《南華真經註疏》Vol. 4
About this page. The original text of 《南華真經註疏》 Vol. 4 (Qing Daoist texts 清代道教文獻, 5 volumes) is shown in Classical Chinese as transmitted in the Kanripo (Kyoto University) edition. An English interpretation of the 142 passages on this page accompanies it: select a passage or press “Interpretation” to show it. All texts in English
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Source text (with commentary)Interpretation
Source note
This section comes from “Understanding Life,” Chapter Nineteen of the Outer Chapters of the Zhuangzi. The passage here is from Cheng Yining’s Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence, written during the Qing dynasty. The chapter title, “Understanding Life,” broadly means grasping the reality of life. Its central point is to let go of external affairs and preserve one’s nature. Nurturing Qi, gathering Shen, keeping to the center, and forgetting what lies outside—these are the practices of “understanding life.”
The “reality” of understanding life: its truth and essentials
Those who truly understand how to live do not busy themselves with things that life does not require and that need not be done. (Commentary: Once the mind chases fame and profit outside itself, it is no longer nurturing life. Whatever can be set aside and need not be done should be left undone.)
Those who truly understand how to settle into their allotted life do not force themselves to pursue what they know cannot be attained. (Commentary: One must settle where one’s lot requires; a mind still clinging to hope of gain has not truly settled. When one can accept what cannot be helped and find peace in it, there is no need to seek anything further outside oneself.) Understanding life is enough to know Heaven; understanding one’s lot is enough to know humanity.
Form and things; life and form
To nourish the body, one must first have the necessary external things. Yet some people have an abundance of them and still fail to nourish their bodies well. (Commentary: Having what one needs can nourish the body’s form, but cannot nourish Shen. That is why the wealthy and powerful sometimes die young.)
Life cannot exist without form; yet some people retain their bodily form while their life has already been lost. (Commentary: Life and form are originally inseparable. The form may remain intact, like a house still standing, while its occupant has departed; then life, too, is gone.)
It is lamentable that people believe having a body is enough to preserve life. If nurturing the body ultimately cannot preserve life, what in this world is worth clinging to? (Commentary: The body is like a house. Nurturing its form is like keeping the house in good repair: it concerns only the exterior. If the house is sound but its occupant does not live there, how can the things people gather truly keep life in it?)
What cannot be avoided, and letting go of the world
Even things that are not fundamental to life but must nonetheless be done are difficult to avoid entirely. (Commentary: Food, clothing, and social dealings are not fundamental to nurturing the body, yet they cannot be dispensed with. This is why they become burdens.)
To avoid being driven by the body as much as possible, the best course is to “let go of the world.” This does not mean fleeing human society, but cutting down entanglements and unnecessary business, and not allowing worldly concerns to bind the mind. Letting go of the world brings freedom from burdens; freedom from burdens brings a mind that is calm and balanced. With a calm and balanced mind, one draws near to the Dao’s way of “renewed life”—sharing in the Dao’s ceaseless life-giving—and has almost grasped the essential point.
What is there in external affairs worth clinging to? And what is there in life’s true nature worth abandoning? (Commentary: Letting go of the world does not mean fleeing it; it means not binding the mind to worldly affairs.)
Brief explanations of key terms
Here, “understanding life” and “understanding one’s lot” use “reality” to mean the truth or essentials, not “feelings” in the modern everyday sense.
“Nurturing the body” and “nurturing the spirit” refer, respectively, to caring for the physical body and cultivating the spirit and one’s nature.
“Letting go of the world” is Zhuangzi’s expression for releasing worldly entanglements; it does not mean withdrawing into seclusion to escape society.
Plain-Language Interpretation
(Continuing the meanings of “thick” and “old,” among others)
Because one holds to what is thick and old, without deliberately seeking correctness or balance, and simply follows the innate movement of life to sever attachments to external things, the heart makes no distinctions between high and low. One can begin and end together with the transformations of nature. In this way, even “death” cannot overcome one, which is why the text says, “thus one is reborn.” If so, what is there in worldly affairs that one must cling to or feels compelled to accomplish?
The lines “abandon affairs” and “leave life behind”
These are questions posed for effect. The answer is: Set aside ordinary affairs, and the body will not be made to toil; do not tether life to fame and gain, and Jing and Qi will not be depleted.
One abandons affairs for fear of exhausting the body, and leaves life behind for fear of stirring the vital energies—that is, one does not spend a whole lifetime on worldly business.
The body complete, Jing restored, and one united with Heaven
When the body is whole and Jing has returned, one is united with Heaven—that is, one shares the virtue of Heaven and Earth.
Heaven and Earth, “able to transform,” and “assisting Heaven”
Heaven and Earth are the parents of all things: when things gather, they take form; when they disperse, they return to their beginning, the origin before life arose. If neither body nor Jing is depleted, this is called being able to transform: Jing and Qi can still be refined further, and one can in turn share mastery with Heaven. A person does not merely unite with Heaven, but can also respond to the Dao of Heaven at the pivotal points of transformation. Heaven and humanity are originally one Qi. