nourishment arise of themselves.)

Are clouds rain? Is rain clouds? Who pours down rain so abundantly? And who does nothing, yet seems to bring about clouds and rain through fullness and delight? (Note: The weather descends as the earth’s Qi rises; steaming together, they form clouds and gather into rain. “Abundant” suggests a fullness held within, while “bestow” refers to the plentiful fall of rain. Clouds and rain arise from the harmonious Qi of Yin-Yang, hence the phrase “fullness and delight.”)

The wind rises in the north, then turns west or east; at times it circles in all directions from on high. Who breathes it into being? And who does nothing, yet stirs and sweeps across all things? (Note: Where there are clouds and rain, wind follows. The northeast belongs to Yang, and the southwest to Yin. Yang Qi usually rises first in the northeast, from below upward, then meets the Yin Qi of the southwest. It is said that when Yang meets Yin, rain comes. Thus the wind first rises in the north, then turns west or east; it circles from above. Breathing in and out describes the wind’s respiration, while sweeping and brushing describes its stirring and blowing. When wind and rain arise together, creation and transformation must have a source that governs them. The Book of Changes says, “Dense clouds, but no rain, come from my western outskirts”—the western outskirts belong to Yin; Yin presses upon Yang, but no rain falls. Only one who understands the Dao would dare ask this.)

(Question:) “May I ask why?” Wu Tiao (pronounced chao) said, “Come, and I will tell you. Heaven has six Qi and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), which assist the primal ruler in bringing the year’s work to completion. The things that hold the threads of Heaven and Earth, the sun and moon, clouds and rain, wind and dew, are all ‘things’—not a single personal deity.”

(Note: If rulers follow this principle, they govern well; if they go against it, misfortune follows. To follow it is to follow the Wuwei of creation and transformation.)

“The affairs of the Nine Provinces and the Luo” refers to the Nine Categories and the Luo River writing, such as the Five Phases, the Five Affairs, the Eight Governmental Measures, and the Five Records of Time. When good governance is achieved and sage virtue is complete, its light shines upon the lands below and all under Heaven gives its allegiance. This is called the “Supreme Sovereign.”

(Note: The Supreme Sovereign is one who holds together Heaven and Earth, sets the sun and moon in motion, brings clouds and rain in abundance, and breathes forth the winds, yet always abides in Wuwei.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

The Grand Steward Dang of the Shang dynasty asked Zhuangzi about the meaning of humaneness (ren). Zhuangzi replied, "Even tigers and wolves possess humaneness." Puzzled, the Grand Steward asked for clarification. Zhuangzi explained: "When tiger and wolf fathers show affection to their offspring, is this not humaneness?"

The Grand Steward pressed further about the highest form of humaneness. Zhuangzi said: "Supreme humaneness recognizes no distinctions between close and distant." (This exchange startled the assembled company. By citing the familial bonds of beasts, Zhuangzi shamed those humans who fail in filial duty; his concept of "humane impartiality" mirrors historical examples like the Duke of Zhou executing his rebellious brothers Guan and Cai, or Shi Que condemning his own son Shi Hou - making later generations ashamed of their comparative moral weakness. An alternate interpretation holds that supreme humaneness regards all things as one body, showing equal care without partiality, hence "no distinctions.")

The Grand Steward objected: "I've heard that without distinctions there can be no love, and without love there's no filial piety. Are you saying supreme humaneness is unfilial?" Zhuangzi responded: "Not so. Supreme humaneness represents the ultimate state - filial piety cannot fully describe it. This isn't to say humaneness transcends filial duty, but that filial piety falls short of encompassing supreme humaneness." (Humaneness contains all virtues; no single term like "filial piety" can capture its supreme form. This exemplifies Zhuangzi's characteristic paradoxical expression.)

He then offered a metaphor: When traveling south to Ying capital, one loses sight of the Dark Mountains in the north due to distance. (The Dark Mountains lie in the northern sea - the farther south one goes, the more distant they become. Similarly, trying to understand supreme humaneness through conventional love only leads one further from the truth.)

Finally, he outlined gradations of filial practice: Performing filial acts with mere deference is easiest (external compliance can be forced); acting from genuine affection proves harder; acting lovingly remains easier than forgetting one's filial performance; self-forgetfulness in filiality is easier than making parents forget your devotion (like Emperor Shun discarding the empire as one casts off worn sandals); making parents forget is still easier than causing the whole world to forget your filial deeds - this represents the ultimate challenge.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

In the Zhuangzi (also known as the Nanhua Zhenjing), several dialogues convey profound Daoist insights. First, it states that while it may be easy for an individual to forget worldly fame and achievement, it is far more difficult to make the world forget about you. A person of true virtue (De) who surpasses the accomplishments of legendary sage-kings like Yao and Shun would never boast of their deeds. Their beneficence flows through generations, yet remains unrecognized—how could such transcendence ever be achieved through mere lip service to benevolence and filial piety?

The text then critiques conventional virtues such as familial devotion (xiao-ti), humaneness (ren), righteousness (yi), loyalty (zhong), trustworthiness (xin), chastity (zhen), and integrity (lian), arguing that these are often forced behaviors that constrain one’s innate nature and thus should not be excessively glorified. True nobility lies in relinquishing titles and ranks; true wealth in disregarding worldly possessions; and the highest ideal in transcending the pursuit of fame. Only the Dao remains eternal—all else is fleeting.

Later, a dialogue between Beimen Cheng and the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) explores the nature of music. When Beimen Cheng hears the Yellow Emperor play the Xianchi melody by Lake Dongting, he is first awestruck, then relaxed, and finally plunged into profound bewilderment. The Emperor explains: this music is grounded in human affairs (reflecting worldly emotions), guided by heavenly principles (aligned with natural law), structured by ritual propriety (li ensures order; yi prevents chaos), and rooted in the purest Qi (the primal breath that harmonizes musical tones). The highest form of music must first resonate with human nature, follow the natural order, embody the Five Virtues (appearance, speech, vision, hearing, and thought), and ultimately achieve harmony with the cosmos.

Through this musical metaphor, the passage illustrates the Daoist aesthetic of "the greatest music has no sound" (dayin xisheng) and the philosophy of "unity of heaven and humanity" (tianren heyi). True sublime joy is not contrived but arises spontaneously, in attunement with the rhythms of the natural world.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This passage comes from the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence (Nanhua zhenjing zhushu). It offers a profound Daoist interpretation of the music of Heaven, emphasizing the harmony between music, nature, and the Dao. It describes a supreme state beyond ordinary sounds, revealing its endless subtle workings through the cycle of the seasons and the changes of Yin-Yang. What follows is a modern reading intended to remain faithful to the original meaning, flow smoothly, and retain brief explanations of key terms.

First, contend with the music of silence—that is, the empty realm beyond audible sound—and then bring the four seasons into order so that all things may harmonize. Without attaining this music of silence, how could one bring forth an elegant performance? The four seasons arise in succession, and all things are born along with them. Flourishing and decline alternate; the ways of the civil and the martial follow an ordered pattern; the clear and the turbid remain distinct; Yin and Yang are brought into harmony. The myriad things of the four seasons accord with the natural workings of creation. Flourishing and decline, the civil and the martial, the clear and the turbid, Yin and Yang—all speak of the subtle rhythm of this music. From the seasons arising one after another to what cannot be awaited—that is, forced into unity—these words also describe the subtlety of its workings: cycles without beginning or end, changes without limit, sounds that begin and cease, with no one knowing where they return.

Its sound flows with shimmering brilliance: this is what is meant by “How beautiful, how vast!” The hibernating insects begin to stir, and I startle them with thunderclaps. This is like stirring them awake and setting them dancing until they cannot stop themselves. Its ending has no tail: though the music comes to an end, its lingering tones continue without cease. Its beginning has no head: it does not start abruptly, but has a subtle lightness and a rounded, flowing quality. One death and one life—yet no death and no life; one fall and one rise—yet no fall and no rise. When change itself is constant, what is constant has no end. The beginning and end give rise to one another and are continuous as a whole; death and life, falling and rising, change without limit and cannot be grasped, so they cannot be held fast. To “await” here means to seek a return to unity but fail to find it. “You were afraid” means that, on first hearing changes without end, you could not wait for them to resolve into one, and so you listened in startled awe.

I then perform it with the harmony of Yin and Yang and illuminate it with the brightness of the sun and moon. In it, movement and stillness give rise to one another, and coming and going take turns; nothing fails to accord with the workings of creation. Its sound can be short or long, like the sun’s shadow drawing in and stretching out; it can be soft or strong, like the seasons’ Qi growing warm or fierce. Its changes are all of one kind, for all are change; it does not abide by an established pattern, but grows ever new. In the valleys it fills the valleys; in hollows it fills the hollows. Its sound and Qi flow in abundance, filling every place they can reach—that is the fullness of its power. Block the openings and guard the spirit: set aside cleverness and quiet the mind, so as to discern the rhythms of the music. Take all things as the measure.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

By measuring the lengths of the pitch pipes, one can establish the pitches of the bells. The music sounds far-reaching and spacious, gentle and open; this is called “Lofty Clarity” (the music of Lofty Clarity). In this way, spirits and ghosts can dwell in the unseen realm, while the sun, moon, and stars follow their proper courses. This is the highest effect music can achieve. My music ends where it must, yet flows on without end. You may try to grasp it through thought, but you cannot: the mind has nowhere to take hold. You may try to see it, but you cannot: the gaze has nowhere to settle. You may try to pursue it, but you cannot catch up: the feet have nowhere to tread.

Suddenly, as if losing myself, I stood upon the Way of the Four Emptinesses, leaning on a dead paulownia tree—the zither—and chanting. My eyes knew that what they wished to see had reached its limit, and my strength yielded to what it wished to pursue: human understanding and power each have their bounds. Since I could no longer catch up, my form filled the emptiness, until I became “winding and yielding” (weiyi, describing a body and mind relaxed and serpentine). Winding and yielding, I grew languid. The ears forgot, the eyes forgot, and the body slackened; the body became like emptiness, loose and unrestrained—hence “winding and yielding.” And from this came languor. When people see another’s actions and feel that thought cannot reach them, they are left bewildered, as if they had lost themselves. That is, broadly speaking, what happened.

Then I played again, sounding a music of “No Languor” to rouse the spirit, and tuned it to the “Mandate of Nature,” so its rhythm arose naturally, like the turning of Heaven’s decree. It was like birds and beasts running together and plants and trees growing in profusion: the sounds of the music did not disrupt one another’s order; they flourished side by side without harm. The trees rejoiced together without leaving a trace. The music spread and stirred, yet was not drawn along by anything. It was deep and dim, seemingly silent, yet also like the spontaneous voice of the Heavenly Sounds. It moved without direction and rested in the hidden depths, beyond measure. Some called it death, others life; some called it fullness, others flourishing. It flowed and dispersed, shifting from place to place, with no fixed sound as its guiding principle.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

People were puzzled by this and sought confirmation from the sages. A sage is someone who understands human feelings and follows the mandate of Heaven. (People found the rhythm of this heavenly music wondrous beyond words. They attributed their question to the sage, believing that a sage could both grasp the spirit of heavenly music and follow the mandate of Heaven.)

The workings of Heaven need not be proclaimed; the five senses are already fully in place. (The original spirit remains still, while the eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body each perform their own function.) This is called heavenly music: no words are needed, yet the heart is filled with joy. (There are aspects of this joy that cannot be expressed in words.)

Someone then composed a verse: “You listen, yet cannot hear its sound; you look, yet cannot see its form. It fills Heaven and Earth and enfolds the six directions.”

You wish to listen for it, but there is no way to grasp it. (It permeates the cosmos, and Heaven and Earth shine with its light; yet try as you might to hear it with your ears or see it with your eyes, you cannot take hold of it.) That is why people feel perplexed. (They want to understand what it is, but cannot discover the reason.)

Music begins with “fear”: fear makes it seem supernatural and uncanny. (Fear tightens the spirit, making one wonder whether the music comes from ghosts or gods, and so it seems strange and uncanny.) Next comes “weariness”: weariness makes one want to leave. (Exhausted by trying to fathom it, one eventually has to let go.) Last comes “bewilderment”: bewilderment brings one close to foolishness. And foolishness brings one close to the Dao. The Dao can carry people and accompany them on their way. (In the end, the rhythm of this music seems too strange to belong to the human world, and so one is bewildered. In bewilderment, one cannot cling to any preconceived understanding; this is why one seems foolish. Though shaped by acquired experience, the foolish person has not lost their original nature, and so remains close to the Dao. The Dao can carry a person and be present alongside them: foolishness is a vessel that carries the Dao, not something the Dao carries. Here the word “foolish” reveals the subtle insight of Zhuangzi and Laozi after attaining the Dao, offering it for others to see.)

Confucius was traveling west to the state of Wei when Yan Yuan asked the musician Jin, “What will happen to my teacher on a journey like this?” Musician Jin replied, “How unfortunate. I fear your teacher will come to ruin.” Yan Yuan asked, “Why?”

Musician Jin said, “Before a grass dog is used, it is kept in a bamboo basket, covered with embroidered cloth, and carried reverently by the ritual officiant, who fasts before the sacrifice. After it has served its purpose and the rite is over, passersby trample on its head and back, while woodcutters take it for kindling. If someone were then to pick it up again, put it back in the basket, cover it with embroidered cloth, and carry it about with them as they travel, dwell, and sleep—”

(The text uses the grass dog as a metaphor: an object of ancient ritual becomes useless when its time has passed. To cling to old sayings is like picking up a grass dog after the sacrifice and treating it as a treasure again.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

On Dreams and Dullness

People below cannot attain a true dream (“dream” means the soul’s awareness is disordered and the mind is confused); instead, they often fall into a daze (“dullness” means dim eyesight and a clouded mind). Now the Master (Confucius) too treasures the long-outdated rites of the ancient kings. He travels everywhere teaching his disciples, arranging all their daily conduct around this same system. As a result, he suffered the disgrace of having trees felled around him in Song, was driven out of Wei with his trail erased, found himself at a loss in the lands of Shang and Zhou, and was besieged for seven days between Chen and Cai, unable to eat a hot meal. With life and death so close together, could this have been merely a “dream”? Brought by the siege at Chen and Cai to the brink between life and death, could this have been merely “dullness”?

The Metaphor of the Straw Dog

A straw dog, made for ritual, is respectfully presented during the sacrifice, then discarded when the rite is over. To pick it up afterward and honor it as a treasure would be deluded. Delusion gives rise to dreams and dullness. Now the Master has gathered up the ancient kings’ outworn “names and things”—the rites and teachings—and brought his disciples together to practice them, only to end in such dire straits. Is this not clear proof of dreams and dullness?

The Metaphor of Boats and Carts

For traveling on water, nothing is better than a boat; for traveling on land, nothing is better than a cart. A boat can travel on water, but if you try to push it across dry land, you will never get anywhere, even in a lifetime. The conditions of water and land have always been different. Are the rites of Zhou and the customs of Lu not like boats and carts? To promote the Way of Zhou in Lu is like pushing a boat across dry land: it will hinder any undertaking, bring toil without success, and bring disaster upon oneself.

“The Teaching Without a Fixed Method”

They still do not understand that what has been passed down since ancient times includes methods for adapting to each moment and responding to things without limit. How, then, can one cling rigidly to a single way of doing things?

The Metaphor of the Well Sweep

Have you never seen a well sweep, the lever device used to draw water from a well? Pull the rope, and the bucket dips down; release it, and the bucket rises. The person pulls the rope; the rope does not pull the person. So the bucket’s rising and falling does not offend anyone. (To rise and fall in response to another, without clinging inwardly to a fixed position, is to adapt without a fixed method and respond to things without limit.)

Adapting Rites and Laws to the Times

The rites and laws of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors are valuable not because they are all alike, but because they were able to govern the world. Their rites and laws are like hawthorn, pear, tangerine, and pomelo: each tastes different, yet all can be eaten. Rites and laws should change with the times.

(It is also said that the songs of Qi, Chu, Wu, and Yan have different melodies, yet all sound pleasing when sung in turn; the cries of the Nine Yi peoples also differ in sound. These examples all show the need to adapt to the times and not cling to a single way.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Reading of the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence

Different sounds can all move people to tears. Thus the sage adapts to the times and makes laws for the people. Fuxi and Shennong taught and transformed the people without executing them; the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun executed people without anger. The Xia dynasty valued simplicity over ornament; the Zhou dynasty valued ornament over simplicity. Can the laws of antiquity simply be applied to the present? Can today’s laws be rigidly imposed on antiquity?

If you caught a gibbon and dressed it in the ceremonial robes of the Duke of Zhou, it would bite and tear at them until they were in shreds, and would not be satisfied until every last piece was gone. The difference between past and present is like the difference between a gibbon and the Duke of Zhou. When Xishi had a pain in her chest, she walked back to her village with a furrowed brow. An ugly woman saw her and thought she looked beautiful, so she too clutched her chest and furrowed her brow. The wealthy, seeing her, shut their doors and would not come out; the poor fled with their wives and children. They knew only that a furrowed brow looked beautiful, not why it did. How unfortunate, Master! You may be left with nowhere to turn.

The commentary’s point is that what is fitting differs between past and present, so the way of governing cannot simply be inherited. To use ancient ways to change present customs and demand uniformity is like dressing a gibbon in the Duke of Zhou’s robes or having a village woman imitate Xishi’s furrowed brow: the result will inevitably be mutual reproach. It is only natural that the Master finds himself in difficulty. Through layers of analogy, the passage emphasizes how hard it is to turn the course of the age around, restore the ways of antiquity, and keep the Master from coming to grief.

At the age of fifty-one, Confucius still had not heard the Dao (the Way). He traveled south to Pei to meet Lao Dan (Laozi). Lao Dan said, “You’ve come. I hear you are a worthy man from the north. Have you attained the Dao?” Confucius replied, “Not yet.” Lao Dan asked, “Where have you sought it?” Confucius said, “I sought it for five years in the measures and institutions—the rites and music, matters belonging to the manifest realm—but did not find it.” Lao Dan asked again, “Where else have you sought it?” Confucius replied, “I sought it for twelve years in Yin-Yang, the transformations of Heaven and Earth, belonging to the realm beyond the manifest, but still did not find it.”

Lao Dan said, “That is so. If the Dao could be offered to a ruler, everyone would offer it to a ruler. If it could be presented to one’s parents, everyone would present it to their parents. If it could be explained to one’s brothers, everyone would explain it to them. If it could be passed on to one’s descendants, everyone would pass it on to them.” One who understands the Dao knows that it cannot be conveyed in words; each person must awaken to it for themselves.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

There is no other reason this method works: without an inner master, the mind cannot be settled. The Dao may be heard from outside, but without an inner master who gives the mind a settled nature, one has not truly gained it and cannot abide in it without change.

Without guidance from the right Dao, one cannot put it into practice. The essential thing in cultivating the Dao is to empty the inner self and be free of ego. Even if one has gained something inwardly, without turning outwardly toward what is right—following the right Dao—one cannot verify it through practice. An understanding that arises from within will not accept what is forced upon it from outside; the sage does not use many words to impose instruction. Knowledge that enters from outside has no inner master. The sage does not conceal his teaching: action, speech, and silence are all instruction. Reputation is a public possession and must not be claimed in excess. The deaths of Boyi and Shuqi by starvation, and of Bigan by having his heart cut out, came from attracting calamity through excessive fame. Thus, for the great sage and worthy to live in seclusion is not difficult; what is difficult is to keep one’s name hidden.

Benevolence and righteousness are the thatched hut of the former kings: one may stay there for a while, but not dwell there permanently. If they are displayed too often, they invite excessive blame. Benevolence and righteousness are like a thatched hut: fit for a temporary stay, not a lasting home. If one presents oneself to the world through benevolence and righteousness, those who demand perfection will come. The Perfected of old borrowed the way of benevolence and righteousness as a temporary dwelling, so they could roam in a realm of carefree freedom, where not a speck of dust could stain them. They ate from the fields of makeshift provision—the Kan and Dui directions, present in every household, yielding a harvest without tilling, food only the immortals can eat. They stood in the garden of self-sufficiency—the forms of Qian and Li, which can provide for themselves but cannot borrow from others, a place only immortals can stand. Carefree freedom is Wuwei (non-action), attained after realizing the Dao, as the saying goes: “When they reach non-action, all begin to know.” Makeshift provision is easy to nourish: the Yang Qi within Kan originally belongs to the Li palace; once one knows how to take from Kan to fill Li, it is easy to nourish. What is not borrowed is not released: the phrase “not released” carries a deep meaning. Lü Dongbin said that to settle the mind and hold in the Yellow Dragon’s marrow is what it means not to release it. The ancients called this “roaming in the quest for the Real.” Those of heterodox paths who gather and exchange through sexual practice know only how to gather postnatal energies and cannot prolong life, because what they gather is false. The Realized Person, by contrast, gathers the primordial mother Qi of the precelestial; this is what is meant by using the false as a means to cultivate the Real.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

(Continuing the discussion of transforming the bones through cultivation and attaining pure Yang.) Those who regard wealth as what is right cannot give up their stipends; those who regard prominence as what is right cannot surrender their titles and status.

Those who covet power cannot hand it over to anyone else. While they hold it, they are consumed by fear; once they let it go, they are overcome with grief. They refuse to learn from the downfall of those before them who perished through greed for power, and do nothing but watch for and pursue what they will never stop wanting. Such people are called those whom Heaven has condemned. (Greedy men have died for profit, martyrs for fame, and braggarts for power; there are countless warnings from those who went before. To ignore them is not to know how to preserve oneself, hence the phrase “those whom Heaven has condemned.”)

Resentment, favor, taking, giving, remonstrance, instruction, life, and death are the eight instruments for setting the world aright. Only those whose minds move with the great transformation (the larger course of events and change), and who meet each situation without hesitation, are fit to use them. Thus “setting aright” means using one’s own integrity to correct the lack of integrity in others. Those who do not accept this principle are like people whose Heavenly Gate (the entrance to the Dao of Heaven and to nature) is shut and will not open. (Resentment, favor, taking, giving, remonstrance, instruction, life, and death are tools of government, used to correct others. Only those whose minds are unmoved by gain or loss and whose resolve is unchanged by life or death can act decisively, meeting the moment without delay or obstruction. “Setting aright means setting aright”: one uses one’s own integrity to correct the lack of integrity in others. Those who reject this principle are rulers of a degenerate age: their desires are all-consuming and they indulge their unchecked impulses; their thoughts lead only to the gates of humanity and the paths of ghosts. The principles of Heaven have vanished, and the wellspring of life is sealed. Hence the saying, “the Heavenly Gate is shut.”)

Confucius went to see Lao Dan and spoke to him about benevolence and righteousness. Lao Dan said: “Scatter chaff, and it gets in your eyes; then the four quarters of Heaven and Earth seem to shift out of place. Let mosquitoes and gadflies bite your skin, and you will lie awake all night. As for benevolence and righteousness, to make a show of them only throws my mind into turmoil. Nothing could cause greater disorder.” (A mind that is clear, still, and empty cannot accommodate external things. If the eyes and skin cannot bear even chaff or insect bites, how much less can the mind? Thus, when one descends from the Dao of Virtue to speak of benevolence and righteousness, the result is still a troubled mind.)

If you would have the people of the world keep their original uncarved simplicity (their natural, unworked truth), you too should move with the wind, hold fast to De, and establish yourself in it. Why make such a display of yourself, like someone carrying a great drum in pursuit of a fugitive?

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

What is the difference between seeking the Dao (the Way) through benevolence and righteousness and beating a drum to look for a lost child? A swan is white without washing every day, and a crow is black without dyeing every day. Black and white are simply as they are; there is no need to argue over them. Nor is there anything to boast about in making a show of one’s reputation and achievements. When the spring dries up and fish crowd together on the land, breathing moisture on one another and wetting one another with spit, it would be better to return to the rivers and lakes and forget one another.

People’s natural endowments all come from nature. A swan is white and a crow is black: why would such simplicity need further adornment? Making a show of reputation and achievements adds nothing. When fish are stranded in a dry place, breathing moisture on one another only makes them ill. They would be better off returning to the rivers and lakes, where they can forget one another in the water. If the world has lost this simplicity and people try to sustain one another with benevolence and righteousness, they would be better off forgetting one another in the rivers and lakes of the Daoist arts.

Confucius met Laozi, and when he returned, he did not speak of government for three days. A disciple asked, “When you met Laozi, how did you intend to set him right?” Confucius said, “Only now have I seen a dragon. When it draws itself together, it forms a whole; when it spreads out, it displays its patterns. It rides the clouds and nurtures Yin-Yang. I opened my mouth but could not close it again. How could I possibly set Laozi right?”

Zigong said, “So can there truly be a person who lies still like a corpse yet appears like a dragon, responds to movement like thunder yet is silent like an abyss, and, when roused to action, is as vast as Heaven and Earth? May I go and see him?” He then invoked Confucius’s name and went to meet Laozi. Laozi was sitting upright in the hall. His reply was quiet: “I am old now. What do you intend to admonish me about?” Zigong said, “The Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the world in different ways, yet their reputations were alike. You alone do not consider them sages. Why?” Laozi said, “Come a little closer, young man. Why are you so rash? You revere the Three Sovereigns and honor the Five Emperors. You have heard that I disparage the way of emperors, so you begin by asking me about that.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Someone said, “They were all different.”

The reply was: Yao passed the throne to Shun, and Shun passed it to Yu—Yu governed the realm through strenuous effort. Tang used military force. King Wen submitted to King Zhou and dared not resist him, while King Wu resisted King Zhou and refused to submit. That is why they were “all different.”

Laozi said, “You’re making a little progress. Let me tell you how the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the realm.

“When the Yellow Emperor governed the realm, he kept the people’s hearts simple and unadorned, as in an age of great simplicity, before ritual and law had broken things apart. When someone’s relative died, they did not weep, and no one blamed them.

“When Yao governed the realm, he made the people’s hearts more devoted to family ties: people drew close to their kin, lived in harmony with their extended families, and brought peace to the people. If someone killed for the sake of a relative, no one blamed them. Ritual obligations were strongest toward one’s closest kin, then diminished with distance; the people did not see this as a lack of feeling.

“When Shun governed the realm, the people’s hearts began to compete. Shun valued the worthy, so people competed for fame and position. A woman carried a child for ten months, yet the child could speak at five months. Before reaching the stage of recognizing familiar faces, the child already knew who was who. The competitive spirit made people seek precocious achievement: their minds opened too early, and children began to die young or fail to thrive.

“When Yu governed the realm, the people’s hearts changed. The sense that the Great Dao belonged to all was altered. People developed calculating minds, and armies came to distinguish between submission and refusal: those who used force to punish the disobedient called it ‘submission.’ Killing a thief did not count as killing a person—though the rule was ‘whoever kills must die,’ killing a thief could go unpunished. Each person made a separate household and looked after their own; throughout the realm, people listened only to their own way of thinking. Thus the realm was thrown into great alarm: each person cherished their own kin and treated their own children as their own, and people were startled by one another. Confucians and Mohists rose up, and public debate spread everywhere. At first, there was still an order of human relations: marriage, the great beginning of family life, followed ancient rules, such as men marrying at thirty and women at twenty. Now even young girls were being taken as brides. What can be said of customs so frivolous?” This is close in meaning to the passage in the Book of Rites that begins, “When the Great Dao prevailed, the realm belonged to all.”

“Let me tell you further: the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors were said to have ‘governed’ the realm, but no age was more chaotic than theirs… The ‘wisdom’ of the Three Sovereigns…” (The text continues in the original book.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This passage, through the dialogue between Confucius and Laozi (Lao Dan), reveals the dangers of over-reliance on clever governance. The original text conveys that:

Governing through cleverness may appear astute, but in truth violates natural laws. Just as the sun and moon, though bright, cannot illuminate the inside of an overturned basin; just as mountains and rivers follow their own natural rhythms where forced excavations disrupt their harmony; just as the four seasons progress in their proper sequence where human interference only disrupts their timing—such governance resembles the venomous sting of insects or the sharp claws of small beasts, seemingly ingenious yet ultimately harmful, leaving the people without peace. The tragedy lies in how its practitioners still consider themselves sages.

The text then describes Confucius lamenting to Laozi: After decades studying the Six Classics (Book of Songs, Book of Documents, Rites, Music, Book of Changes, and Spring and Autumn Annals) and advocating these ancient kings' governance methods to seventy-two rulers, none adopted his teachings. Laozi responds: The Six Classics are merely stale footprints left by ancient kings—like shoe impressions that aren't the shoes themselves. True governance isn't found in these superficial traces. He then uses the metaphor of white egrets conceiving through mere eye contact during mating to illustrate that the highest form of resonance requires no verbal forms.

The core of this dialogue critiques the Confucian ideal of "governing through action" (youwei), advocating instead the Daoist principle of "governing through non-action" (wuwei). Laozi argues that deliberately imitating ancient institutions is like chasing footprints—true governance should accord with natural dispositions (xingming zhi qing), resembling the spontaneous resonance between living beings.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Interpretation of This Passage from the Nanhua True Scripture Commentary and Subcommentary

The general meaning of Zhuangzi’s text

Upwind, Yang Qi is like a “call”; downwind, Yin Qi answers it, like a “response.” Their call and response mingle, giving rise to “wind transformation”—the two Qi of Yin and Yang interact and transform, bringing forth the myriad things.

Among living kinds, many can determine their own male and female forms. Some kinds have no females, only males, yet those capable of being male can also be female; other kinds have no males, only females, yet those capable of being female can also be male. Thus, “wind transformation” means that the myriad things are often born through wind and the transformation of Qi. The bearing and nurturing of offspring follow no fixed, unchanging pattern, so we should not rigidly insist on just one explanation.

Nature cannot be changed lightly; destiny (one’s allotted share and fixed measure) cannot be altered recklessly; time (its seasons and flow) cannot be forcibly brought to a halt; and the Dao (the Great Way and the workings of life’s ceaseless renewal) cannot be blocked or obstructed. The Dao must flow freely and vigorously.

One who attains the Dao finds nothing beyond their capacity; one who loses the Dao can accomplish nothing and finds no way forward. Those who attain the Dao understand how Yin and Yang take root in each other, and how their waxing and waning give rise to one another in the ceaseless process of life. Those who lose the Dao fail to grasp the subtle workings of Yin and Yang as they diminish, grow, and transform in relation to each other. They meet obstacles everywhere and cannot reach the heart of the life force within the myriad things.

Less than three months later, Confucius came to see Laozi again and said, “Nanbo Ziqi seems to have attained the Dao. Crows hatch eggs; fish press mouth to mouth and pass fluids between them (mating and exchanging reproductive essence) … and mud dauber wasps bring forth larvae, while the younger brother has already grown up and the elder brother is still crying. These things have been so from long ago. If Nanbo Ziqi had not first joined with ‘transformation’ to become a person, and had not first merged himself into the Great Transformation, how could he go on to guide the transformation of others?”

Laozi said, “Yes. Nanbo Ziqi has indeed understood.”

---

Additional explanations in the commentary and subcommentary (Guo Xiang’s commentary and the Cheng brothers’ subcommentary)

• “Yang calls upwind, Yin responds downwind”: Qi interacts and resonates, giving rise to wind transformation and the bearing of offspring.
• “Kinds determine their own male and female forms”: Living kinds do not all combine Yin and Yang in the same way. Some can encompass both Yin and Yang through a single Qi.
• “Nature and destiny are both fixed”: This does not tell people to be passive. It means that each has its own allotted share and proper time, and these should not be forcibly twisted.
• “Time cannot be stopped” means that it flows without ceasing; “the Dao cannot be obstructed” means the Great Way must not be blocked, but allowed to follow its free and vigorous course.
• “If one attains or loses it”: The Cheng brothers’ subcommentary emphasizes that if one grasps the principle of Yin and Yang taking root in each other and of their waxing and waning, everything proceeds smoothly; without this, nothing goes smoothly.

---

Notes by Fugui Zi (a later discussion in the same book)

Between looking up and looking down, the universe is vast. The movement of Heaven above is relatively easy to perceive; Earth below is also easy to perceive. The Sun and Moon come and go, seeming to contend for their places, and this too is not hard to understand.

But in the unseen depths, who ultimately directs and sustains it all? Who remains inactive yet can “use stillness to govern motion”? Could some hidden mechanism be at work, acting beyond human notice? Could some process be moving things along of its own accord, unable to stop even if it wished to?

Clouds can turn into rain, and rain can turn back into clouds. The abundant giving of rain can become excessive and unrestrained. Whatever delights in this—the force that is neither simply cloud nor simply rain—must be something that remains inactive, yet brings clouds across the sky in the morning and sends rain on its way in the evening.

When Yang Qi emerges from within Yin, it becomes rain. The north is a Yang position, so wind often rises in the north: sometimes from below to above, sometimes shifting west and east, or moving from above to below. Inhale and exhale, and wind takes shape. Yet the one who truly breathes the wind is not the wind itself. There must be something else, remaining inactive, that sweeps across the myriad things and assists the clouds and rain.

(This passage uses the winds and rains of Heaven and Earth to evoke the Dao, or the “True Ruler,” as the inactive force that presides over things. It echoes the earlier claim that with the Dao, nothing is impossible, while without it, nothing can succeed. Nanbo Ziqi’s understanding lies precisely in not resisting the Great Transformation: through Wuwei, he can transform others.)

---

The passage’s main idea in one sentence

The myriad things arise through the call and response of Yin and Yang and the transformation of wind and Qi; nature, destiny, and the seasons each have their allotted measure, while the Great Way must not be obstructed. Nanbo Ziqi, praised by Confucius and Laozi, did not become a person through outward form alone: he first joined with “transformation,” and only then could he transform others—a principle that accords with the commentaries’ account of stillness governing motion and Wuwei presiding over clouds and rain.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

The Plain-Language Interpretation of the Annotations and Commentary on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence

Heaven has the Five Movements and Six Qi—five patterns of movement and six climatic influences calculated according to the solar terms, by which the ancients understood the workings of creation—and these order and sustain the transformations of nature. Emperors modeled themselves on them. The Nine Categories and the Luo Writing—the legendary principles of governance bestowed by Heaven on Yu the Great, associated with the River Chart and the Luo Writing—served as their foundation. Once the work of government was accomplished, the virtue of the sage was complete. Heaven has its constant mirror, and people have their constant support; nothing could surpass this except an age of supreme rule under the August Sovereign. The August Sovereign descended into the world as benevolence, and so Grand Steward Dang asked Zhuangzi about benevolence.

Zhuangzi said that if tigers and wolves were called benevolent, people would be horrified. If the bond of affection between tiger and wolf parents and their young were called benevolence, people would still be horrified. If one said that ultimate benevolence has no attachment, people would doubt it; and if one said that filial piety was merely the remnant of ultimate benevolence, people would doubt that too. So he said: To practice filial piety out of reverence and know that one has parents is not as good as practicing it out of love and forgetting one’s parents. For me to be filial and have us forget one another in filial piety is not as good as letting my parents forget me. For me to be filial and able to forget the world is not as good as letting the world forget me as well.

In an age of great De, the Dao of Yao and the conduct of Shun would prevail. No one would regard bringing rare benefits to the world as a personal act of kindness. Then those who make a point of displaying filial piety, fraternal duty, benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, trustworthiness, chastity, and integrity would be few indeed. If the highest nobility and wealth are already within me, what need have I of rank or riches granted by the state? If Dao and De are within me and my highest aspiration is already mine, what need have I of empty fame and praise? Rank, wealth, fame, and praise can easily change; the highest nobility, wealth, and aspiration do not.

Beimen Cheng watched the music of the Yellow Emperor, “The Pool of Harmony,” performed in the wilds of Dongting. He heard it as a single whole: at first it frightened him, then it left him listless, and at last it bewildered him, leaving his spirit unsettled, his words difficult to find, and his heart uneasy. Why? The Yellow Emperor said: “The music I performed was more than sound and spectacle. It joined Heaven and humanity, was regulated by ritual and right conduct, and its tones and Qi had one source in the Great Purity—the Daoist name for the clear, empty origin. This source is not something to seek at a distance. Though supreme music first responds to human affairs, it must also follow the principles of Heaven; though it is expressed through the Five Virtues, it must also accord with nature. Thus one who is skilled at making music first attunes the four seasons, before tuning the music, and harmonizes the myriad things, before harmonizing the music. The ordered alternation of fullness and decline, and of strong and gentle tones, mirrors the succession of the four seasons. The blending of clear and muddy, Yin and Yang, mirrors the continuous generation of the myriad things. Its flowing sounds can startle hibernating creatures; its beginning and end are hard to trace. Beginning and ending give rise to one another, as do life and death; they surge and cycle without limit. One cannot wait for them to return to a single source. How could you not be afraid?”

“Then I performed it in harmony and accord…”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain Language Interpretation

Yin-Yang is as distinct as the sun and moon. Musical notes of long and short duration are like the sun’s shadow stretching and shrinking; hardness and softness are like the changing Qi of the four seasons. What seems to be “without change” is changing everywhere: a “constant” is present, but it does not cling to one fixed form of constancy.

Sound fills hollows and valleys, while Shen (spirit) keeps to its proper measure. This music can be called free-flowing and unrestrained, or lofty and immense. When you hear me play, ghosts and spirits settle in their hidden places, and the sun and stars follow their courses. This is because my music stops when it should stop and moves when it should move. If you try to follow it with a set of preconceptions, you will never catch up. Unless you establish the Way of the “Four Emptinesses” and lean against a withered parasol tree to chant, you cannot know its subtlety. When understanding reaches its limit and strength gives out, the body seems as vast as empty space, relaxed and unstrained. How could this fail to make people feel free from weariness? I then play a sound of “freedom from weariness.” The music’s fundamental resonance flows in accord with Heaven’s mandate, and its patterns arise alongside all moving and growing things. Though metal and stone instruments sound together and strings and bamboo instruments answer one another, the music seems at once undivided and divided, like Heaven’s music sounding of itself. You cannot confine it to any place, grasp it by probing the dark and obscure, or compare it to death and life, blossoms and fruit. You see only ceaseless transformation: it is no ordinary sound.

Could this be the work of a sage? Only a sage understands the nature of music and knows Heaven’s mandate. The workings of Heaven’s mechanism need no deliberate effort, and yet the five senses each perform their function in response to one another. This music does not belong to the human world. It is wondrous beyond words: difficult to hear and impossible to see. Its sound fills everything and leaves nothing outside it, while its finest notes are beyond the ear’s reach. How could one not be bewildered?

Such is music: at first hearing, one is afraid—startled and terrified, wondering whether it is a ghost or spirit; fear makes one suspect a haunting. After hearing it for a while, one grows weary—the mind and spirit are spent, with nothing left to grasp; weariness makes one flee. At last, one is bewildered—thinking it perfectly good and beautiful, yet not knowing where that goodness and beauty come from; bewilderment makes one foolish. The clever person puts people and things to use, and so moves far from the Dao. The foolish person lets Heaven put things to use, and so draws nearer to the Dao. Thus it is said, great wisdom looks like foolishness: foolishness can bear the Dao, but the Dao does not bear foolishness.

Confucius was traveling west to Wei. Master Jin said to Yan Hui: “Before a straw dog is laid out, it is treated with reverence and must be honored as a sacred object. Once it has been laid out, it is like…” (The following passage continues Master Jin’s point that after the straw dog has been used, it should be discarded and no longer revered. This is the opening sentence of that discussion.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Ritual grass dogs that have not yet been used are cherished just as those that have already been used. This is not a case of mistaking wakefulness for a dream; it must be that one’s eyes grow dim even in bright daylight. Now the Master takes up the worn-out sayings of the former kings and recites them as lessons. How is this different from taking the grass dogs after they have been used in a sacrifice, then having his disciples live and sleep beneath them? He met with no success in Song, Wei, Shang, or Zhou and said that he was dreaming. But now, trapped between Chen and Cai and close to death, is this not confusion on his part?

Water and land are different routes; boats and carts are different means of travel. Everyone understands this. Everyone should also understand that the ancient Way of Zhou cannot be followed in today’s state of Lu. To try to travel the Way of Zhou in Lu today is like pushing a boat across dry land. Can it be done? It cannot. Forcing the ancient way onto the present brings nothing but wasted effort. If I do not understand that times are ever changing, I too will change with them, so that I can respond to the myriad things without becoming trapped. Understand how a well sweep moves up and down, and you can act without blame; then you can grasp the principles of governing the world.

Thus, although the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed by different methods, they all succeeded in bringing order to the world. It is like pears, oranges, and pomelos: though their flavors differ, each is pleasing to the taste. Understand that rites, duties, laws, and measures must adapt and change with the times, and you will know that the ancient Way does not suit the present. It is like a gibbon unable to wear the robes of the Duke of Zhou, or a village woman trying to imitate Xi Shi’s furrowed brow. How unfortunate! The Master must be at the end of his road.

Confucius traveled south to Pei to visit Lao Dan. Lao Dan asked, “Have you attained the Dao?” Confucius replied, “I sought the Dao’s measures—the forms that can be counted—for five years, but did not find them. I sought the Dao’s Yin-Yang, its formless principles, for twelve years, but did not find them.” Laozi said, “The Dao is valued for what the heart-mind realizes; it cannot be conveyed in words. Nothing is more honored than a ruler or a father, yet the Dao cannot be offered up to them. Nothing is closer than brothers and descendants, yet the Dao cannot be handed on by telling them. Why is this? With a guiding principle within, one can be settled. With no guiding principle in the heart-mind, how can one hold to an unchanging Dao? With standards outside oneself, one’s conduct can be established; relying on a partial view, how can one act independently and make decisions alone? Therefore, those who awaken inwardly and enter the Dao can dwell peacefully with the sages in silence. For those who approach it through the mouth and ears, the sages do not begrudge them words to point the way back. Reputation is a public possession, and one should not take too much of it. How much less should one dwell for long in benevolence and righteousness, the thatched hut of the former kings? Therefore…”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

In ancient times, the “Perfected Ones” were the “True Ones.” They acted according to the way of benevolence—in Neidan, people often speak of “Metal longing for Wood,” referring to a compassionate and benevolent heart. They also settled body and mind in righteousness: the saying “Wood longing for Metal” means following what is right. Thus they wandered in the realm of free and easy wandering, their minds untouched by external things, as though not a speck of dust could cling to them.

Lü Dongbin said: “Dig into the earth to seek Heaven and see its light” refers to the Field of Simplicity—the “mind field” of plainness and contentment, without greed or excessive desire. This field lies in the region of Kan and Dui (the directions associated with water and marsh in the Eight Trigrams, often referring in inner cultivation to kidney water and the Dui marsh), not in Qian or Xun. What is planted in the morning can be harvested by evening; hence the phrase “eating from the Field of Simplicity.” He also said: “Planting the fruit of golden blossoms is strength”; this is the Garden of No Borrowing, a garden where one gives without expecting repayment. It lies in Qian and Li, not in Kun or Dui. One “lends to others” but does not “borrow from others,” hence the phrase “establishing oneself in the Garden of No Borrowing.” At this point, where could one not wander freely?

The Patriarch Lü also said: “The infant feeds daily on the marrow of the Yellow Dame; the Maiden eats from the white jade cup in due season”—thus the Field of Simplicity is easy to nourish. “With a centered mind, gather in the marrow of the Yellow Dragon; open the mouth to seize and swallow the White Tiger’s elixir”—thus the Garden of No Borrowing gives nothing away. The heterodox methods of sexual alchemy usually gather only postnatal substances and false Qi; they do not gather true Qi. The Perfected Ones gather the primordial True One Mother Qi to subdue the body’s lesser Qi. The Patriarch Zhang Sanfeng said: “A point of numinous light emerges through the whole body; the fragrant sweat dries in an instant. I exchange my mercury and transform my bones into pure Yang.” This is the wandering that comes from gathering the true. Those in the world who covet profit, sacrifice themselves for fame, and boast of power until death refuse to take antiquity as their mirror. They bring Heaven’s punishment upon themselves and are far removed from the Perfected Ones.

Resentment, gratitude, taking, giving, remonstrance, life, and death—the eight are instruments used by people of integrity. Unless a person cannot be shaken by gain or loss, life or death, they cannot use their own integrity to correct the lack of integrity in others. If one acts only within the “human gate,” how can the Heavenly Gate open? Benevolence and righteousness arose only after the Dao and De were lost. That is why Lao Dan (Laozi) urged Confucius to set benevolence and righteousness aside and cultivate the Dao and De first. If you scatter chaff in someone’s face every day, they will not be able to see in any direction; if mosquitoes and horseflies bite their skin, they will not even notice that they have woken from a dream. If you speak to me of benevolence and righteousness, I will lose sight of the Great Dao. No disorder is greater than this. Better for each person to refine what is already formed, leaving the world at peace in the atmosphere of Wuwei (non-action). Why teach people through benevolence and righteousness? It is like beating a drum to find a child who has run away: the more commotion you make, the harder the child is to find. A swan is naturally white and a crow naturally black; there is no need to argue. Impressions such as reputation add not a bit to one’s original nature, so there is no need to make much of them.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This passage explains, through Confucius’s meeting with Laozi, Zigong’s questions to Lao Dan, and Lao Dan’s appraisal of the rule of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, that the more people impose benevolence and righteousness, ritual and law, and moral instruction, the more confused people’s hearts become. It is better to return to a natural state in which people “forget one another in the Dao.”

The passage leading up to this compares people to fish stranded on land, able to survive only with a little moisture and foam. How can that compare with fish freely swimming in rivers and lakes, forgetting one another? The people, having lost their original simplicity, are layered over with benevolence, righteousness, and moral teachings. How can that compare with people forgetting one another within the Dao and each finding their proper place?

After returning, Confucius told his disciples: “I met Laozi. He is just like a dragon! A dragon’s transformations are unfathomable. It has no fixed form; only when it gathers does it have a ‘body’—that is the hidden dragon. It has no fixed pattern; only when it disperses does it form a ‘design’—that is the visible dragon. It relies neither on hiding nor appearing, but rides the clouds and breathes in and out Yin and Yang. Laozi must be something like that. What standing have I to try to admonish him with words?”

Zigong said: “So a person can appear outwardly still as a corpse, yet inwardly manifest like a dragon—that is the dragon dispersing into a ‘design.’ Thunder may roar while the deep pool lies silent—that is the dragon gathering into a ‘body.’ Every arising and movement may follow the workings of Heaven and Earth—that is the dragon riding the clouds and being nourished by Yin and Yang.” The Master had spoken of a dragon, and Zigong followed his words by applying them to Laozi.

Then, as a disciple, Zigong first announced his arrival before going to see Lao Dan. He said: “When the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the world, their methods differed, yet all were honored as sages. You alone say they were not sages. Why? In the past, the Mandate of Heaven passed from Yao to Shun and then Yu. Yu relied on labor, Tang used military force to conquer, and King Wen submitted to Zhou while King Wu overthrew Zhou. So their methods were all different.”

Lao Dan said: “When the Yellow Emperor governed the world, he brought the people’s hearts into unity, making them alike and without distinction. Yet people each cared for their own kin, and when someone died they did not weep; the people did not consider this wrong. This was no longer unity: the first signs of ‘each caring for their own kin’ had appeared.

“When Yao governed the world, he brought the people to care for one another. Yet some people avenged their relatives by killing, and the people did not consider this wrong. This was no longer mutual care: the first signs of ‘the close being treated as distant’ had arisen.

“When Shun governed the world, he made the people compete, each striving to restore the rule of antiquity through force. But they did not know that the primordial undifferentiated state had already been broken open. Pregnant women gave birth before ten months had passed; children could speak before they were five months old. Before reaching the age of a toddler, they were already asking, ‘Who are my parents?’ The people began to die young. This was no longer competition: a tendency had begun to hoard cleverness and refuse to teach one another.

“When Yu governed the world, he changed the people’s hearts, making them crafty, in an effort to restore their simplicity. Once people had become calculating, weapons could no longer be put to proper use. Killing thieves was not counted a crime, and gathering in large groups became common. People’s hearts were shaken with fear, and the teachings of the Confucians and Mohists arose. Husbands and wives no longer observed the original bonds of marriage, and young girls could be given in marriage as wives. This was no longer change: the tradition of passing the way from one generation to the next through respectful yielding could no longer reach a proper end. What was called ‘governing’ was in fact creating disorder. In my view, those in positions of power have failed to win the people’s hearts.”

The emperors’ aims and the actual outcomes can be set out as follows: the Yellow Emperor sought unity in the people’s hearts, but people each cared for their own kin and neither wept at death nor considered that wrong—so there was no unity. Yao sought mutual care, but people killed in revenge for their relatives and considered that acceptable—so there was no mutual care. Shun sought a return to the ancient order through competition, but people gave birth and began speaking early, died young, and hoarded knowledge instead of teaching one another—so there was no true competition. Yu sought to restore simplicity, but calculation, weapons, the teachings of the Confucians and Mohists, and the bonds of marriage brought disorder—so there was no true transformation.

The passage as a whole echoes the opening contrast between fish surviving on moisture and foam, and people who have lost their original simplicity and are steeped in benevolence and righteousness. The more people try to govern through moral teachings and cleverness, the further they move from their original simplicity and from the Dao in which they forget one another. This is a familiar theme in the Nanhua commentarial tradition: skepticism toward sages and a high regard for the natural.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

To share the brilliance of the sun and moon—impossible; to contend with mountains and rivers for their numinous radiance—also impossible; to dispense transformation and nurture in step with the four seasons—still impossible. Yet if one causes the myriad things to be unable to rest content in the natural condition of their own nature and life, and still calls oneself a sage, is that not shameful? Zigong stood there with his mind and spirit unsettled, not daring to say more.

Confucius said to Laozi: “I have studied and promoted the Six Classics—the Odes, Documents, Rites, Music, Changes, and Spring and Autumn Annals—for many years, and I have presented them to seventy-two rulers, yet not one success. Is it that people are too difficult to persuade, or that the great Dao (the Way) is too difficult to make manifest?”

Laozi said: “Now the customs of the age do not accord with antiquity, just as the Dao of antiquity does not suit the present. The Six Classics you cling to are merely the stale traces left by the former kings when they governed the world of antiquity; to wish to use them to govern today’s world—is that not far-fetched and impractical? You do not realize that the institutions and creations of Youwei (purposeful action) are only coarse traces; what those traces issue from is the spirit of the former kings’ Wuwei (non-action). To grasp only the coarse traces and lose the spirit is like seeing a footprint and thinking it is the shoe, taking the print for the shoe—can that work? Not only are the traces of governance in past and present different; the ways in which the myriad things generate and transform one another are also not the same. The white yi (a water bird) looks at another with its eyes and, moved to transformation, hatches its young; male and female insects sing and respond to each other above and below, and through the mutual influence of Qi (vital energy) are transformed by the wind; there are also turtles and soft-shelled turtles without males, and bees and scorpions without females, each mutually serving as male and female, and they too can transform. Those born according to the times have fixed categories of birth, but no fixed traces of death—nothing does not alternate, nothing does not change; the only thing that does not alter or change is nature and life (xingming). Why? The force of the times cannot be forcibly halted: the methods for governing the ancient world cannot govern today’s world; the great Dao cannot be blocked or obscured—human life (human relations and affairs) can still be measured, but the generation of things (the mechanism by which Heaven and Earth transform and generate) cannot be measured. If one can obtain that unchanging, unaltering principle of nature and life, it can be used to govern the world, and it can also be used to cultivate oneself and attain long life. If one loses the unchanging Dao of nature and life, and takes it to govern others, one will not understand past and present; taking it to cultivate oneself, one will not understand where nature and life come from—how then can one know where nature and life will go?”

Confucius withdrew, did not leave his house for three months, and then went to see Laozi again. He said: “I, Qiu, now reckon that I understand—I understand the unchanging, unaltering principle of nature and life, and I also understand the situation in which the force of the times cannot be halted and the great Dao cannot be blocked.” In the world there are egg-born and moisture-born beings: each has one root akin to Heaven above and one root akin to Earth below; there are also transformation-born and womb-born beings—some, though extremely dull, can transform; some, though extremely intelligent, cannot. What Confucius awakened to is precisely connected with this kind of principle of nature and life.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

To transform people—now that you have heard the Master’s teachings on nature and life, and on the Way of the seasons, you understand the principle that does not change. Though you may take up authority after carrying forward what is good, you still cannot stop short of freeing yourself from obstruction and rising beyond the ordinary and the near to roam in lofty realms. If you do not understand the way of transforming people, how can you transform them? Laozi says: You are ready. Only after understanding the principles of nature and life can one discuss the Way of the seasons; only after grasping what does not change can one discuss what neither stops nor becomes blocked. Yes—if you are to understand the transformations of things, you must first know how people are transformed. Once you know why people do not transform, you will also understand how they do. From now on, we can discuss the Way.

---

Outer Chapters: “Carving the Will,” Chapter Fifteen

(This chapter focuses throughout on nurturing and guarding the spirit, with stillness, emptiness, and Wuwei as its guiding principles. It is one of the chapters in the Zhuangzi that comes closest to the prevailing tastes of its time.)

“Carving the will and esteeming conduct”—striving intently and making conduct one’s highest aim. “Leaving the world and rejecting its customs”—withdrawing from the world and refusing to mix with ordinary people. “Upholding lofty arguments and voicing resentment”—setting oneself up as a proponent of elevated views, and inevitably blaming Heaven and others. “Taking an extreme stance”—that is all. These are the preferences of people who dwell in mountain valleys, reject the world, and throw themselves into deep ravines—those who willingly embrace solitude and withdraw to remote mountains and valleys.

“Speaking of benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, trustworthiness, respectfulness, frugality, and deference as the whole of self-cultivation”—that is all. These are the preferences of people who seek peace in the world, instruct others, and travel or live among scholars—those who withdraw from public life to pursue their aspirations.

“Speaking of great achievements and establishing a great name, and of observing ritual between ruler and subject and setting the upper and lower orders straight as the whole of good government”—that is all. These are the preferences of people at court, those who honor the ruler and strengthen the state, and those who win merit and annex other territories—people who put righteousness into practice and make the Way accessible.

“Going to marshes and lakes, dwelling in open, quiet places, and fishing in solitude, with Wuwei as the whole of it”—that is all. These are the preferences of people of rivers and seas, those who avoid the world, and those who enjoy their leisure—people who have forgotten the world, such as the old man from Hanyin who carried water in jars to irrigate his garden.

“Blowing, panting, breathing in and out, expelling the old and taking in the new”—breathing out stale Qi and drawing in fresh Qi. “The bear hangs from a tree, the bird stretches”—like a bear climbing a tree and drawing in breath, or a bird stretching its neck and calling at length. “Doing this for longevity”—that is all. These are the preferences of practitioners of breath and movement exercises, those who nurture the body, and Peng Zu, the legendary figure famed for his longevity.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Longevity is what people prize (this is what those who sit quietly and cultivate Qi aspire to).

As for reaching a lofty state without striving (acting with ease in accord with the Way):

Cultivating oneself without deliberately speaking of benevolence and righteousness (virtue flows forth naturally, without consciously invoking benevolence and righteousness):

Governing well without seeking merit or fame (heavenly rank is already within me; where could I not go?):

Living at ease without withdrawing to rivers and seas (dwelling amid the dust yet remaining free of it):

Living long without practicing breathing and movement exercises (if the original spirit is already whole, why sit in meditation?):

Forgetting nothing and possessing everything (this means Wuwei, non-action, while leaving nothing undone):

Calm and boundless, with all excellences naturally following: this is the Way of Heaven and Earth and the Virtue of the sage (the five kinds of men all retain a sense of self and are inevitably confined to one perspective. The sage, being without self, forgets the body and embodies every virtue).

Thus it is said: serenity, stillness, emptiness, and Wuwei are the even temper of Heaven and Earth and the substance of the Dao and De.

Thus it is said: when the sage rests in quiet contentment, all is level and easy; when all is level and easy, there is serenity. With ease and serenity, worries cannot enter and malign Qi cannot assail. Thus the sage’s De is whole and the spirit suffers no depletion.

Thus it is said: in life, the sage follows the course of Heaven (acting in accord with Heaven’s principles, without imposing personal intention).

In death, the sage transforms with things (casting off all entanglement with things).

In stillness, the sage shares the De of Yin; in movement, the sage moves with the current of Yang (sharing its flow; stillness and movement give rise to one another, and when the waves subside, the water is still).

The sage does not set out to bring about good fortune or initiate calamity. Only after being touched does the sage respond; only when pressed does the sage act; only when there is no choice does the sage rise to action (these three phrases show precisely what it means not to seek good fortune or initiate calamity: responding to things without intention).

The sage lets go of cleverness and old assumptions (what is old is the trace of what has already happened; letting it go means having no fixed expectations).

Following the principles of Heaven, the sage suffers no natural disasters and is burdened by nothing (not resisting things, and therefore not becoming entangled).

No one finds fault with the sage (being in accord with others, the sage is not criticized).

No spirits reproach the sage (being in accord with the spirits, the sage is not reproached).

In life, the sage is like something afloat; in death, like someone at rest.

The sage does not deliberate or plan ahead.

The sage shines but does not dazzle (dazzling is the outward display of light; not dazzling means keeping one’s light concealed).

The sage is trustworthy but makes no appointments (an appointment is a promise made with certainty).

In sleep, the sage does not dream; on waking, the sage has no worries.

The sage’s spirit is pure and whole, and the soul is never weary.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Set the mind at rest in emptiness and calm; this accords with Heavenly De. Thus the classic says: grief and joy are deviations of De; delight and anger are excesses of the Dao; likes and dislikes are losses of De. Only when the heart is no longer moved by grief or joy can De be said to have reached its utmost. (To forget sorrow and joy, give no thought to good and evil, and directly perceive one’s original nature—this is what the passage means.)

To hold to the One without change is the utmost of stillness. To meet things without resistance, respond in accord with them, and never go astray is the utmost of emptiness. Not to join with or cling to external things is the utmost of detachment. To oppose nothing is the utmost of purity. (The substance of the Great Void has nothing attached to it. Once grief or joy arises, De is divided; once change occurs, the mind is disturbed; once resistance [wu] arises, the heart is obstructed and no longer empty; once one engages with things, one pursues worldly sentiments and is no longer detached; once opposition [ni] arises, flaws appear in the heart and it is no longer pure. Wu and ni are similar, but ni is subtle while wu is coarse: it is easier to be free of wu than to be free of ni.)

Thus it is said: If the body is wearied without rest, it will waste away; if the spirit is put to use without ceasing, it will grow weary; when toil reaches its limit, it brings exhaustion. Water is clear by nature when unmixed, and level when undisturbed; if it is blocked and does not flow, it cannot remain clear. (These images all describe the qualities of Heavenly De.) Hence it is also said: Be pure and unmixed, remain still and hold to the One without change, be detached and practice Wuwei (non-action), and, when moving, act in accord with Heaven—this is the way to nourish the spirit. (Ordinary people are undone by reckless activity; sages nourish themselves through stillness. Yet sages can be still and can also respond. Their responses never depart from stillness, which is why water serves as the image.)

There was a famous sword from the Ganxi region, associated with Wu and Yue. It was kept unused in its scabbard, for it was a supreme treasure. (The sword is an image for the spirit: it must not be used lightly. The spirit governs; Jing is its functioning. When the spirit is present, Jing naturally remains secure.) The spirit extends in all directions and flows without obstruction, reaching upward to Heaven and spreading downward across Earth. It transforms and nurtures the myriad things, beyond description. (The myriad things of Heaven and Earth are all places where the spirit extends.) This is called “being one with the Emperor”: its workings are the same as those of the Heavenly Dao. The most essential thing in the Way of Pure Simplicity is to guard the spirit. Guard it without loss, unite with it, and the Jing of the One will reach up to Heaven, joining seamlessly with the order of Heaven. Zhouzi says … (The following continues with the original commentator’s words.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This passage discusses how Daoist practitioners attain the state of "Zhenren" (True Person) through nurturing their Shen (spirit). The core teaching reveals four hierarchical orientations: ordinary people chase material gains, the virtuous prize reputation, sages value lofty aspirations, while the highest adepts treasure Jing (vital essence) as life's foundational energy.

The cultivation of Shen involves three essential disciplines: avoiding physical exhaustion ("do not weary your form"), preventing Jing depletion ("do not dissipate your essence"), and maintaining primordial purity ("cherish the essential"). The term "su" (unadorned) denotes freedom from worldly contamination, while "chun" (pure) signifies spiritual integrity. Those embodying this pristine simplicity qualify as Zhenren—their Shen becomes immutable, their Jing abundant, spontaneously realizing the indestructible state of authentic constancy.

The text contrasts four practitioner archetypes: recluses who deliberately shun society through eccentricity; Confucian scholars bound by rigid morality; statesmen pursuing political achievements; and escapists withdrawing from worldly affairs—none representing the ultimate attainment.

True cultivation manifests differently: effortlessly aligning with Dao without forced nobility ("serenely centered in the Way"), embodying complete De (virtue) without moral posturing, governing naturally without seeking fame, maintaining tranquil mind beyond mountain retreats, attaining longevity without Daoyin (guiding-and-pulling exercises). Their consciousness dissolves all dross ("impurities melt like ice") while integrating all excellences spontaneously.

The term "Heche" (River Chariot) refers to Neidan's (internal alchemy) cyclical Jing-Qi pathways. Daoyin denotes ancient health practices resembling modern Qigong gymnastics. The author emphasizes that supreme cultivation transcends external techniques, relying instead on direct return to the mind's primordial state.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

What is meant by “gathering completely” is not merely coming together. Without the Sage’s virtue of “forgetting the self,” how could one embody the principles of Heaven and Earth? Hence it is said:

Tranquility, stillness, emptiness, and Wuwei (non-action) are where the Sage settles and anchors life. Once settled, the mind is calm and open, and anxieties cannot enter. When it is calm, it is tranquil, and harmful influences cannot invade.

Thus the Sage takes the changes in Heaven’s workings and the transformations of things as life and death, rather than letting Yin-Yang dictate life and death. The Sage takes personal movement and stillness as Yin-Yang, rather than being constrained by signs of impending fortune and the beginnings of calamity. How can one respond only after sensing, move only when compelled, and rise only when there is no alternative? It is because one has no fixed intentions or rigid attachments, and has cast aside cleverness and preconceived ideas.

Thus Heaven cannot bring disaster, things cannot burden, people cannot condemn, and ghosts cannot reproach. The Sage regards life and death as a passing rest, and lets schemes and deliberations fall away. The Sage conceals brilliance and preserves composure, unites trust with awareness, and keeps Shen (spirit) pure and the soul sovereign. Only one who is empty and tranquil can possess this De of Heaven. Therefore sorrow, joy, delight, anger, fondness, and aversion are all forbidden to those who possess the Dao. One may imagine the fullness of their De: they are untouched by changes of sorrow and joy, and do not resist their dealings with things. Their stillness, emptiness, tranquility, and purity reach the utmost degree. How could they tire the body and deplete their Jing (essence)?

Consider the nature of water: when unmixed, it is clear; when undisturbed, it is level. From this we learn how to nourish Shen. If I do not let confusion disturb Shen, Shen remains still. If I do not let divided intentions unsettle Shen, Shen remains at peace. Taking tranquility and Wuwei as Shen’s substance, and movement in accord with Heaven as its function, what could surpass this way of nourishing Shen?

Those who know the precious sword keep it sheathed and dare not test it lightly, for fear its edge will break easily. How much more so with my own spirit and vital essence: when released, they fill the six directions and share the work of the Heavenly Emperor; when gathered in, they withdraw and hide in secrecy. My Shen need only hold to this way of purity and simplicity. If I keep to it long enough, I no longer know whether Shen is me or I am Shen; there is only this One. Heaven received this One and has continued without cease; the Sage received this One, and their essence communicates with Heaven. This is why the Sage truly prizes Jing.

“Unadulterated” simplicity means Jing unmixed with anything; “undiminished” purity means Shen undiminished in its oneness. One who embodies purity and simplicity, with spirit and essence intact and secure, is called a True Person.

—Outer Chapters, “Cultivating Nature,” Chapter 16

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain Language Interpretation

This passage is about nature and life (one’s original nature and true life). Ordinary people often lose both through worldly learning and worldly thoughts. Only those who root themselves deeply and remain utterly still—planting their roots in quietude and abiding in their natural state—can recover their nature, be whole in spirit, and live in contentment with their aims fulfilled. They are unlike those who turn things upside down, confusing root and branch.

---

“To mend one’s nature through worldly learning in hopes of returning to its beginning, and to indulge desire through worldly thoughts in hopes of attaining clarity” means using conventional learning to “repair” one’s nature and regain the state one had at birth, and indulging desire through conventional ideas in hopes of becoming clear-minded. Such people are called those obscured and unenlightened.

The commentaries say that nature may indeed be restored through learning, but worldly learning cannot restore it. Restoring nature also requires clarity, but worldly thoughts cannot attain clarity. The words “worldly learning and worldly thoughts” strike at the very flaw of later, decayed Confucian scholars. “Worldly” is the opposite of “true”: worldly learning obscures nature, while worldly thoughts disturb clarity. Anyone caught in these is among the obscured and unenlightened.

---

The ancients who cultivated the Dao used quietude to nourish understanding.

The ancients cultivated the Dao by using quietude—detachment, Wuwei (non-action), and naturalness—to nourish understanding, or awareness and insight. Understanding is a person’s capacity for awakening; quietude means acting without contrivance and following nature. When understanding is nourished by quietude, stillness gives rise to wisdom. This accords with the Confucian teaching of “neither anticipating nor presuming, yet naturally knowing beforehand.”

“At birth, one does not make understanding into an instrument; this is called nourishing quietude through understanding.”

At the beginning of life, one is without knowledge. When one does not use understanding to contrive, quietude remains naturally present. At first, quietude nourishes understanding. Once this has been cultivated for a long time, understanding is quietude and quietude is understanding. This is why it is said that understanding nourishes quietude.

Understanding and quietude nourish one another, and harmony and order emerge from within one’s nature; they are not imposed from outside.

---

De is harmony; order is the Dao.

De is the harmony of all goodness; order is the coherence that runs through all things. De that excludes nothing is benevolence, and the Dao that orders everything is righteousness. When righteousness is clear, things draw close to one another; this is loyalty. When the heart is pure and sincere, returning to genuine feeling, this is joy. When one is trustworthy in word and deed, composed in bearing, and follows proper forms, this is ritual propriety.

When ritual and music are practiced one-sidedly, the world falls into disorder.

Nature is the source of benevolence, righteousness, ritual propriety, and music. If one does not begin from nature, but grasps at these virtues from the outside, one pursues the branches and forgets the root, becoming fragmented in worldly learning, and the world falls into disorder. To practice them “one-sidedly” is to cling only to external forms while abandoning what is inward. This does not mean rejecting benevolence and righteousness; it means fixating on the outward forms of ritual and music.

---

In essence: Do not use worldly learning and worldly thoughts to “cultivate nature” or “seek clarity.” Nourish understanding through quietude, and quietude through understanding, allowing harmony and order to arise naturally from one’s nature. Benevolence, righteousness, ritual propriety, and music should all grow from nature; do not cling to ritual and music at the expense of their root.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

“Conceal your brightness in obscurity” means hiding one’s luminous Virtue and keeping it within, without displaying or flaunting it. Then things outside oneself will naturally fall into proper order. A person of Virtue does not use their own Virtue to overshadow others. “Virtue” is a quality people share; “cover” means to obscure, and one must not use one’s own Virtue to suppress another’s. Those who are overshadowed will inevitably lose their own nature.

The people of antiquity lived in an age when the world had just emerged from primordial chaos and society was still simple and unspoiled. In their dealings with others, they brought the people an atmosphere of calm and freedom from desire. Yin and Yang were then harmoniously still, spirits and gods were undisturbed, the seasons each followed their proper course, things suffered no harm, and living beings did not die before their time. Even when people possessed wisdom, they had no need to use it. This is called “the utmost unity”: all things under Heaven were whole and complete, naturally merged with the Dao, with nothing lacking. No one then acted deliberately; everything followed its own nature. Could this have been the age of the Celestial Sovereign, the Terrestrial Sovereign, and the Human Sovereign?

Later, Virtue gradually declined. When Suiren and Fuxi began to govern the world, people learned to act according to established principles, and the state of simple, undivided wholeness disappeared. Virtue declined further. When Shennong and the Yellow Emperor began to govern, people each took practices they considered reasonable as a way to secure their own stability. Though they sought stability, they no longer followed nature. Virtue declined yet again. When Tang Yao and Yu Shun began to govern, they promoted moral instruction. The air of simplicity dissipated; people turned away from the Way of nature and pursued good deeds, but in doing so fell into cunning and deceit. They displayed their Virtue through their actions. After that, people abandoned their natural nature and instead followed the intentions of a willful mind.

One person’s mind then began to examine and speculate about another’s, until both sides used schemes to counter each other, watching one another more closely with each passing day. The commentator Lu Xixing argues that, from the time of Suiren onward, people no longer cultivated wisdom through calm stillness, but used wisdom to act deliberately. As a result, methods of governance multiplied and Virtue declined. At first, people followed principles but had already lost their undivided wholeness. Later, each sought personal security and ceased to follow the Dao, leading to the battles between the Yellow Emperor and Chiyou at Banquan and Zhuolu. “Using cunning and deceit to ruin Virtue” resembles Confucius’s remark about conduct that insists on taking a perilous path. Abandoning one’s natural nature to follow the mind weakens the Dao-mind and endangers the human mind; this is also where people’s mutual scrutiny through calculation began.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Reading of the Annotations and Subcommentaries on the True Classic of Southern Florescence

Once the mind stirs, awareness uses the mind to contend for victory (struggling mind against mind). Intelligence alone could not bring peace to the world, so people added the embellishments of ritual, music, and culture, along with extensive learning. Too much literary refinement damages what is genuine; too much mixed learning overwhelms the heart-mind. The people then became confused and disordered, unable to return to their natural dispositions or recover their original state. (When wisdom and knowledge seemed insufficient, people attached ritual and music to them. They used refinement to destroy substance and broad learning to drown the heart-mind, chasing minor details and forgetting the root. Thus they could not return to their nature and recover their beginnings.)

From this, we can see that the world lost the Dao, the Dao lost the world, and the world and the Dao fell into ruin together. By what means can a person who cultivates the Dao flourish in the world? And by what means can the world bring the Dao to flourish? The Dao cannot truly flourish in the world, nor can the world make the Dao truly flourish. Even when a sage does not live in the mountains and forests, his De is hidden—not because he chooses to hide himself. (The world and the Dao ruin one another. When a sage appears, all things come into view; as the world declines further and the Dao grows ever thinner, do they not lose one another together? The Dao has become difficult to bring to flourishing. Here, “hidden” does not mean concealing oneself. It means that people neither recognize nor seek the sage, so he is hidden naturally. This is what is meant by saying that Heaven and Earth are closed off and the worthy conceal themselves.)

The recluse of ancient times was not simply someone who crouched out of sight, kept silent, or hid all his intelligence. If that were all, he would merely be playing the fool in a troubled age. The key was that the times and the course of fate had gone badly awry. (In an age without the Dao, keeping a low profile, staying silent, and hiding one’s knowledge amount only to dullness.) When the time was right and one could put the Dao into practice throughout the world, one returned to unity, leaving no trace of contrivance. (Though the Dao could be put into practice, one entrusted all things to a mind free of intention. This is the calm and natural state in which no trace of deliberate action is visible.) When the time was not right and there was no way forward in the world, one rooted oneself deeply, settled into stillness, and waited. (One rooted oneself in the utmost depths of nature and life, rested where one belonged, and awaited the right time.) This was the way to preserve one’s person. (Cultivate oneself while awaiting the course of events.) To preserve oneself, the ancients did not use eloquence to dress up cleverness, use cleverness to overpower everyone in the world, or use cleverness to exhaust their own De. They rested peacefully where they were and turned back to their nature. (Resting where one is means Wuwei, or non-action; returning to one’s nature means returning to unity, the return to unity that leaves no trace.) Why make more of it? The Dao is not achieved through petty conduct, and De is not established through trivial knowledge—such conduct and knowledge instead injure the Dao and diminish De.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Those who pursue wide-ranging knowledge damage De, while those who pursue minor practices damage the Dao. The Great Dao has its own proper path; broad learning and minor practices, like limited knowledge, mostly belong to side paths. Among these, arts such as sexual techniques damage one’s De and harm the Golden Elixir. Thus it is said: One need only rectify oneself. In ordinary times, one completes one’s nature; when the moment comes, one completes one’s life. Beyond this, one seeks nothing.

To delight in wholeness is to fulfill one’s aspirations: once something is damaged, it is no longer whole. To take delight in preserving wholeness is what makes one content. When the ancients spoke of fulfilling one’s aspirations, they did not mean holding an official post or wearing a ceremonial cap. They meant that nothing could add to their happiness: a noble person delights in their own nature and is not bound to external things. When people today speak of fulfilling their aspirations, they mean only official rank and status. Yet rank and status are not one’s nature or life; they are things that happen to come from outside and lodge temporarily in a person. Their coming and going depend on them, not on me, so they are called temporary lodgings. When they arrive, one cannot keep them out; when they depart, one cannot hold them back. So one should not let rank and status give free rein to one’s desires, nor cater to popular custom when living in hardship. The joy found in either circumstance is the same; one simply has no cause for worry. If losing these temporary possessions makes people unhappy, then even their happiness is never free of excess. Thus it is said: To lose oneself in things and abandon one’s nature to custom is to be a person who has turned things upside down. To devote oneself to what is external and diminish what is within is a grave inversion. Xiang Xiu said: “To exchange what is within for what is without is to turn things upside down.”

---

Xu Guizi said: This chapter is intended to trace the source of our nature. Nature is originally without knowledge, yet nothing is beyond its knowing. The kind of “cultivating one’s nature” found in conventional learning still cannot escape deliberate effort, and takes one ever farther from one’s original nature. The conventional pursuit of gratifying desires cannot escape obstruction and separation, and turns one ever further from clarity. What is called openness in name is in fact used to obscure; what appears to be a window is merely a covering. Thus, those of old who cultivated the Dao sought to dispel ignorance and open what was blocked through nothing more than nurturing knowledge with stillness. Why? Stillness suffers no injury from Heaven, and nature remains settled; when settled, it gives rise to wisdom. Stillness does not depend on additions from others, and nature remains tranquil; when tranquil, it can awaken. All such knowledge comes from being nurtured in stillness. Looking back to the beginning of life, was there knowledge, or was there none? Through long cultivation, knowledge becomes stillness, and stillness becomes knowledge. Knowledge and stillness nurture each other and come into harmony—something conventional learning cannot cultivate. When they harmonize with each other, principle emerges from nature; this is not like conventional thought, which seeks clarity only to take on obscurity. Once this nature is made whole, nothing remains incomplete. As it brings together the goodness of all things, it becomes De, with every principle in due order.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This passage teaches that virtue is rooted in our nature. In ancient times, rulers governed through Wuwei (non-action); in later ages, when people lost the Dao, they relied on rites, laws, and outward refinements. The way of the sage, however, withdraws when the times demand it.

Preparedness, tolerance, benevolence, order, righteousness, clarity, closeness, loyalty, truthfulness, joy, trust, and propriety are all already present in our nature. They should be practiced together; none should be neglected. A virtuous person simply holds to what is right and makes no effort to display it. Others are corrected by his influence without noticing, and each finds their proper place. Can one person’s virtue surpass the virtue of all? Can people still hold fast to their own nature?

In ancient times, people lived in a state of primal simplicity and obscurity, content with plainness just like the people of our own age. Imagine that era: Yin and Yang were in harmony, spirits and ghosts at peace, the seasons followed their proper order, and all things flourished. Living beings enjoyed long lives, and people neither knew nor discriminated—they did not deliberately use knowledge to distinguish, scheme, or calculate. Everyone was like this. Even if one or two people possessed knowledge, their cleverness was of no use, because there was no need for it. In the age of perfect unity, what could there have been to do? Even if something was done, it was as though no one had done it; everything simply happened of itself.

Virtue first declined under the rule of Suiren and Fuxi: things were orderly, but they could no longer return to unity, to an undivided whole. Virtue declined again under Shennong and the Yellow Emperor: things were settled, but no longer in accord with the natural course. Virtue declined once more under Tang and Yu: their beneficial influence continued to spread, but simplicity grew ever thinner and naturalness ever more dispersed. People turned away from their nature and followed private desires, and the world became troubled, with countless complications. My mind and your mind alike were governed by the discerning spirit; the human heart reached the extreme of division.

The early kings knew that cleverness alone could not bring order to the world. So they used cultural forms—systems of ritual and music, statutes, and ceremonial objects—to regulate people, and relied on elaborate argument to settle disputes. When form outweighed substance and learning clouded the heart, the people became confused and disordered. How could conventional learning and thought return people to their nature and feelings, and restore their original state?

Seen in this light: Without the Dao, the age cannot be brought to order; when the Dao is lost, there is no age. When the age has no Dao, the Dao cannot flourish; when the age is lost, the Dao is lost. Why should the age and the Great Dao be lost together, unable to sustain and renew one another? Thus, for those who possess the way of the sage, when their virtue is hidden, they too withdraw. This does not necessarily mean they choose to conceal themselves. Rather, the mandate of Heaven at that time is profoundly mistaken, and they can only withdraw where withdrawal is unavoidable. The “withdrawal” of the ancients was not deliberate hiding or retreat into seclusion; it was their allotted course, to remain concealed where concealment was unavoidable. Nor was their “appearing”—their presence and action—deliberate idleness. It was their allotted course to act on a grand scale, and to practice Wuwei where non-action was unavoidable.

Deep roots refers to the Dao De Jing’s words “root deeply and secure the base”: the roots must reach deep, and the base must be firmly established. Utmost stillness refers to the Dao De Jing’s “secure the root”: only when root and base are firm can lasting peace be achieved.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Those who wait in hardship in the hope of attaining the Way of the Elixir are, in truth, waiting for an imperial edict summoning them. The path by which one can preserve oneself even when all seems lost is a central teaching of the Daoist tradition. People do not understand that nature and life are the very basis of preserving oneself; they empty their minds so that they may turn back and seek nature and life. Thus the ancients preserved themselves by saying, “I do not know,” when they did not know, without using eloquence to disguise their ignorance; and by saying, “I know,” when they did know, without using their own knowledge to investigate all that is unknown to the world. They did not use knowledge to exhaust De. Once the Dao is attained, what is known ultimately returns to not knowing. They saw only that the body was preserved and nature restored; when nature is restored, Shen (spirit) is complete. What need is there, then, for further striving?

The three thousand six hundred unorthodox paths all involve petty practices and shallow understanding. Shallow understanding harms De: it can lead one to wrong others for one’s own gain, and De cannot be secured by shallow understanding. Petty practices harm the Dao: they risk letting licentiousness and deviance corrupt what is right, and the Dao cannot be entered through petty practices. The only thing to do is to set oneself right. What does setting oneself right mean? In refining the elixir, one seeks only the water within metal. Whether in large or small matters, neither is harmful; both are wholly sound. When Shen is complete, one can rejoice.

When one’s first intention is fulfilled, one’s aim is achieved; hence the saying, “To rejoice in wholeness is to achieve one’s aim.” Compared with hardship and poverty, high rank and splendid carriages may bring joy. But compared with nature and life, nature and life are far more joyful than high rank. The ancients did not regard high rank as achieving one’s aim, for they knew it could not add to their true joy. People today regard high rank as achieving their aim: they know about high rank but not about nature and life. The ancients knew that high rank was a chance lodging. As a lodging, it was allowed to come suddenly and to depart just as suddenly. Thus the ancients had no day on which they failed to achieve their aim, while people today have days when they achieve it and days when they do not. The ancients had joy without worry; people today have few days of joy and many days without it. They lose themselves in things and let their form perish; they lose their nature to worldly custom and let Shen perish. If nature and life cannot endure, how can high rank be kept for long? To pursue what is outside and forget what is within is to be a person who has things backward—and rightly so.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing Zhushu

Only one who understands the Way can weigh things rightly. It is also said: Do not let the human destroy the heavenly. Take a small defeat as a great victory; see hardship and success as one in their transformations. Let life and death open out in every direction, and regard self and things as equal. Such a person has not only broad insight but also subtle learning. This may be called the mystery within mystery: the Great Dao is theirs.

---

When autumn rains arrive, all the streams pour into the Yellow River. This is a metaphor for learning that flows in from outside but has not yet reached its source. The river swelled so greatly that, between its banks and the islands and shoals where people could live, it was impossible to tell an ox from a horse. This suggests that the Great Dao is not confined to either bank or the middle, while learning has yet to reach a state in which nothing remains unseen. The River Earl was delighted with himself, believing that all the finest sights in the world were his. He followed the current eastward until he reached the North Sea. Facing east, he could not see where the water ended, nor know where it came from. Only then did the River Earl turn his gaze toward the vast sea and sigh to Ruo, the sea god: “There is a saying among country people: ‘I have heard a hundred things about the Way.’ This describes those who think a little knowledge makes them learned; they have grasped only a hundredth of a myriad. Those who think no one can compare with them are just like me. I once heard that some people thought little of Confucius’s learning and looked down on Boyi’s virtue, but at first I did not believe it. Now I see that you are beyond measure. If I had not come to your gate, I would have remained trapped in my own views and been laughed at forever by those who know the Great Dao. And even at the very top of the pole, there is still another step to climb.”

Ruo of the North Sea replied: “You cannot speak of the sea to a well frog, for it is confined to the small hollow where it lives. You cannot speak of ice to a summer insect, for its life is bounded by the season. You cannot speak of the Dao to a narrow-minded scholar, for doctrine has hemmed them in. Now that you have come beyond the banks and seen the great sea, you know how narrow your former view was. You may now be ready to discuss the great principles.” Of all the waters under Heaven, none is greater…

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Reading of the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence

Passage (the sense of Zhuangzi’s original text):

The ocean’s great outlet—the bottomless valley in the Bohai Sea that Liezi describes, called Guixu—pours water out, yet no one knows when it will stop. Water flows in, too, yet no one knows when it will be full. The seasons change as usual, and the ocean feels neither drought nor flood. Its waters exceed those of the rivers, and its volume cannot be measured.

Yet I have never thought myself great because of this. Compared with Heaven and Earth, and nourished by the Qi of Yin-Yang, I am like a small stone or a young tree on a great mountain, situated between Heaven and Earth. Since I understand how small I am, what grounds have I for thinking myself great?

Commentary and subcommentary:

All the rivers eventually flow into the ocean. Heaven and Earth contain the ocean, and each has its own limits and proper place. The greatest can reach its utmost, while even the tip of an autumn hair does not burden Heaven and Earth. The smallest has no excess, and Heaven and Earth are no larger than the tip of an autumn hair. Each knows its own limits and rests in its proper place. If one sees only what is great and cannot accept what is small, or sees what is small and considers it abundant, one will rush about in the contest for victory and defeat. Could this really have been Zhuangzi’s intention?

Lu Xixing says: Those who study the Dao should have broad understanding and a finely measured heart. With broad understanding, they are not satisfied with what is small; with a finely measured heart, they are not arrogant about what is great. The ocean is vast, yet the Spirit of the Ocean does not boast of it. He also keeps the attitude of “seeing himself as little.” This means that he has not yet reached the Dao, and that the sage does not regard himself as a sage. Knowing that one is “little” allows one to move toward a broader vision. The following explains what it means to regard oneself as little.

Consider the Four Seas within Heaven and Earth: are they not like a hollow in a great marsh? Consider China within the Four Seas: is it not like a single grain of rice in a great granary? The totality of things is called “ten thousand”; human beings are just one among them. Humanity is in turn spread across the Nine Provinces—the lands where grain is grown and boats and carts can travel—and people make up only one part of that. Compared with the myriad things, are human beings not like a single hair on a horse?

(Note: Heaven and Earth are boundless, while the Four Seas have borders. Compared with the Four Seas, the world is like a small hollow in a great marsh. The Four Seas encircle the four directions; China is only a little patch of earth rising above the sea, like a grain of rice in a granary. There are ten thousand kinds of things, and human beings are one of them. Speaking of the Nine Provinces, the land that produces grain in China is limited; speaking of the places reached by boats and carts, and so on, the same point applies.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

As for the lands reachable across the sea, the range human effort can reach is in fact limited; there are still many places inaccessible by boat or carriage. Compared with a single hair on a whole horse, the range human beings can reach is still only a tiny speck in the world.

Between the Five Emperors, rule passed through yielding and deference; the Three Kings contended in the name of benevolence. This was the full extent of what benevolent people worried over and those entrusted with affairs labored for. Boyi declined the throne to win a reputation for purity, echoing the earlier phrase “thinking little of Boyi’s righteousness.” Confucius delighted in debate to display his learning, echoing “the little that Zhongni had heard.” Such high regard for oneself—is it not like your boasting by the water just now?

The River Earl said, “Then may I regard Heaven and Earth as great, and a hair’s tip as small?”

The North Sea’s Lord said, “No. Things have no limit to their measure—their scale and scope; the sequence of time has no end, in what comes before and after; one’s allotted place is never fixed, in the gains and losses of a lifetime; and beginnings and endings have no set number, amid all the changes of life, death, survival, and extinction. The earlier passage spoke of greatness; here it speaks of there being neither small nor great, as in the earlier idea of ‘making an autumn hair large and Mount Tai small.’

“Thus, a person of great wisdom can see both the distant and the near. What is small does not seem too little, and what is great does not seem too much, because they know that measure has no limit. From where one stands, this place is near and that place far; from where another stands, that place is near and this one far. As nearness and distance shift, so do size and quantity, and therefore they have no fixed bounds. They understand the past and present clearly: though the future lies far off, people of the future will view us as we view those of the past, so why be troubled? They grasp the present without stretching up on tiptoe to peer ahead. They know that time has no fixed ‘now’: the future, though distant, will be seen by those who come after as we see the past; there is no need for distress. The past is beyond recovery, yet those before us saw our present just as we see what comes after us. The present does not stay present; in time it becomes the past, so there is no need to strain toward what lies ahead. People are often troubled when they wait for something that never comes, or stretch toward what they cannot reach. Knowing that time has no end can quiet such futile longing. They observe fullness and decline, and know that one’s allotted place is never fixed…”

---

Note: The final phrase, “observe fullness and decline,” appears in editions of the received text of the Zhuangzi’s “Autumn Floods” chapter with variant readings, including “observe the pattern of distinctions” and “observe fullness and decline.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

River Earl asked, “People say that what is most subtle has no form, and what is most vast cannot be enclosed. Is this true?”

The Ruler of the North Sea replied, “Look at the vast from the standpoint of the minute, and you will never reach its end.”

(The preceding passage discusses emptiness: one neither rejoices at gaining nor grieves at losing because one knows that one’s allotted portion has no fixed measure. Fullness and emptiness are signs of creation’s waxing and waning, of things coming and going in turn. Fullness does not last forever, nor does emptiness. So gain and loss are not worth treating as grounds for joy or sorrow, since one knows that “one’s portion” is never constant.)

“Understand that this is the level road, and so do not rejoice at birth or regard death as a calamity: you will know that end and beginning cannot be fixed. The level road means that no level ground remains without a slope, and nothing that goes away fails to return. Birth is the emergence of all things, but whatever emerges must return. What is there to rejoice in about birth? Death is the return of all things, but whatever returns must bend, and what bends must stretch again. What calamity is there in death? What is called ‘the old’ is simply what has become a settled trace. Seen from the present, the beginning is an end, and becomes the old; seen from the future, the present will itself be a beginning, an end, and the old. Knowing that end and beginning have no fixed order, one knows that ‘the old’ cannot be fixed either.

“What people know is less than what they do not know. (That it is better not to know is the point of Wang Ni’s reply to Que Que’s question.) While they are alive, they are less than they were before they were born. (That it is better to remain unborn is the point of the skull that had no wish to return to the toil of human life.) With a body as small as ours, we try to fathom a realm of utmost vastness (using our insignificant selves to investigate what came before birth). Thus we become confused and lose our ease. Viewed in this way (my body is not necessarily small, nor Heaven and Earth necessarily great), on what basis can we say that a hair’s tip is enough to determine the bounds of the ‘most minute’? And on what basis can we say that Heaven and Earth are enough to exhaust the realm of the ‘most vast’?

“Compared with the vast, a hair’s tip counts as small, and its minute bounds might seem determinable. Yet wherever there is something small, there is something smaller still; and wherever there is something smaller, there is something smaller again. So a hair’s tip cannot fix the bounds of the most minute. This accords with the Confucian saying, ‘Speak of the small, and nothing in the world can divide it.’ The world counts as vast, and its immense realm might seem exhaustible. Yet wherever there is something vast, there is something vaster still; and wherever there is something vaster, there is something vaster again. So Heaven and Earth cannot exhaust the realm of the most vast. This accords with the Confucian saying, ‘Speak of the great, and nothing in the world can contain it.’ If people can understand that within the small there is always something smaller, and within the great something greater, then they can pursue the ‘boundless’ and reach the ‘limitless.’ Why, then, should the bounds of the most minute be impossible to determine, or the realm of the most vast impossible to exhaust?”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain Language Interpretation

“Endless” does not mean that something cannot be enclosed. To look at what is small from a broad perspective is not to fail to see it, but to fail to see it clearly; it is not without form. Jing is what is minute and subtle, while fu (pronounced fu, meaning capacious or great) refers to what is vast and numerous. Thus circumstances will inevitably differ, bringing different advantages and conditions. What has form may not be capable of being enclosed; what is formless cannot be exhaustively counted, divided, or enclosed.

Fine and coarse apply only to things with form—as soon as one speaks of fine and coarse, there are traces of form. What is formless cannot be exhaustively counted or divided, nor can its boundaries be enclosed. What can be discussed in words is the coarse aspect of things, as the Book of Changes puts it: “Writing cannot exhaust words.” What can be grasped by the mind is their fine aspect: “Words cannot exhaust meaning.” There is no need to force a distinction between fine and coarse where words cannot reach and the mind cannot discern.

Confucius said he wished to say nothing; the Supreme One said that the Great Dao has no name; and Vimalakirti, after discussing the Dharma Gate of Nonduality with the bodhisattvas, finally demonstrated it through silence. These all reveal the subtlety of not speaking and not examining. The Dao is inherently neither fine nor coarse. To discuss fine and coarse is to make even the fine fall into appearances; better to set both aside in silence.

Thus, in the conduct of a great person: they do little harm to others, but do not take pride in their benevolence; they act without seeking profit, but do not look down on gatekeepers who work for gain; they do not compete over wealth, but do not make a show of yielding; they do not rely on others to get things done, but do not boast that they “work without consuming others’ food”; they do not despise the corrupt, yet their conduct differs from that of ordinary people without making a display of being unconventional; they act in accord with the group, yet do not keep their distance from flatterers. Worldly titles and emoluments are no cause for pride, and execution or disgrace is no cause for shame. Right and wrong cannot be made into fixed divisions, nor can fine and great be assigned clear boundaries.

A great person embodies the Dao: without envy or desire, without choosing or rejecting, they do not let gain and loss, rank and emoluments, or right and wrong enter the heart.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain-Language Commentary

(Continued) Someone says: Those who cultivate the Dao do not take “being heard” as the Dao; those of utmost De do not cling to “having gained something”; and great people do not hold fast to a “self.” These are all the highest expressions of keeping to one’s proper place without acting self-important.

The River Earl asked: Beyond things and within things, how can we tell what is noble and what is base? How can we tell what is large and what is small? (When we discuss what lies within and beyond together, noble and base, large and small seem clearly distinct. “Boundaries” are like the two ends of a thread, used to make distinctions. The River Earl wants to force a distinction out of what has no distinctions. Below, the Northern Sea’s Ruo explains that nobility and baseness, largeness and smallness, existence and nonexistence, right and wrong have no fixed standards and ultimately cannot truly be separated.)

The Northern Sea’s Ruo said: From the perspective of the Dao, among the myriad things there is no nobility or baseness. From the perspective of each thing itself, each regards itself as noble and others as base. From the perspective of the common world, you alone do not get to decide what is noble or base. From the perspective of distinctions: if you regard what is large as large, then nothing among the myriad things is not large; if you regard what is small as small, then nothing is not small. Once you know that Heaven and Earth can be regarded as a grain of rice—that what is large can also be seen as small—and that a tiny hair’s tip can be regarded as a mountain—that what is small can also be seen as large—the notion of ranks of size can no longer stand.

From the perspective of function: if you speak of something as existing because it exists, then nothing among the myriad things does not exist; if you speak of something as nonexistent because it does not, then nothing is without existence. Once you know that east and west are relative—a place west of one household may be east of another—and that one cannot cancel the other out, then the distinction between existence and nonexistence, between functions, is also relative rather than absolute.

From the perspective of aims and standpoints: if you call something right because you consider it right, then nothing among the myriad things is not right; if you call something wrong because you consider it wrong, then nothing is not wrong. Once you know that Yao and Jie each followed their own nature and condemned one another, then right and wrong, and differing aims, are simply matters of differing views, with no ultimate standard.

(A person of integrity calls the corrupt person corrupt, while the corrupt person also calls the person of integrity corrupt. They differ in their aims and conduct, and so judge right and wrong; they differ in function, and so distinguish existence from nonexistence; they differ in their standards, and so name things large or small. These distinctions are imposed where there were originally none. One side prevails and the other loses, without end. Who can truly see through it?)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Yao and Shun became rulers through abdication, yet when King Kuai of Yan handed the throne to Zi Zhi, his state was ruined and he lost his life. Tang and Wu became kings through military campaigns, yet Bai Gongsheng perished in a struggle for power. Where, then, can a clear boundary be drawn between right and wrong, or between great and small?

From this we can see that courtesy and abdication versus contention, and the conduct of Yao versus Jie, were each judged noble or base, good or evil, according to the circumstances of their times, and cannot be treated as fixed standards. The abdication of Yao and Kuai and the contention of Wu and Bai likewise differ in their distinctions of noble and base according to the times, and cannot all be made into one universal principle.

Timber such as Daliang and Lidong can be used to ram city gates, but cannot be used to block a cave. This shows that each object has its own use, and that differences in size bring differences in function. A thousand-li steed can cover a thousand li in a day, yet it is not as good as a wildcat at catching mice. The owl can catch fleas and see the finest hairs at night, but by day, with its eyes wide open, it cannot see a great mountain. This shows that each creature has its own nature.

Right and wrong, order and disorder, cannot exist without each other, which is why the differences among objects, abilities, and natures are used as analogies. If one clings only to "right" without "wrong," or pursues only "order" without "disorder," one fails to understand the principles of Heaven and Earth and the circumstances of the myriad things. This is like taking Heaven as a model while ignoring Earth, or taking Yin as a model while ignoring Yang, which clearly cannot work. (Heaven and Earth, Yin and Yang, stand in mutual correspondence, and right and wrong, order and disorder, revolve in turn. This is the natural principle of Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things.)

To keep arguing even now is either foolish or delusional. The rulers' ways of yielding the throne differed, and the transmission of the Three Dynasties of Xia, Shang, and Zhou also differed. Those who go against the times and reverse custom are called usurpers; those who follow the times and accord with custom are called righteous. Such labels cannot be settled by any final verdict. Count of the River, how do you know the path to nobility and baseness, or the boundary between great and small?

(How do you know that nobility and baseness are originally one gate, and that great and small are originally one household? Indeed, these cannot be distinguished. If you wish to know where nobility, baseness, greatness, and smallness come from, you should seek them in the time before there were any things. To speak of "gate" and of "household" is precisely to say that nobility, baseness, greatness, and smallness arise from there.)

The Count of the River said: Then what exactly should I do, and what should I not do? Accepting, declining, advancing, and relinquishing, how am I to proceed?

(If there is no distinction of right and wrong, noble and base, what should I follow? Accepting, declining, advancing, and relinquishing then lose their ground.)

Ruo of the North Sea, the Spirit of the Northern Sea, said: From the standpoint of the Dao, where is there nobility, and where is there baseness?

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Reading of the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence

What is meant by “reversing and broadening”? In the world, some things are esteemed and others despised; this all belongs to “conventional truth,” what counts as true or false at the worldly level. When the esteemed lord it over the despised, and the despised serve the esteemed, they oppress and exploit one another. How could there be any ease? But viewed from the Dao (the Way), there is neither esteem nor contempt, and the mind naturally opens and relaxes. This is called “reversing and broadening”: “broadening” means becoming open and at ease.

“Do not let your aspirations be constrained, or you will be blocked from the Dao.” Do not let worldly attachments and emotions bind your aspirations; otherwise, you will be obstructed and unable to pass freely along the Dao.

“What is little, what is much? This is called refusing to give and receive.” Giving means there is more or less. If you refuse to give and receive, and do not calculate whether anything is given or withheld, why discuss how much? “Reversing and broadening” means forgetting esteem and contempt, and not being burdened by status. “Refusing to give and receive” means forgetting more and less, and not being burdened by gain and loss.

“Do not act by holding to one course, or you will diverge from the Dao.” “One” means uniformity; “diverge” means being unequal. Do not stubbornly insist on a single way of acting and so go against the Dao.

Majestic as a state with its ruler, yet without partiality in its Virtue; generous as a shrine to the soil with its spirit, yet without partiality in its blessings; vast as the endless four directions, yet without privately set boundaries. When you make no distinctions out of personal bias and take the Dao-minded heart as your “ruler,” there is no partiality in Virtue or blessings. When the mind is vast, it has no private furrows or boundaries.

Embrace all things, and show no partiality toward what you love. To ask who receives or offers shelter is to define a place. To ask “who shelters whom?” is to have no fixed place.

All things are equal and one. From the perspective that sees things as equal, where are length and shortness? The Dao has no beginning or end, while things have life and death. Do not rely on what you yourself have accomplished. Whether empty or full, do not cling to a fixed form or position. Years cannot be raised up, nor can time be stopped. Waning and waxing, fullness and emptiness: when one cycle ends, another begins. From this perspective, the broad principles of the Way and the patterns of all things are contained here.

The life of things rushes by like a galloping horse; nothing changes without moving, and nothing stays still through time. What is to be done, and what is not to be done? Things naturally transform and develop of themselves.

Note: This passage belongs to the Zhuangist traditions of “making things equal” and “being at ease with the times.” The commentary and subcommentary use expressions such as “conventional truth and the Dao,” “reversing and broadening,” and “refusing to give and receive” to bring distinctions of esteem and contempt, giving, attachment to one course, and private Virtue and blessings under the idea of embracing all things without fixed boundaries, with the Dao’s openness. If you would like the original Zhuangzi chapter title and punctuation compared, specify the chapter for a more detailed translation.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

The River Earl (deity of the Yellow River) asked: "If all things follow their spontaneous transformations, why then should we revere the Dao?" The Ruo of the Northern Sea (deity of the Northern Ocean) replied:

Those who truly understand the Dao necessarily comprehend the patterns governing the transformations of all things. Those who comprehend these patterns necessarily understand the Dao of strategic adaptability, and those who grasp adaptability will not allow external things to harm them. What we call 'patterns' refer to the natural laws of waxing and waning governing all phenomena; what we term 'strategic adaptability' means the capacity to respond flexibly to endless changes. Only those who have attained the Dao can penetrate these principles, comprehending the rhythms of advance and retreat, survival and demise, without being seduced by external things.

Those whose cultivation of Dao and De (Virtue) has reached the highest realm cannot be burned by fire, drowned by water, harmed by extreme temperatures, or injured by wild beasts. This doesn't mean they deliberately oppose these forces, but rather that they clearly discern safety and danger, remain composed amid fortune and misfortune, and carefully choose when to advance or withdraw—thus external things cannot harm them. Therefore it is said: Natural endowment resides within, while artificial constructs appear outwardly; true De (Virtue) lies in following what is spontaneous.

One must understand the distinction between the operations of celestial Dao and human artifice. The root lies in following what is spontaneous while establishing oneself in the cultivation of De (Virtue). Whether advancing or retreating, bending or stretching, one maintains perfect ease—this is grasping the essence of the Dao. Someone asked: "What is spontaneous? What is artificial?" The Ruo of the Northern Sea explained: Oxen and horses are born with four legs—this is spontaneity; putting a halter on a horse or piercing an ox's nose—this is artifice. Therefore it is said: Do not use artifice to damage what is spontaneous, do not deliberately defy celestial mandate, and do not sacrifice your essential nature in pursuit of reputation. Guard these principles without deviation, and you may return to your original genuineness.

The dialogue featuring Kui (the legendary one-footed mythical creature), through its comparison between the spontaneous nature of oxen and horses versus their artificial domestication, emphasizes the need to distinguish between spontaneous nature and human artifice, admonishing people to follow natural patterns while preserving the purity of their essential nature.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This section of the True Classic of Southern Florescence (Nanhua Zhenjing) tells how the centipede envies the snake, the snake envies the wind, the wind envies the eyes, and the eyes in turn envy the mind. Each has its own “ability,” yet always feels that someone else is more capable.

In legend, Kui, who had only one foot, said to the many-legged Xian: “I hop about on one foot and can do no more. How do you move so many feet all at once?”

Xian replied: “That’s not how it is. Have you ever watched someone spit? The large drops spray out like pearls, the small ones like specks of mist, and they fall everywhere, too many to count. I follow my Heaven-given impulse—my inborn nature—and I don’t know why I can move this way.”

Xian then asked the snake: “I walk on many feet, yet I can’t match how quickly you move without any feet. Why?”

The snake replied: “Once the Heaven-given impulse is set in motion, how could it be changed at will? What need do I have for feet?”

The snake then asked the wind: “I have to twist my spine and ribs to move, so my movements still seem to have a visible form. But you roar from the Northern Sea and roar on toward the Southern Sea, as if you had no form at all. How does that work?”

The wind replied: “That’s true: I do rise from the Northern Sea and travel to the Southern Sea. But if someone points at me with a finger, I’m stopped; if someone steps on me, I’m pressed down. Yet only I can break great trees and overturn large houses. So, though I often fail in small things, I bring about great victories. Only a sage can achieve a great victory through small defeats.”

The commentaries go on to say: Since ancient times, those who attained the Dao have often been willing to accept hardship and endure humiliation without letting their resolve falter. Later, when their Dao was complete, everything went smoothly and nothing stood in their way. Is this not proof of “failing in small things yet winning on the grand scale”? The eyes see as soon as they open, unlike the wind, which arrives gradually. The mind, meanwhile, understands everything without needing to think at length, in a way the eyes cannot match. Ultimately, all this is arranged by Heaven—that is, by nature—and there is no need to say more about the mind and the eyes. As the saying goes, words have an end, but meaning has no limit. Letting readers grasp what lies beyond the words is precisely the ancient writers’ skill.

Confucius was traveling in Kuang—a place in the Spring and Autumn period where he once traveled and was besieged……

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Reading of the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence

The people of Song surrounded Confucius and his companions, but Confucius continued playing his zither and singing without interruption. Zilu went in to see him and asked, “Master, how can you remain so calm and cheerful?”

“Come here, and I’ll tell you,” said Confucius. “For a long time I have tried to escape hardship, yet I still cannot escape it. That is fate. For a long time I have sought success, yet I still cannot attain it. That is the turn of the times. In the age of Yao and Shun, there were no destitute people under heaven—not because they knew how to avoid poverty. In the age of Jie and Zhou, there were no successful people under heaven—not because they did not know how to achieve success. (Note: Here, gain and loss refer to the circumstances of the noble person.) Such is simply the nature of the times.

“To walk through water without fearing dragons is the courage of a fisherman. To walk on land without fearing rhinoceroses or tigers is the courage of a hunter. To face swords and blades and regard death as nothing is the courage of a martyr. To know that hardship is fixed by fate and that success comes with the times, and to face great danger without fear—that is the courage of a sage. (The fisherman, hunter, and martyr each feel at ease in their own circumstances; the sage feels at ease in every circumstance.)”

After hearing this, Zilu went out. Confucius said, “My fate has already been decided.”

Before long, an armored officer came in and reported, “We thought you were Yang Hu, so we surrounded you. Now we know we were mistaken. Please let us withdraw.” (Guo Xiang’s commentary: Since fate is not under one’s own control, there is no need to waste effort trying to alter it. One who is at ease with the mandate of Heaven is never forced, wherever he goes; he is free and at ease.)

Gongsun Long, the famous debater, asked Prince Mou of Wei, “When I was young, I studied the Way of the ancient kings. As I grew older, I spoke about the practice of benevolence and righteousness. I explored propositions such as ‘same and different’ and ‘hard and white’—the art of disputation practiced by Huishi, Gongsun Long, and their school—as well as questions such as ‘affirming and denying’ and ‘permissible and impermissible.’ I confounded the wisdom of the various schools and exhausted every argument. I thought I had reached the furthest limits of understanding. Now I have heard Zhuangzi’s words, and I am bewildered, not knowing which way to turn. Are my arguments simply inferior to his, or is my knowledge actually less than his? Now I am at a loss for words. I dare to ask what lies behind this.”

Prince Mou leaned against his desk, sighed deeply, then threw back his head and laughed. “Have you never heard of the frog in the dried-up well? It said to the great turtle of the Eastern Sea, ‘How happy I am! I leap up onto the rim of the well and rest on the broken bricks along its sides. When I enter the water, it supports me beneath the arms; when I tread in the mud, it covers my feet. Looking around, I see earthworms, insects, crabs, and tadpoles on the well walls, and none of them can compare with me. You have all the joys of the sea to yourself, but you will not come down and look at my well?’

“The Eastern Sea turtle had not yet managed to put its left foot in when its right knee got stuck. It looked around in alarm, then slowly backed out. It said to the frog, ‘I live in the sea. A thousand miles is not enough to describe its breadth; a thousand fathoms is not enough to describe its depth. In the time of Yu the Great, nine years out of ten brought floods, yet the sea did not grow larger. In the time of King Tang, seven years out of eight brought drought, yet the sea did not shrink. It does not swell or recede with the seasons. That is the joy of living in the sea. Now you have seen this little well and want to claim its delights for yourself. Isn’t that rather shallow?’”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This passage comments on Zhuangzi’s parable of the frog in the well and draws out the allegory’s implications for the cultivation of the elixir.

Actions and setting

(“Yin yi” is a pronunciation guide.) The frog paddles through the water, pressing its forelegs against its sides. Holding its chin means keeping its mouth closed. It kicks and leaps in the mud, where the water rises above its insteps. Fu refers to the lower leg: the frog is bouncing about in the mire. Looking back, it sees red worms called gan in the water, as well as tadpoles, and considers nothing their equal. It thinks: “I alone possess this ditch of water. I can stride along the well’s rim or stay inside it; my joy is complete. Why doesn’t the Master come in more often to visit?”

A great turtle from the Eastern Sea arrives. Its left foot has not quite made it inside when its right knee gets caught at the well’s opening (zhi means to snag or entangle). The turtle has to draw back, then tells the frog: “The Eastern Sea is so vast that its breadth of a thousand li and depth of a thousand ren cannot be measured. In Yu the Great’s time, ten years of flooding did not make the sea rise; in King Tang’s time, eight years of drought did not make its shores recede. It does not change with the passage of time, nor rise or fall with the amount of water. That is the great joy of the Eastern Sea.”

The frog at the bottom of the well hears this and is suddenly thrown into confusion (shishi ran jing, guigui ran zishi); all its self-satisfaction vanishes.

The commentator’s two lines of interpretation

First: the limits of knowing and speaking

If one has not yet distinguished right from wrong or one realm from another, yet tries to judge Zhuangzi’s words by ordinary understanding, it is like asking a tiny insect (wen) to carry a mountain, or a small cicada (shangju) to race across a river: they simply cannot manage it. Those who see only the small gains before them and show off their quick tongues—are they not just like the frog in the well?

Second: the allegory of the elixir path

The figures in Zhuangzi’s writing could, in principle, tread upon the Yellow Springs and ascend to the Great Sovereign (Heaven, a metaphor for the highest and deepest reaches), with neither south nor north. By ordinary reckoning, Fire is in the south and Water in the north, so there are indeed south and north. In the methods of the elixir, however, Kan and Li are reversed, and Water and Fire share one palace; south and north then unite and cease to stand opposed. Shiran sijie means that, upon awakening to understanding, all returns to Earth. Lun yu buce means entering a depth that cannot be measured. There is neither east nor west: ordinarily, Wood is in the east and Metal in the west; in cultivation, Metal and Wood join, and east and west unite, so east and west, too, disappear. All this begins in Xuanming (Water, the dark and profound) and returns to Great Communion (a return to the Dao).

Summary

In the parable, the frog takes a small ditch for the whole world and invites a turtle from the Eastern Sea to “visit.” The turtle cannot even get inside the well. It explains the vastness and constancy of the sea, and only then does the frog realize how small its supposed “ultimate joy” is.

The commentary says that discussing Zhuangzi without having reached the corresponding level is like an insect carrying a mountain or a cicada crossing a river. It then connects the parable to the Neidan teaching of Kan and Li, Water and Fire, and the dual cultivation of nature and life through the ideas of “neither south nor north,” “neither east nor west,” Xuanming, and Great Communion. True joy, it suggests, lies in Great Communion, not within the confines of a well.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

This passage comes from commentaries related to the Zhuangzi. It recounts several parables about seeking “clear insight” in a narrow-minded way and remaining unmoved by power and status.

Someone insists on using “clear insight” to investigate things exhaustively and searching for answers through verbal debate. This is like looking at the sky through a bamboo tube or pointing at the earth with the tip of an awl: both the outlook and the means are far too limited. With such small, constrained intelligence, to expect words and arguments to explain everything—isn’t that itself rather petty?

You should leave. Have you not heard the story of the young man from Shouling—an unmarried youth was called a “youth”—who went to Handan, the capital of the Zhao state during the Warring States period, in what is now Hebei, to learn how to walk? Before he had learned the Handan way of walking, he had forgotten his own gait. In the end, he could only crawl home on the ground. If you do not leave now, you may also forget what you were like and lose the work that was yours.

Gongsun Long, a leading figure of the School of Names renowned for his skill in argument, heard this and could neither close his open mouth nor lift his tongue. He could only turn and flee.

Zhuangzi was fishing in the Pu River, in the territory of the state of Chen. The king of Chu sent two senior officials to explain his offer: he wished to entrust Zhuangzi with the affairs of the state. Holding his fishing rod and not turning around, Zhuangzi said, “I have heard that Chu has a sacred tortoise that died three thousand years ago. The king wraps it in cloth, places it in a bamboo box, and enshrines it in the ancestral temple. Would this tortoise rather have died and left its bones to be preserved and honored, or rather be alive, dragging its tail through the mud?” The two officials replied, “It would rather be alive, dragging its tail through the mud.” Zhuangzi said, “Then go. I too would rather drag my tail through the mud.”

The commentary’s point is that one should care for one’s spirit and be content with oneself, rather than envy the honors of the court, which pass as fleetingly as morning dew. It also cites Tao Yuanming’s depiction of two oxen in reply to an imperial summons: one is constrained by a halter, while the other roams freely among water and grass. The meaning is the same.

When Huizi, or Hui Shi, was chancellor of the state of Liang, Zhuangzi went to visit him. Someone told Huizi, “Zhuangzi has come to take your place as chancellor.” Alarmed, Huizi searched throughout the state for three days and three nights. Zhuangzi went to see him and said, “In the south there is a bird called the yuanchu, a divine bird of the phoenix kind. Do you know of it? The yuanchu takes flight from the South Sea and travels to the North Sea. It will perch only on a parasol tree, eat only bamboo seeds, and drink only from a sweet spring. At that moment, an owl has found a rotten rat. The yuanchu flies over its head, and the owl looks up and cries, ‘Hah!’ in anger, afraid it will lose its rotten rat.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

An Accessible Reading of the Collected Commentaries on the True Classic of Southern Florescence, Volume Five

This volume continues from the previous one, taking the Dao (the Way) as its guiding principle. Those who can hear the Dao can explore the greatest reaches and settle upon the finest details; embrace both the refined and the coarse; forget distinctions of high and low; transform being and nonbeing; understand principle and discern what is fitting; know Heaven and see into human beings; preserve the genuine and illuminate things. The Dao runs through it all. The main points of each chapter follow.

“Autumn Floods”

The autumn floods arrived on schedule. All the rivers poured into the Yellow River, filling its channels and banks. The River Earl, spirit of the Yellow River, thought there could be no greater spectacle under Heaven. But when he reached the North Sea and looked out over its vast expanse toward Ruo, he sighed: “When I heard a hundred things about the Dao, I thought no one could compare with me. Had I not come to the gate of one who has reached the ultimate, I would still have thought little of what Confucius knew.”

The one who has reached the ultimate—the name Zhuangzi gives to a person who has attained the Dao—said: “You cannot discuss the sea with a well frog, for it is confined to its hole. You cannot discuss ice with a summer insect, for it is bound to its season. You cannot discuss the Dao with a narrow-minded scholar, for he is restricted by his teachings. Now you have come beyond the banks and looked upon the great sea. You have seen how limited you are, and turned toward Ruo with a sigh. Yet to sigh before Ruo is still to have not heard the Dao.

“The Dao has no fixed form. It cannot be handed down, and it cannot be put into words. So even though you have come from the River Ruo to the Sea Ruo, you have not yet escaped your constraints. The Sea Ruo said to the River Ruo: All things share one beginning; their forms are one, and their Qi (vital energy) is one. The Dao therefore has no fixed form, and things have no fixed categories. Viewed from the standpoint of oneness, nothing is high or low. Viewed from the standpoint of the Dao, nothing is small or great.”

Fugui Zi, the commentator, says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘Dao’ as its guiding principle. Those who can hear the Dao can explore the greatest reaches and settle upon the finest details; embrace both the refined and the coarse; forget distinctions of high and low; transform being and nonbeing; understand principle and discern what is fitting; know Heaven and see into human beings; preserve the genuine and illuminate things. The Dao runs through it all.”

“Perfect Happiness”

When Zhuangzi’s wife died, Hui Shi came to mourn her. Zhuangzi was sitting with his legs stretched out, beating a basin and singing. Hui Shi said: “You lived with her, raised children together, grew old together, and now she has died. Surely it would be enough not to weep. But to beat a basin and sing as well—isn’t that too much?”

Zhuangzi replied: “When she first died, how could I alone have felt no grief? But when I looked back to her beginning, I saw that originally she had no life. Not only was there no life: originally she had no form. Not only was there no form: originally there was no Qi. Amid the indistinct and obscure, there was a transformation and Qi came into being; Qi transformed and form came into being; form transformed and life came into being. Now she has transformed once more and become death. These changes are like the passage of the four seasons—spring, autumn, winter, and summer. She is now peacefully asleep in the great chamber of the universe, while I follow after her crying loudly. I thought that would mean I did not understand destiny, so I stopped.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘happiness’ as its guiding principle. Perfect happiness means having no happiness. With no happiness, one merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is perfect happiness. So when Zhuangzi’s wife died and Hui Shi came to mourn her, Zhuangzi sat with his legs stretched out, beat a basin, and sang. Hui Shi was astonished. Zhuangzi saw life and death as the passage of the four seasons: she was now peacefully asleep in the great chamber of the universe, while he followed after her crying loudly. He thought that would mean he did not understand destiny, so he stopped. The chapter takes ‘happiness’ as its guiding principle to show that perfect happiness is without happiness, a merging with the Dao.”

“Fathoming Life”

Confucius was watching the waters at Lüliang, where a waterfall plunged from a height of thirty ren and its torrent ran for ninety li. Even turtles and fish could not swim there. He saw a man swimming in the waters and thought the man must be suffering and seeking death. He sent his disciples along the current to rescue him. After several hundred paces, the man came out, his hair loose, singing as he walked along the bank.

Confucius followed him and said: “I thought you were a ghost, but looking closely, I see you are human. How do you swim in such water?” He then asked the man how he managed it.

The man replied: “I dare not lose what I have, and I dare not hold on to anything. I let go and transform beyond myself. I began with what was given, grew according to my nature, and fulfilled my destiny. I move in step with the swirls, turn with the waves, and go wherever the currents carry me. I gain by keeping in step with the current, and lose by keeping in step with it. That is how I began to swim. I have never dared to make it my own doing. I look at swimming through the principle of making all things equal, and so I know how to swim.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘life’ as its guiding principle. To fathom life means to be without life. Without life, one merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is fathoming life. So when Confucius watched the waters at Lüliang, he saw a man swimming in the waterfall and thought the man must be suffering and seeking death. He sent his disciples along the current to rescue him. After several hundred paces, the man came out, his hair loose, singing. Asked how he swam, he answered: ‘I dare not lose what I have; I dare not hold on to anything. I let go and transform beyond myself. I began with what was given, grew according to my nature, and fulfilled my destiny. I move in step with the swirls, turn with the waves, and go wherever the currents carry me. I gain by keeping in step with the current, and lose by keeping in step with it.’ The chapter takes ‘life’ as its guiding principle to show that fathoming life means being without life, a merging with the Dao.”

“Mountain Trees”

As Zhuangzi walked through the mountains, he saw a great tree with luxuriant branches and leaves. The woodcutters stopped beside it but did not cut it down. Zhuangzi asked why. They replied: “It is no use for anything.” Zhuangzi said: “This tree will live out its natural span because its wood is useless.”

After leaving the mountain, Zhuangzi stayed at a friend’s house. His host was delighted and ordered a servant to kill a goose and cook it. The servant asked: “One goose can cackle, the other cannot. Which should I kill?” The host said: “Kill the one that cannot cackle.”

The next day, Zhuangzi went out and explained this to his disciples: “From the standpoint of difference, even liver and gallbladder seem as far apart as the lands of Chu and Yue. From the standpoint of sameness, all things are one. What people today call knowledge is very limited. If you stand by a river and want to cross, you cannot go a single day without a boat or other means of passage. People can explain things to one another only by relying on what each can do. If you have a gourd big enough to hold five shi, why not tie it up and use it as a great float on the rivers and lakes? You complain that it has no use. If you were a carpenter who wanted to use it for rules and measuring lines, the master carpenter would be there with his axe behind you. You complain that the gourd has no use.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘tree’ as its guiding principle. The mountain tree is a tree that is useless. Being useless, it merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is the mountain tree. So as Zhuangzi walked through the mountains, he saw a great tree with luxuriant branches and leaves. The woodcutters stopped beside it but did not cut it down because it was no use for anything. After leaving the mountain, Zhuangzi explained to his disciples: ‘From the standpoint of difference, even liver and gallbladder seem as far apart as the lands of Chu and Yue. From the standpoint of sameness, all things are one.’ The chapter takes ‘tree’ as its guiding principle to show that the useless mountain tree merges with the Dao.”

“Tian Zifang”

Tian Zifang, the teacher of Marquis Wen of Wei, left Wei in a small boat. Marquis Wen was displeased and sat down in disarray, without putting his clothes and cap in order. A member of his household said: “When Tian Zifang comes, surely you have done nothing wrong. Why are you so concerned?”

Marquis Wen replied: “I have heard that Tian Zifang is a worthy man. My state is small, while Zifang is worthy. A worthy man does not look down on others, and I fear he may look down on me.”

The member of his household said: “That is not so. A worthy man does not look down on others, but neither does he humble himself for his own sake. When Zifang comes, surely you have done nothing wrong.”

Marquis Wen replied: “I have heard that Tian Zifang is a worthy man. My state is small, while Zifang is worthy. A worthy man does not look down on others, and I fear he may look down on me.”

The member of his household said: “That is not so. A worthy man does not look down on others, but neither does he humble himself for his own sake. When Zifang comes, surely you have done nothing wrong.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘fang’ as its guiding principle. Tian Zifang represents worthiness. Worthiness merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is Tian Zifang. So Tian Zifang left Wei in a small boat, and Marquis Wen of Wei was displeased and sat in disarray, without putting his clothes and cap in order. His household member reassured him: ‘A worthy man does not look down on others, but neither does he humble himself for his own sake.’ The chapter takes ‘fang’ as its guiding principle to show that Tian Zifang’s worthiness merges with the Dao.”

“Knowledge Wanders North”

Knowledge, a fable character symbolizing the pursuit of the Dao through knowledge, wandered by the Dark Waters, climbed Hidden-Cap Hill, and went to the head of Wuwei. Wuweiwei asked Knowledge: “What do you know?”

Knowledge replied: “I want to know all the conditions of the myriad things and look back to the beginningless beginning.”

Beginningless said: “The Dao cannot be heard; what is heard is not it. The Dao cannot be seen; what is seen is not it. The Dao cannot be spoken; what is spoken is not it. Know that what gives rise to forms is formless, yet gives rise to them. Know that what shapes forms is formless, yet shapes them. That is why change is visible to everyone, while the Dao has no fixed dwelling.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘knowledge’ as its guiding principle. Knowledge Wanders North represents knowledge. Knowledge merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is Knowledge Wanders North. So Knowledge wandered by the Dark Waters, climbed Hidden-Cap Hill, and went to the head of Wuwei. Wuweiwei told Knowledge: ‘The Dao cannot be heard, seen, or spoken. What gives rise to forms is formless, yet gives rise to them; what shapes forms is formless, yet shapes them.’ The chapter takes ‘knowledge’ as its guiding principle to show that Knowledge Wanders North merges with the Dao.”

“Gengsang Chu”

Gengsang Chu, a fable character, lived in Pei to the south. He had five disciples who served him. He was fed from a cauldron and dishes, while his disciples ate soup made from bean leaves.

Laozi, who may be Gengsang Chu’s teacher, lived in southern Pei, where his disciples asked him questions. Laozi said: “The Dao has no fixed form. It cannot be handed down, and it cannot be put into words. So even though you have come from the River Ruo to the Sea Ruo, you have not yet escaped your constraints. The Sea Ruo said to the River Ruo: All things share one beginning; their forms are one, and their Qi is one. The Dao therefore has no fixed form, and things have no fixed categories. Viewed from the standpoint of oneness, nothing is high or low. Viewed from the standpoint of the Dao, nothing is small or great.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘Chu’ as its guiding principle. Gengsang Chu represents Chu. Chu merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is Gengsang Chu. So Gengsang Chu lived in Pei to the south and had five disciples who served him. He was fed from a cauldron and dishes, while his disciples ate soup made from bean leaves. The chapter takes ‘Chu’ as its guiding principle to show that Gengsang Chu merges with the Dao.”

“Xu Wugui”

Xu Wugui, a fable character, met Marquis Wu of Wei. Marquis Wu said: “You have lived in the mountains and forests, eating taro and chestnuts and filling yourself with wild greens. You have kept your distance from me for a long time, but now you have honored Wei with a visit.”

Wugui said: “Why do you ask me that?”

Marquis Wu replied: “I have wanted to see you for a long time. Now that you have honored Wei with a visit, I hope to hear your highest teaching.”

Wugui said: “Why do you ask me that?”

Marquis Wu replied: “I have wanted to see you for a long time. Now that you have honored Wei with a visit, I hope to hear your highest teaching.”

Wugui said: “Why do you ask me that?”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘ghost’ as its guiding principle. Xu Wugui represents a ghost. A ghost merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is Xu Wugui. So Xu Wugui met Marquis Wu of Wei, who hoped to hear his highest teaching. The chapter takes ‘ghost’ as its guiding principle to show that Xu Wugui merges with the Dao.”

“Zeyang”

Zeyang, a fable character, and Jizi, another fable character, traveled in the south of Chu. Their meeting was like duckweed coming together on the water; they traveled together along the river.

Zeyang said: “Our meeting was like duckweed coming together on the water. Now we travel together along the river.”

Jizi asked: “What do you know?”

Zeyang said: “I have heard that you are a worthy man. Now that I am traveling with you, I hope to hear your highest teaching.”

Jizi asked: “What do you know?”

Zeyang said: “I have heard that you are a worthy man. Now that I am traveling with you, I hope to hear your highest teaching.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘yang’ as its guiding principle. Zeyang represents yang. Yang merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is Zeyang. So Zeyang and Jizi traveled in the south of Chu. Their meeting was like duckweed coming together on the water, and they traveled together along the river. The chapter takes ‘yang’ as its guiding principle to show that Zeyang merges with the Dao.”

“External Things”

External things cannot be relied upon. So Zhuang Zhou fished with a rod in the Pu River. The king of Chu sent two high officials ahead of him with this message: “We wish to entrust you with the affairs of our whole state.”

Zhuang Zhou held his fishing rod and did not turn around. He said: “I have heard that Chu has a sacred tortoise that has been dead for three thousand years. The king keeps its bones wrapped in cloth and stored in a box in the ancestral temple. Would the tortoise rather be dead, leaving behind its bones to be prized, or alive, dragging its tail through the mud?”

The two officials replied: “It would rather be alive, dragging its tail through the mud.”

Zhuang Zhou said: “Go back. I will drag my tail through the mud.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘thing’ as its guiding principle. External things are things. Things merge with the Dao; merging with the Dao is ‘external things.’ So Zhuang Zhou fished with a rod in the Pu River, and the king of Chu sent two high officials to invite him to take charge of the state. Zhuang Zhou used the sacred tortoise as an example, asking whether it would rather die and leave behind bones to be prized, or live and drag its tail through the mud. It would rather live and drag its tail through the mud. The chapter takes ‘thing’ as its guiding principle to show that external things merge with the Dao.”

“Parables”

The chapter titled “Parables” concerns speech that borrows words to convey meaning. A disciple of Yangyue, a fable character, asked Zhuangzi: “I have heard my teacher say that sages do not set themselves to pursuing things, do not seek profit, do not avoid harm, do not delight in life, and do not hate death. Their actions follow no fixed pattern; they are calm and alone, and simply carry on.”

Yangyue said: “Those words are wrong. Sages do not set themselves to pursuing things, do not seek profit, do not avoid harm, do not delight in life, and do not hate death. Their actions follow no fixed pattern; they are calm and alone, and simply carry on. That is not what I have heard.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘speech’ as its guiding principle. A parable is speech. Speech merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is a parable. So a disciple of Yangyue asked Zhuangzi, and Zhuangzi replied that sages do not set themselves to pursuing things, do not seek profit, do not avoid harm, do not delight in life, and do not hate death; their actions follow no fixed pattern, and they are calm and alone, simply carrying on. The chapter takes ‘speech’ as its guiding principle to show that parables merge with the Dao.”

“Yielding the Throne”

The chapter “Yielding the Throne” concerns giving up a kingship. Boyi and Shuqi, the two sons of the lord of Guzhu at the end of the Shang dynasty, yielded the throne and fled into seclusion on Mount Shang, where they gathered ferns to eat. When King Wu of Zhou attacked Zhou, and the realm had been settled, Boyi and Shuqi were ashamed of it. In their view, righteousness forbade them to eat the grain of Zhou, so they hid on Mount Shouyang and gathered ferns to eat. When they were starving and near death, they composed a song:

“Up the western mountain we climb,

and gather its ferns.

Violence replaces violence,

yet no one knows it is wrong.

Shennong, Shun, and Xia

have all vanished.

Where, then, can I go?

Alas, I am gone;

my destiny has run its course.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘king’ as its guiding principle. Yielding the throne concerns kingship. Kingship merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is yielding the throne. So Boyi and Shuqi yielded the throne, fled into seclusion on Mount Shang, and gathered ferns to eat. When King Wu of Zhou attacked Zhou and the realm had been settled, they were ashamed of it. In their view, righteousness forbade them to eat the grain of Zhou, so they hid on Mount Shouyang and gathered ferns to eat. The chapter takes ‘king’ as its guiding principle to show that yielding the throne merges with the Dao.”

“Robber Zhi”

Robber Zhi, the legendary great robber and minister of the Yellow Emperor, asked Confucius: “What should the greatest De (Virtue/Power) under Heaven amount to?”

Confucius replied: “The highest De means having no De. With no De, one merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is the highest De.”

Robber Zhi asked: “What should the greatest De under Heaven amount to?”

Confucius replied: “The highest De means having no De. With no De, one merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is the highest De.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘Zhi’ as its guiding principle. Robber Zhi represents Zhi. Zhi merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is Robber Zhi. So Robber Zhi asked Confucius what the greatest De under Heaven should amount to. Confucius replied that the highest De means having no De and merging with the Dao. The chapter takes ‘Zhi’ as its guiding principle to show that Robber Zhi merges with the Dao.”

“Discussing Swords”

The chapter “Discussing Swords” concerns swords. King Wen of Zhao loved swords. More than three thousand swordsmen gathered at his court, where they fought in front of him day and night. Each year, more than a hundred were killed or wounded, but he never tired of watching.

When Zhuangzi heard of this, he went to see the king. King Wen said: “You have come from far away. Do you wish to instruct me?”

Zhuangzi replied: “I have heard that Your Majesty loves swords, and I have come to see Your Majesty for that reason.”

King Wen said: “You have come a thousand li. I hope to hear your highest teaching.”

Zhuangzi replied: “I have heard that Your Majesty loves swords, and I have come to see Your Majesty for that reason.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘sword’ as its guiding principle. Discussing swords concerns swords. Swords merge with the Dao; merging with the Dao is discussing swords. So King Wen of Zhao loved swords. More than three thousand swordsmen gathered at his court, where they fought day and night; each year, more than a hundred were killed or wounded. When Zhuangzi heard of this, he went to see the king. The chapter takes ‘sword’ as its guiding principle to show that discussing swords merges with the Dao.”

“The Fisherman”

The Fisherman, an old man and a fable’s image of one who has attained the Dao, encountered Confucius as he traveled through the Black Curtain Grove and rested beneath the Apricot Altar. His disciples were reading, while Confucius played the lute and sang. A fisherman stepped ashore and approached. His beard and eyebrows were white, his hair was loose, and he walked away with his sleeves swinging.

Confucius hurried forward, bowed twice, and made a request. The fisherman asked: “What would you like to say?”

Confucius replied: “I, Qiu, loved learning when I was young, and as I grew older I loved asking questions. Now that I am old, I have not lost that desire. I wish to hear the highest teaching, so that I may settle my nature.”

The fisherman asked: “What would you like to say?”

Confucius replied: “I, Qiu, loved learning when I was young, and as I grew older I loved asking questions. Now that I am old, I have not lost that desire. I wish to hear the highest teaching, so that I may settle my nature.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘father’ as its guiding principle. The fisherman represents a father. A father merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is the fisherman. So Confucius traveled through the Black Curtain Grove and rested beneath the Apricot Altar. A fisherman came ashore, his beard and eyebrows white, his hair loose, his sleeves swinging as he walked away. Confucius hurried forward, bowed twice, and made a request. The chapter takes ‘father’ as its guiding principle to show that the fisherman merges with the Dao.”

“Lie Yukou”

Lie Yukou, also known as Liezi and a representative figure of Daoism, was the archer for the lord of Zheng. He drew his bow, hit the target, and then said that he had failed.

Liezi said: “No. To hit the target and then fail to return to oneself—that is failure. I hit the target and returned to myself, so that is not failure.”

The lord of Zheng said: “Good.”

Liezi said: “No. To hit the target and then fail to return to oneself—that is failure. I hit the target and returned to myself, so that is not failure.”

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘Kou’ as its guiding principle. Lie Yukou represents Kou. Kou merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is Lie Yukou. So Lie Yukou served as an archer for the lord of Zheng, hit the target, and then said that he had failed. Liezi replied that to hit the target without returning to oneself was failure, while hitting it and returning to oneself was not. The chapter takes ‘Kou’ as its guiding principle to show that Lie Yukou merges with the Dao.”

“All Under Heaven”

The book written by Zhuang Zhou, the chapter “All Under Heaven” says, has a language that flows far and wide, its meaning is self-contained, and its main ideas are rooted in Laozi while also mixing in Confucian and Mohist thought. Though the book has many words, its essential purpose is to clarify the naturalness of Dao and De and to make equal the life and death of the myriad things.

Though the book has many words, its essential purpose is to clarify the naturalness of Dao and De and to make equal the life and death of the myriad things.

Fugui Zi says: “The whole chapter takes the word ‘under’ as its guiding principle. ‘All under Heaven’ concerns what is below. What is below merges with the Dao; merging with the Dao is all under Heaven. So Zhuang Zhou’s book has a language that flows far and wide, its meaning is self-contained, and its main ideas are rooted in Laozi while also mixing in Confucian and Mohist thought. Though the book has many words, its essential purpose is to clarify the naturalness of Dao and De and to make equal the life and death of the myriad things. The chapter takes ‘under’ as its guiding principle to show that all under Heaven merges with the Dao.”

Summary of Volume Five

The chapters in this volume discuss autumn floods, perfect happiness, fathoming life, mountain trees, Tian Zifang, Knowledge Wanders North, Gengsang Chu, Xu Wugui, Zeyang, external things, parables, yielding the throne, Robber Zhi, discussing swords, the fisherman, Lie Yukou, and all under Heaven. Each takes a single word as its guiding principle—happiness, life, tree, fang, knowledge, Chu, ghost, yang, thing, speech, king, Zhi, sword, father, Kou, and under—and shows the principle of merging with the Dao, preserving the genuine, and illuminating things. Those who can hear the Dao can explore the greatest reaches and settle upon the finest details; embrace both the refined and the coarse; forget distinctions of high and low; transform being and nonbeing; understand principle and discern what is fitting; know Heaven and see into human beings. The Dao runs through it all.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Having heard this, you will look down on the likes of Boyi for “holding fast to righteousness.”

The Spirit of the Northern Sea said, “A frog in a well and an insect that lives for only one summer each have their limits, bound by space and time. Those with narrow understanding, who cannot be spoken to about the Great Dao, are likewise confined by the teachings of the masters of their age. Only now can I speak with you about the Great Dao.

“Of all bodies of water, none is greater than the sea. Ten thousand rivers flow into it, yet it never fills; its waters drain away through the Tail-Lu, yet it never empties. Spring and autumn come as usual, and floods and droughts make no difference to it. A moment ago I was thinking how small my own view was. Why, then, should I take pride in it? Set the Four Seas beside Heaven and Earth, and they are like a small stone or a tiny piece of wood on a great mountain. Set them beside the vast marshes, and they are like a little heap of grain. Set the Central States within the Four Seas, and they are like a single grain of millet in a great granary. Set human beings among the myriad things, and they are like the tip of a hair on a horse. The world is small to this degree. All that the Five Emperors, the Three Kings, the thousand sages, and the ten thousand worthies knew and could do still lay within these limits. The Spirit of the Northern Sea does not boast of having ‘much water.’ How, then, can those with high reputations and broad learning take pride in themselves on that account?

“Then may we call Heaven and Earth great and the tiniest hair small?”

The Spirit of the Northern Sea said, “No. The measure of things has no end; distance and size cannot be fixed. Knowledge has no limit, and the past and present keep changing. Positions and shares have no constant measure; fullness and emptiness, gain and loss, turn in an instant. Beginning and end have no fixed cause: life is a temporary dwelling, death a return, like the alternation of morning and evening. What people know is only what belongs to the human realm, and that knowledge is limited. It cannot compare with what people do not know—the Heavenly. Heaven may seem to know nothing, yet it knows all. While alive, we have form, and form must decay. This cannot compare with the spirit before birth, within which is something that dies yet does not perish.

“Seen this way, the tiniest hair is not small, and Heaven and Earth are not great. My own body is not lacking, and Heaven and Earth are not abundant. If this is so, does smallness have no fixed form, and greatness no boundary? Can the finest detail be seen clearly? Can the vastest expanse be taken in at a glance? Greatness can contain smallness, but the eye cannot see through the finest detail. Where there is size, there is coarseness and subtlety; where there is coarseness and subtlety, there is form, and where there is form, there is the formless. What can be explained in words is the coarseness and subtlety of things; what cannot be explained lies beyond them. Thus the great person acts without envy or preference, treats benefit and harm as equal, mingles integrity with greed, forgets both high and low, sets aside right and wrong, and brings the fine and the vast into harmony. Only then can one become one with the Dao.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Could anyone truly believe that they have “heard the Dao” or “attained the Dao”? Could anyone believe they have “fulfilled themselves”? Or has no one truly heard, attained, or fulfilled themselves? Only by not considering oneself great can one accomplish greatness. Clearly, the Earl of the River has not yet let go of distinctions between noble and lowly, great and small.

The Ruo of the Northern Sea said: “Between Heaven and Earth, only the Dao is most honored. Seen from the perspective of the Dao, nothing among the myriad things is noble or lowly; all are regarded as equal. Seen from the perspective of things, nobility and lowliness are each self-chosen; all are regarded as striving and competing. Seen from the perspective of the world, nobility and lowliness do not lie within oneself; all are regarded through the warmth and chill of human feeling. Seen from the perspective of differences, great and small each have their causes, and Heaven and Earth contain even the tiniest hair; all are regarded as shifting and changing. Seen from the perspective of one’s capacities, having and lacking each have their reasons, and each thing is seen from its own position; all are regarded as fixed. Seen from the perspective of one’s aims, right and wrong are distinct, and Yao and Jie followed different paths; all are regarded in terms of good and evil.

“So the sages of old acted with humility and yielding, and even calamity could be turned into good fortune. Ordinary people acted in contention and rivalry, and even good fortune could be turned into calamity. A beam may batter a city wall, yet cannot plug a mouse hole. A fine horse can travel a thousand miles, yet cannot catch a mouse. An owl can catch fleas at night, yet cannot see them by day. Are civet cats and wildcats any different? Have you not heard that ‘where there is right, there must be wrong; where there is order, there must be disorder’? These are the principles of Heaven and Earth and the true conditions of the myriad things. The wise understand this. Thus, whoever takes Heaven as a teacher must also take Earth as a teacher; whoever takes Yin as a teacher must also take Yang as a teacher.

“The Earl of the River wants to distinguish the noble from the lowly, the great from the small. How can he know that nobility and lowliness come from the same source, and greatness and smallness belong to the same family? Yet the Earl of the River does not understand and does not know what to follow.

“The Ruo of the Northern Sea said: ‘Return to the unfolding transformations, and forget nobility and lowliness; do not be burdened by empty reputation. Yield and give freely, and forget more and less; do not be burdened by advantage. When the Dao-centered mind is in command, there is no partiality in its Virtue and good fortune; when this mind is vast, it has no partial boundaries. The myriad things are all shaped in the same kiln, and long and short alike follow one course. Hold to this Dao, which has neither beginning nor end, and govern the boundless. Observe the life and death of things, the waxing and waning of their numbers, the passing of years that do not return, and the flow of time that never stops: all fall within the cycle of decline and growth, fullness and emptiness, and within the bounds of beginning and end. The myriad things all emerge from the “pivot” of opportunity and creation, and all return to it. They change along with the times, acting through Wuwei (non-action) while leaving nothing undone. They simply follow their own transformations.’

“The Earl of the River said: ‘If that is so, why value learning at all?’”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain-Language Interpretation

Beihai Ruo said: The Dao has patterns of fullness and emptiness, growth and decline, as well as the changing possibilities of advance and retreat, survival and destruction. Confused people attend only to external things and forget their original nature, often damaging themselves for the sake of those things. Clear-sighted people preserve what is within and are not led about by external things; they do not let such things harm them. It is not necessary to wait for fire or water to burn or drown them, or for cold, heat, or wild animals to attack, before they come to ruin. Their priorities were already in disorder. Those who understand the Dao first roam in the realm of the “pre-Heavenly,” beyond the reach of later human affairs. Hence the saying: “Heaven is within, and I can be master of myself; people are outside, and I may not be able to master every circumstance.” A person of De (Virtue/Power) understands both Heaven and humanity: learning takes Heaven as its source, and one’s life takes De as its foundation. To bend and extend according to one’s own will, one must understand principle and respond flexibly to changing circumstances.

The Yellow River Earl wanted to understand the distinction between Heaven and humanity, but did not know that a cow’s and a horse’s four legs are inborn and have nothing to do with people; putting a halter on a horse or piercing a cow’s nose is done by people and has nothing to do with Heaven. Better to let “Heaven” prevail over “humanity” than to use human intention to extinguish one’s nature. Better to accept one’s allotment and let transformation take its course than to use stubbornness to extinguish one’s destiny. Better to keep one’s name without greed for gain than to pursue a name by sacrificing oneself for profit. Only those who guard this faithfully and never lose it are called True Persons.

The centipede admired its many feet, the snake admired its lack of feet, the wind admired its speed despite having no form, the eye admired how it could reach places without moving, and the mind admired how its spirit could reach everywhere. A one-footed creature could not rival the “Heavenly mechanism” that coordinates ten thousand feet. It is like the countless droplets and mist that spray out in a jumble: “I move by the Heavenly mechanism, and do not know how it works.” Though the centipede has many feet, it cannot match the footless snake, which moves by its spine and sides, relying entirely on the Heavenly mechanism. Why would it need feet? Though the snake has no feet, it still has form. The wind has no form, yet can break trees and send roofs flying: what many small things cannot overcome, when gathered together becomes a great force. The sages who have attained the Dao have often been like this since ancient times.

When Confucius was trapped at Kuang, he said to Zilu: “Destiny does not spare me hardship because I avoid speaking of it; the times do not grant me success because I seek it.” In the age of Yao and Shun, there were no “destitute” people under Heaven. This was not because everyone had attained the Dao, but because the times and people’s destinies were in perfect accord. In the age of Jie and Zhou, there were no “successful” people under Heaven either; this, too, was determined by the times and destiny.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

People do not fail because they do not understand failure; they fail because the times are greatly out of joint. People know that fishermen, hunters, and martyrs each have their own courage and are each at home in their place, but they do not know that the sage’s courage is at home everywhere.

Gongsun Long believed he had learned a great deal. He boasted of what he knew, thinking he could trap every school in debate and silence everyone. But now that he had been bested by Zhuangzi, he went to Master Mou and asked how to respond. Master Mou said: “Have you never heard the story of the well frog boasting to the giant turtle from the Eastern Sea about the joys of its well? It thought that leaping into the water, kicking up mud, and perching on the well’s edge made it peerless among the toads and tadpoles. It alone possessed the pleasure of its little hollow and thought that was the height of joy. When it invited the giant turtle from the Eastern Sea to come and see, the turtle could not even fit one foot inside. So it told the sea: ‘You know how far-reaching and vast, how lofty and deep the sea is? In Yu’s time, there were floods nine years out of ten, yet the sea did not rise. In Tang’s time, there were droughts seven years out of eight, yet the sea did not recede. It does not shift with the passage of time; its measure neither grows nor diminishes. Is this not the great joy of the Eastern Sea?’ Someone without insight that reaches beyond the world who wants to hear the words of one who sees things clearly is like asking a mosquito to carry a mountain or a millipede to cross a river: it is bound to be beyond their powers. Someone who cannot grasp the most wondrous words but wants to win through a sharp tongue in a passing dispute is like a well frog boasting of its joy to a giant turtle from the Eastern Sea: they will surely be laughed at. Besides, what kind of person is he? With a single step, he treads the earth and ascends to heaven; he is neither south nor north, and water and fire work together. Water, fire, metal, and wood are understood and return to Earth, whose bounds cannot be measured. He is neither east nor west: wood and metal join together, beginning in dark mystery; Kan water rises, and at the end the Five Qi gather at the origin and return to the Great Thoroughfare. You want to use your small knowledge and petty arguments to probe him. That is like looking at the sky through a tube or marking the earth with an awl. It is like someone who learned to walk in Handan: they never mastered the local gait, lost their own way of walking, and had to crawl home. If Gongsun Long does not leave, I fear he will lose his livelihood.”

Zhuangzi was fishing in the Pu River—not with the method of Master Zang, and his method had nothing to do with “fishing” at all. The King of Chu sent two senior officials to say: “We would like to entrust the affairs of the realm to you, sir.” Holding his rod and without turning around, Zhuangzi said: “I have heard that in Chu there is a sacred tortoise that died long ago. The king kept it in a bamboo box, covered it with silk, and stored it in the ancestral temple. Do you think that tortoise would rather be dead, leaving its bones to be honored, or alive, dragging its tail through the mud?”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Scripture of Nanhua

I. Dragging His Tail Through the Mud

The gist of the classic: Zhuangzi asks: Would you rather die and be enshrined in a temple, or live and drag your tail through the mud?

The two ministers know that they would rather live and drag their tails through the mud.

Zhuangzi says: “Go on your way. I’ll stay here and drag my tail through the mud.”

Commentarial interpretation: The small achievement of building a career is worth less than the great achievement of preserving one’s original spirit. This is the first lesson.

II. The Phoenix and the Rotten Rat

When Huizi became chancellor of the state of Liang, he worried that Zhuangzi had come to take his position. Zhuangzi went to see him and said:

“In the south there is a bird called the yuanchu, a mythical celestial bird. It lives on islands in the sea and perches only on tall parasol trees. It eats no ordinary fruit and drinks no ordinary spring water. An owl found a rotten rat and thought no food in the world could be more delicious. Looking up, it saw the yuanchu fly past and shrieked, ‘Shoo!’—afraid that the bird would steal its food.

“Now you’re trying to frighten me with the chancellorship of Liang. Aren’t you treating a rotten rat as a treasure?”

Commentarial interpretation: The low worth of pursuing an empty reputation cannot compare with the value of preserving one’s true nature. This is the second lesson.

III. Watching the Fish at Hao Bridge

Zhuangzi and Huizi were walking on the bridge over the Hao River. Zhuangzi remarked on how freely and happily the tiao fish swam in the water. Huizi said, “You’re not a fish. How do you know the fish are happy?”

Commentarial interpretation: This exchange shows that neither human nature nor the nature of things is understood. Zhuangzi replies, “You’re not me. How do you know I don’t know the fish are happy?” He is rebuking Huizi for failing to understand human nature, and therefore failing to understand the nature of things as well.

Huizi had not heard the Great Dao. When he says, “I’m not you, so I don’t know you,” he sets the self against the other. When he says, “You’re not a fish, so you don’t know the fish’s joy,” he sets humans against things. To leave behind distinctions between self and other, follow things back to their source. The source is one’s original nature. When my nature is fully realized, all things are things within my nature. The tiao fish finding its proper place is also a joy within my nature. So I do not know the fish’s joy by saying, “I am a fish”; I can know it while standing on the Hao Bridge.

Commentarial interpretation: Noble and humble belong to one domain; great and small form one family. This is the third lesson.

Outer Chapter 18: “The Utmost Joy”

General discussion: This chapter says that the utmost joy is not the joy of the ordinary world. Only through what sustains life—the primordial maternal Qi—and through Wuwei (non-action) can people come to know it. Then they can rise beyond clever contrivances and enter a realm beyond them.

Is there utmost joy in the world? (“Utmost joy,” pronounced luo, refers to roaming freely.) This is a rhetorical question whose answer is certainly yes. Is there something that can sustain life? This refers to the primordial maternal Qi, and the following passage answers the question directly. What do we do now, what do we rely on, what do we avoid, where do we dwell, what direction do we follow, where do we go, what brings us joy, and what makes us grieve?

Note: Terms in the commentary such as “sustaining life,” “primordial maternal Qi,” “preserving the whole spirit,” and “preserving the genuine” belong to Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy). They emphasize preserving primordial, genuine Qi and moving beyond the clever contrivances of the ordinary world, resonating with Zhuangzi’s ideas of free and easy wandering and preserving one’s wholeness.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

What people value is nothing more than wealth and status, long life, and what they call “goodness.” What they pursue is bodily comfort, abundant food, fine clothing, beauty, and pleasing sounds. What they disdain is poverty and low status, a short life, and “evil.” What pains them is a body denied comfort, a mouth denied rich flavors, a form denied fine clothes, eyes denied beauty, and ears denied music. If they cannot obtain these things, they become deeply anxious and afraid. To toil so much for the sake of the body is truly foolish. (Clothing, food, music, and beauty do no harm if one lacks them; once obtained, they can instead damage one’s nature. To grieve over not having them—what could be more foolish?)

The wealthy strain themselves and work feverishly, accumulating great stores of possessions they cannot use up. To do all this for the sake of the body is already to treat as external what lies beyond oneself. (By setting out how wealth, status, long life, and goodness do not endure, the text warns ordinary people: my nature is already complete in itself; to turn inward and attend to the body is simply to know contentment. To amass wealth only to die and leave it unused—what could be more external to oneself?)

Those of high status work through the night, thinking over gains and losses, advantages and dangers. To do all this for the sake of the body is already to grow distant from oneself. (True nobility is found within the body; to stay close to it is simply not to lose one’s original nature. The eminent spend all day scheming and worrying to secure their rank and position, yet give no thought to what in the world might sustain their life. What could be more distant from oneself?)

A person’s life is always accompanied by worry. Those who live long grow dull and confused, burdened by worry for years without dying. How miserable! (They worry, yet have no way to escape death.) To do all this for the sake of the body is also to become distant from oneself. (Only after letting go of life can one forget worry; only after forgetting worry can life become enjoyable, and only then does the body become truly one’s own. Those who live long, with bodies burdened by anxiety, seek a way to avoid death and prolong their years. What could be more distant from the body?)

The resolute strive to make “goodness” renowned throughout the world, yet this may not be enough to sustain their own lives. I do not know whether this so-called “goodness” is truly good, or not good at all. If it is good, it still cannot sustain one’s life; if it is not good, it can nevertheless save others. Hence the saying: “If loyal remonstrance is not heeded, withdraw rather than contend.” (One should withdraw and leave, not contend with the ruler.) Thus Wu Zixu, by contending, brought ruin upon his own body; had he not contended, his reputation would not have been made. Is there really such a thing as “goodness” or “no goodness”? (The resolute seek a name: they know only how to sustain others, not how to sustain themselves. Remonstrating and contending only brings harm to the body.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Once “form” cannot remain fixed and unchanging, it is as good as “nonexistence.” This means that fame and a good reputation will, in the end, vanish. The words also carry an unstated message: people should not devote themselves to guarding their reputations at all costs, but should seek what can truly sustain life. Rather than die as a “martyr” for an empty name, it is better to become a “True Person” who preserves what is genuine. Which brings greater happiness, and which brings less? It is worth considering.

I cannot say whether the things people do today, or the happiness they pursue, are truly happiness. I watch ordinary people eagerly pursuing what they value. They rush about in crowds, as if compelled to, yet all insist they are happy. I do not think this must be happiness, nor do I think it must be unhappiness. Is there happiness, or is there none? I regard the happiness of Wuwei (non-action) as genuine happiness, while people in the world take Wuwei to be the greatest misery. That is why it is said: The greatest happiness seems to be no happiness; the greatest renown seems to be no renown. (These are the four things the world pursues. When everyone rushes after them, are they truly happiness? The happiness I speak of is the happiness of Wuwei: simply being free of worry. From “the greatest happiness is no happiness,” we can see that worldly pleasures are not true happiness; from “the greatest renown is no renown,” we can see that the name for which martyrs contend is not a true name.)

Right and wrong in the world cannot, after all, be conclusively settled. (If we take worldly pleasure alone as “right,” we fail to see what is “wrong” in it; the other side may not consider itself “wrong” either. Right and wrong are difficult to fix.) Even so, Wuwei can bring right and wrong to rest. The greatest happiness can sustain life; perhaps only Wuwei comes close to lasting forever. (An alchemical text says: At first, there is doing, which people find hard to perceive; when one reaches Wuwei, all come to know it. How delightful—to live and not die! Only the utmost Wuwei may come close to lasting forever.) Let me try to explain: Heaven is clear through Wuwei, and Earth is tranquil through Wuwei. When Heaven and Earth unite in Wuwei, the myriad things are transformed, nurtured, and brought forth. (Heaven and Earth are like fermenting mash, and the myriad things like the wine that becomes clear from it. If a person can move from purposeful action to Wuwei, even an ordinary mortal body can be transformed.)

Vast and indistinct, dark and still, they show no sign of where they came from. Dark and still, vast and indistinct, they reveal no fixed form or trace. The myriad things diligently fulfill their tasks and all grow from Wuwei. Thus Heaven and Earth act through Wuwei, yet nothing goes undone. Human beings—the heart of Heaven and Earth—who among them can attain Wuwei? (“Vast” means boundless and indistinct; “dark” means mysterious and still. “No sign of where they came from” means that one cannot see where they began. “Diligently fulfill their tasks” means that each carries out its function; “grow” means to flourish. The myriad things are all born from Wuwei. Human beings are the heart of Heaven and Earth, so how can they attain Wuwei? To understand Wuwei is to be empty, still, calm, and detached, and not to take suffering as happiness.)

(The final phrase, “Zhuangzi’s wife died, and Huizi…,” begins the narrative that follows, about Huizi coming to offer condolences.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Interpretation

Zhuangzi Mourns by Beating a Basin

The person who came to offer condolences to Zhuangzi was Hui Shi. Zhuangzi sat with his legs splayed, beating an earthen basin and singing. Hui Shi said, “Your wife lived with you all her life, bore and raised your children, and died only in old age. It would be one thing if you didn’t weep, but beating a basin and singing—that’s going too far, isn’t it?”

Zhuangzi replied, “That’s not so. When she first died, how could I not feel sorrow? But then I thought back: originally, she had no life—not only no life, but no form; not only no form, but no Qi. Blending indistinctly in the vast and obscure, she changed and came to have Qi; Qi changed and came to have form; form changed and came to have life. (Here, ‘life’ means awareness and activity: form comes first, and only then can this kind of awareness arise.) Now she has changed again and moved toward death. This is like passing together through the turning of the four seasons: spring, summer, autumn, and winter. She now rests peacefully in the ‘great house’ (taking Heaven and Earth as a great house, much as the Earth is called the ‘great mass’), while I was wailing after her, thinking I understood nothing of Heaven’s destiny. So I stopped.”

(The passage argues that death need not be mourned. This teaching of being “without emotion” often marks a crucial point in the cultivation of nature and life: at the threshold between life and death, it presents a way of “nonlife,” teaching people to recognize that originally there was no coming, and now there is no going. Life and death are no more than the alternation of cold and heat, darkness and light. Why be stirred by them?)

Zhili Shu and Huajie Shu Observe the Mysterious Transformation

Zhili Shu and Huajie Shu went to the burial ground of Mingbo to observe (Zhili Shu had forgotten his form, and Huajie Shu had forgotten his mind; the two are said to understand “transformation.” Mingbo is a name for the dead, and what they observe is the “transformation” discussed below), in the open expanse of Kunlun, where the Yellow Emperor once rested. Before long, a lump grew on Huajie Shu’s left elbow (the word “liu” refers to a sore or swelling, and so is used here as a comparison for a boil). He seemed displeased and repelled by it. Zhili Shu asked, “Does it disgust you?”

Huajie Shu replied, “No. What should disgust me? Life is borrowed (the Four Great Elements come together provisionally); through this borrowing, life comes to be. Once alive, a person exists in the world of dust, like a fish in water. Life and death are like day and night (human life and death, like the cycle of day and night, are ultimately unavoidable). Besides, you and I are observing ‘transformation,’ and…” (The discussion of “observing transformation” continues below.)

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

What harm would it do to me if transformation reached me? Guo Xiang explains: first, people are shown living beings with feelings; then they are guided to understand the highest principle and let go of their attachments. I have no private feelings to begin with, so I can be free of worry. People with feelings, by contrast, shut themselves away in the distant wilderness and become trapped in sorrow and joy.

When Zhuangzi came to the state of Chu, he saw an empty skull by the roadside. Its flesh was gone, leaving only a complete skeleton. He took his horsewhip, tapped it, and asked:

“Did you come to this state because you clung to life and feared death, and so went against the natural order?” The commentary says Zhuangzi asked the skull five questions, sharply identifying the roots of people’s suffering. The skull’s reply later shows that even if calamities befall the living, the dead are beyond their reach.

“Or did you meet the ruin of your state and suffer execution by axe and blade?”

“Or did you do wrong and bring shame on your parents, wife, and children?”

“Or did you suffer hunger and cold?”

“Or had your allotted years simply run their course, so that this happened naturally?” Guo Xiang says Zhuangzi did not delight in death or despise life. To “see them as equal” means to live at ease while alive and be at ease in death once dead. When our feelings about life and death are brought into balance, there is no need to worry about death while still alive. This is what Zhuangzi means.

As soon as he finished speaking, Zhuangzi used the skull as a pillow and lay down. In the middle of the night, the skull appeared in his dream and said, “What you said just now sounded like the words of a skilled debater. Those are all burdens for the living; death leaves them behind. Would you like to hear about the nature of death?” Zhuangzi said, “Yes.”

The skull said, “In death, there is no ruler above and no subject below. There is no labor through the seasons. At ease and untroubled, one takes Heaven and Earth as spring and autumn. Even the joy of sitting on the throne as king cannot compare.” The commentary explains: Those who love life take worldly affairs as a source of pleasure, while the dead regard the human world as a burden. Only those who transcend life and death can speak of matters in this way.

Zhuangzi did not believe it. “If I asked the Lord of Fate, the god who governs lifespan, to restore your body—give you flesh, bones, and skin—and send you back to your parents, wife, children, hometown, and old acquaintances, would you agree?” The skull furrowed its brow and replied, “How could I give up the joy of ruling as king and return to the burdens of the human world?”

When Yan Yuan was about to go to the state of Qi, Confucius looked troubled. Zigong rose from his seat and asked, “May I venture to ask: Yan Hui is going to Qi. Why are you worried, Master?” Confucius said, “That is a good question.”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Nüyu asked, “Guanzi once said something very wise: ‘A small sack cannot hold a large object, and a short well rope cannot draw water from a deep well.’” This means that the Marquis of Qi had limited understanding and was not suited to hearing arguments about the Great Dao.

If that is so, then each person’s allotted fate has its own limits, and each body has what suits it. Can either be diminished or increased? A person’s endowment comes from nature and cannot be changed by persuasion. Once the body has taken shape, it cannot simply be altered at will. I worry that Yan Hui will speak to the Marquis of Qi about the ways of Yao, Shun, and the Yellow Emperor, and add the teachings of Suiren and Shennong. The Marquis may then turn inward to search for these things, but be unable to find them. Unable to find them, he will become confused; confused, he may lose his life. “Unable to find them” means that he cannot grasp the Great Dao of nature and life. If Yan Hui becomes confused as a result, he will merely fail to hear the Daoist’s teaching. But if the Marquis of Qi falls into confusion, he may lose his life.

Have you never heard this story? Long ago, a seabird landed outside the capital of Lu. The ruler of Lu welcomed it and brought it into the ancestral temple, where he held a feast in its honor. He had the ancient music and dance of the Nine Shao performed for it, and served it a grand offering of ox, sheep, and pig. The seabird’s eyes grew dazed and its heart troubled. It dared not eat a piece of meat or drink a cup of wine, and after three days it died. This was raising a bird by the methods used to raise people, rather than according to the bird’s nature.

To raise a bird according to its nature, one should let it roost in the deep woods and roam the highlands, and let it float on rivers and lakes, feeding on loaches and small fish. It should travel in flocks and, when it settles, find a winding, sheltered place to rest. Birds detest the sound of people talking—why go on chattering at them? The seabird here serves as a comparison: the Marquis of Qi was not suited to hearing the Great Dao of Yao, Shun, and the Yellow Emperor. If the subject were warfare, strategy, or enriching the state and strengthening its army, he might instead be glad to listen. To raise a bird in a way unsuited to it is to frighten it; to press a teaching on someone unsuited to hear it is to confuse them.

When music such as “The Great Pool” and the “Nine Shao” is played in the open wilderness of Dongting, birds fly away, beasts flee, and fish dive beneath the water. People, on hearing it, gather to watch. Fish live in water, while people would die if they lived in water. Each has its own likes and dislikes, and so each responds differently. For this reason, the sages of old did not demand that people’s abilities be alike, or that the affairs of the world all be the same.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Plain-language interpretation

(Continuing from “names do not exceed their realities, and meanings are established according to what is fitting.”)

Thus, when names and realities do not overstep one another, things are orderly and unobstructed. When principles are applied according to what is appropriate, misfortune stays far away and danger is avoided. This is called “order flowing freely and blessings enduring.”

Liezi was walking along the road and eating when he saw an old human skull by the roadside. He parted the weeds, pointed to the skull, and said:

(This passage describes the many different kinds of beings in the world. It is not using the small as a metaphor for the great; it means that, whether great or small, there is no real distinction—there is neither great nor small, neither honored nor lowly. The writing looks orderly on the surface, though its substance is uneven; within the unevenness there is order. This is wonderfully subtle.)

“Only you and I know that, in truth, there has never been death and never been birth.”

(From the perspective of what appears, the functioning of words has never truly “died”; tracing things back to their origins, they have never truly “been born.”)

“If you truly regard me as having gained life and offer me sustenance, would you truly rejoice in regarding yourself as having reached extinction?”

“How many kinds of transformation are there?” (He raises the question of how many kinds of generation and transformation there are.)

When something meets water, it becomes ji: dust stirred up by breath and floating on the water, like tiny round specks or fine threads. This is called ji, or water moss. Before other life appears, this kind of thing often first grows in rivers. The account begins with something in a marsh because water is the breath of the Great One. When this breath moves, it transforms and takes shape, yet this is still only “assumed life.”

At the boundary between water and earth, it becomes frog’s clothing. Along the banks, water takes on the influence of earth and gradually thickens and congeals, acquiring substance and a deep green color. It is called frog’s clothing, or green moss. What follows explains how one breath becomes the myriad forms: there is transformation, but no birth or death.

When it grows on raised ground in the fields, it becomes lingxi. As the green moss draws closer to the earth, it grows in elevated places as lingxi, a plantain known also as marsh plantain, with diuretic properties.

When lingxi encounters yuqi, soil made fertile by a long accumulation of filth, it becomes crowfoot grass.

The root of crowfoot grass, in turn, becomes a grub, a kind of beetle larva.

Liezi uses the skull and the successive transformations along the way to explain “there has never been death, and there has never been birth”: one and the same Qi changes from one form to another. We see appearances arising through transformation, but no actual death or birth. When names remain true to realities and are used as circumstances warrant, order flows freely, and neither misfortune nor blessing can disturb it.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A leaf transforms into a butterfly (one account says it comes from the roots of plants and trees, unseen by people; another says it comes from a leaf, which people often see). The butterfly transforms again, and a kind of insect appears beneath a stove. It resembles a shed skin and is called Qu Duo (some commentaries take “Xu” to be another name for the butterfly, but the evidence is insufficient. A more cautious reading is that all things can give rise to and transform into one another, so no single explanation applies in every case. The butterfly is an insect that develops from plants and is generally delicate. Born beneath an outdoor stove, it receives the energy of fire and transforms into a skinless, shell-less creature that looks like a shed skin. It is called Qu Duo, pronounced roughly like “Qu” and “Duo.”)

Qu Duo lies in the earth for a thousand days and transforms into a bird called Qian Yu Gu (this transformation comes from a kind of bird’s foot and is the strongest of these forms: it is what Qu Duo becomes after a thousand days in the earth). The foam from Qian Yu Gu transforms into Si Mi, an insect. Si Mi then transforms into Shi Xi (pronounced “Xi,” meaning a midge). These insects are attracted to sour things and gather around vinegar, which is why they are called “vinegar eaters.” Yi Lu comes from Shi Xi; Huang Kuang (pronounced “Kuang”) comes from Jiu You; and Mao Rui (pronounced “Mao” and “Rui”) comes from Fu Quan (pronounced “Quan” or “Huan”). Yang Xi is the root of the sheep’s-foot plant. If a bamboo that has long produced no shoots is beside the root, Qing Ning, an insect, comes into being. Qing Ning gives rise to Cheng (some say that people in Yanzhou still call tigers and leopards Cheng). Cheng gives rise to horses, and horses give rise to humans (“horses give rise to humans” can be debated: it might be taken literally as referring to a kind of human-horse creature, or as meaning that an abundance of vital energy occasionally takes human form. The Records of Spirits says that in the time of Duke Xiao of Qin, a horse gave birth to a human. Historical accounts also say that the Man people of Changsha and Wuling descended from dogs, and that the Yuan ancestor was conceived from a wolf and a deer. These examples discuss the transformations of vital energy: neither birth nor death, but the continuous flow of a single energy.)

Humans, in turn, return to the mechanism: at the stage of “human,” the transformations of nature need not rely on another thing to bring humans forth. In the end, humans return to the “mechanism”—they enter the great furnace of creation and cannot escape its bounds. The passage begins by discussing the myriad things and proceeds to humans; its final two sentences turn from humans back to the myriad things. Mechanism here means the pivot of transformation: what begins by coming into life is called emerging from the pivot, and what ends in death is called entering the pivot. All things emerge from the pivot, and all things enter it.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence (Nanhua Zhenjing Zhushu), in Plain Language

Fugui Zi says: The “happiness” most people pursue is sought outside themselves. They rely on possessions, reputation, and pleasure to feel happy. Only the “highest happiness” comes from settling inwardly: the heart is content in itself and does not depend on whether applause or benefits are forthcoming.

Is there, in this world, such a thing as the highest happiness? Most people seek only to make this life comfortable, but that is not truly living. If they do not know that there is an aspect that “does not die”—referring to spirit, original nature, or the transcendence of life and death emphasized in cultivation—then they cannot be said to have truly lived. Is there a genuine way to “keep the body alive”? We can understand human nature in broad terms by observing what people do, what they rely on, what they avoid, where they stay, where they go, what they love, and what they hate.

Those who regard wealth, rank, long life, and a good name as marks of distinction almost invariably take bodily and mental ease, and the pleasures of sights, sounds, clothing, and food, as happiness. Those who regard poverty, low status, a short life, and a bad name as marks of degradation almost invariably dread and grieve over physical toil and hardship in obtaining food and clothing. If people know that there is a way to “keep the body alive” yet care only for the brief pleasures of the physical form before them, they are truly foolish about what lies beyond the material.

If wealth could make one immortal, why do those who toil and scrimp to amass money die before they have spent it all? Have they not treated money as what is “within” and the body as what is “without”? If high status could make one immortal, why do the powerful scheme day and night to secure their positions, only for their positions to remain secure while their bodies do not? Have they not treated rank and emoluments as intimate, and the physical body as distant? If longevity could make one immortal, why do people who will not live even a hundred years worry about a thousand, anxiously seeking a “method of immortality” from youth to old age, yet failing to learn the way to keep the body alive? Do they not regard Penglai and Langyuan as too far away, while overlooking the “Mani jewel” within their embrace—the awakening and inner virtue that are already complete in themselves? If fame could make one immortal, why could the loyal remonstrances of a righteous man not preserve his body? Good and evil cannot stand together, and preserving oneself and preserving others cannot both bring benefit; yet Wu Zixu made his name through his mutilated body. So, in the end, is goodness real or not? Wealth, rank, longevity, and goodness are what the world takes pleasure in, but what brings pleasure is not necessarily true happiness. The happiness of Wuwei (non-action) is what the world finds bitter, but what seems bitter is not necessarily true suffering. Hence the saying, “The highest happiness has no happiness”: this does not mean that there is no happiness, but that happiness lies within, not outside. “The highest praise has no praise”: this does not mean there is no praise, but that what matters is substance, not empty reputation. In this way, right and wrong are settled once and for all.

What could be greater than keeping the body alive as the highest happiness under Heaven? If keeping the body alive reaches Wuwei, how could it fail to endure? The clarity and tranquility of Heaven and Earth, too, come from Wuwei, through which the myriad things transform of themselves.

Note: This passage is a commentary on the “Highest Happiness” chapter of the Zhuangzi. Through counterexamples involving wealth, rank, longevity, reputation, and righteous men, it argues that what the world pursues does not necessarily bring true happiness or lasting life. It advocates seeking the “highest happiness,” the way to “keep the body alive,” and Wuwei within oneself, in keeping with the Zhuangzi’s emphasis on spiritual freedom and its disregard for attachment to external things. Names such as Penglai, Langyuan, Mani, and Zixu have been briefly explained in keeping with the commentary’s context.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

A Plain-Language Interpretation

1. Wuwei and deliberate action

Everything is in constant change and flow. I cannot even explain where the path of Wuwei (non-action) first arises, so how could I describe what Wuwei looks like? Since all things exist, there must be a source of existence; Wuwei corresponds precisely to nonexistence—nonexistence can give rise to existence. Heaven and Earth can accomplish everything because they abide by Wuwei. Heaven, Earth, and humanity may originally be divided into three; if they are brought together as one, who can proceed step by step from deliberate action to Wuwei? Once that point is reached, perfect joy fills the whole body and endures together with Heaven and Earth. This is no difficult matter.

---

2. Zhuangzi sings and beats a basin after his wife’s death

When Zhuangzi’s wife died, he sat with his legs splayed, tapping a clay basin and singing. Huizi reproached him for going too far. Zhuangzi said, “No, that’s not right. Death is the endpoint of a human life. I trace things back from that endpoint to the beginning. When chaos first opened and no signs had yet appeared, there was Heaven and Earth, but no living things; there could be no talk of birth. Without birth, how could there be form? Without form, how could there be Qi (vital energy)? The Great Change became the Great Inception, the beginning of Qi; the Great Inception became the Great Origin, the beginning of form; the Great Origin became the Great Unformed, the beginning of life. Now things have changed again into death, just as spring, summer, autumn, and winter take turns. Life is like waking in the daytime; death is like sleeping at night. Someone is lying in a house as vast as this, and you howl with grief. Does that mean you understand Heaven’s mandate? How do you know that today’s death may not be tomorrow’s life? So I stopped crying.”

---

3. Zhilishu and Huajieshu observe transformation

Zhilishu and Huajieshu were observing transformation—the changes of all things—on the hill of Mingbo. A willow branch suddenly grew from Huajieshu’s left elbow. At first he found it repulsive, as anyone naturally would. Then he said, “Why should I find it repulsive?” In this way, reason let him set aside his feelings. He understood that the human body is formed from the temporary union of the four great elements—earth, water, fire, and wind—and is never free of dust and dross. Death and life, like day and night, take turns. You and I are watching transformation on Mingbo Hill. A willow has grown from his elbow, and I too am a person in the midst of change. I have not yet escaped the transformations of creation, so why should I resent change when it comes to me?

---

4. Zhuangzi encounters an empty skull

When Zhuangzi went to the state of Chu, he saw an empty skull and asked, “Sir, unless you were greedy for life and abandoned reason, lost your country and met the axe, did wrong and brought shame on your parents, wife, and children, or faced danger from cold and hunger, you would hardly have ended up in this state, would you?”

The skull replied in a dream, “Your words sound like those of a skilled debater. The living have all kinds of burdens; the dead have none of them. You regard debate as a burden. Once you are dead, will you be free of these burdens?”

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence

Do you also know the joy of death?

After death, there are no rulers and subjects, no ranks above or below, and thus no official duties, forced labor, or exhausting toil. There are no spring, summer, autumn, and winter, and thus no worries about the harm caused by cold and heat. The years of human life are brief; in death, one takes Heaven and Earth as one’s “great year,” and the cycles of the primordial era as one’s “spring and autumn.” This is the utmost freedom and ease. Even the joy of facing south as a king cannot surpass it.

Zhuangzi did not believe this. He said, “Let me ask the Keeper of Destiny to restore your body and bring you back among your parents, wife, neighbors, and acquaintances. Would you be willing?” The skull furrowed its brow and said, “How could I give up the joy of a king who faces south and return to the toil of human life?”

Yan Yuan (Yan Hui) was about to travel east to Qi, and Confucius looked worried. He said, “A thin cord cannot hold a large object, and a short rope cannot draw water from a deep well. A person like Yan Hui thinks destiny is already fixed, while the body is merely something that happens to accompany it. A long life cannot be shortened, and a short life cannot be prolonged. I worry that Yan Hui will speak to the Marquis of Qi about the Way of the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun, yet will have to add the teachings of Suiren and Shennong. He knows only to act in pursuit of approval and success. Seeking inwardly to understand nature and life, he fails; already deluded by fame and achievement, he has not heard the Way of the Daoist, and so covets fame and achievement while losing his original nature. No one is immortal. How, then, can one preserve the body and attain the utmost joy?”

Long ago, a sea bird flew to the outskirts of Lu. The Marquis of Lu welcomed it into the ancestral temple, played the Nine Shao, and prepared a grand sacrificial feast. The bird neither ate nor drank for three days, and died. This was raising a bird in the way one raises a person, not raising a bird in the way one raises a bird. Those who know nothing about raising birds should let them live in deep forests, on high ground, and by rivers and lakes, with fish moving among them and the birds settling at ease.

If the Nine Shao were played for birds, they would fly away; if beasts heard it, they would flee; if fish heard it, they would dive to the bottom of the water. Yet people alone would gather to watch. Are the natures of birds and people the only things that differ? Fish cannot live without water, while people die in it. Likes and dislikes are inherently different; so too are the distinctions between sage and ordinary person, and between proper and deviant ways of doing things.

A name cannot be praised without cause; it must accord with what is real. A principle cannot be attached without cause; it must be suited to the circumstances. Seek inwardly within yourself, and there will be nowhere you cannot go. This is called free and unobstructed development: when you are not deluded, good fortune can be sustained, and you can preserve your own life and help others preserve theirs. This is still a matter of “leaving death and entering life.” Go further, and there is the mystery of deathlessness.

Note: These passages include the Zhuangzi’s dialogue with a skull about the joy of death, Confucius’s concern over Yan Hui’s journey east, and the parable of the Marquis of Lu who killed a sea bird by trying to raise it as a person would. They conclude with themes common in the Zhuangzi: life and death, nature and life, and allowing each thing to rest in accordance with its own nature.

Collapse ▲

Interpretation

On the principle of life, why not consider the passage in which Liezi points to a skeleton? He says: “You and I alone dwell together in the great house of Creation. You have never truly died, and I have never truly been born.” If we say that someone died because their care was lacking, or was born because of joy, then we still do not understand: death and life follow the same road, and all things move along the same track.

If we trace Creation back to its first seed: Heaven gives rise to Water. Above the water first appears a floating Qi, clustered like pearls and trailing like threads, called “Ji.” Near the earth, it transforms into frog moss, water plantain, and crowfoot—all three are plants that grow in damp places. Their names gradually change and their forms differ: the root of birdfoot transforms into a grub, and the leaves below it transform into butterflies. This is a kind of upward transformation. The butterfly then transforms into an insect born beneath a stove, called “Qu Duo.” After a thousand days it becomes a crow of dry bones, which belongs to the egg-born kind. The froth from this crow of dry bones transforms into a Si Mi insect, and then in turn into Shi Xi, Yi Lu, Jiu You, Huang Kuang, Fu Quan, and Mao Rui. All are insects that arise through transformation, each becoming smaller as the transformations continue.

There is also the root of Yang Xi, which clings to unbamboo and gives rise to a Qing Ning insect. Qing Ning in turn gives rise to the Cheng of tigers and leopards: here, something small gives rise to something large. Cheng then gives rise to horses, a transformation between things still closely related. How can horses give rise to humans? Qian corresponds to the horse, and horses receive much of Qian’s Qi. At the beginning of Creation, humans were still few; so the saying “horses gave rise to humans” really means that humans arose from Qian’s Qi. Historical records say that the Wuling tribes of Changsha descended from domesticated dogs, and that an ancestral forebear was conceived by a wolf and a deer. These accounts, too, must have some basis.

Once a human enters the mechanism of gestation, it is not easy to change or transform, nor to escape this mechanism. Only those who leap beyond Yin-Yang can emerge from it. Among all things, those that seem to transform appear to escape the mechanism, yet they remain shaped by Yin-Yang and cannot defy it; thus they all enter the mechanism again. This shows that the cosmos is simply one Qi, which uses the “mechanism” to set beings in motion, bringing them in and out in an unceasing instant. Those who aspire to long life: why not seek out a perfected person, break open the hidden workings of Yin-Yang, and shape Yin-Yang without being shaped by it?

Collapse ▲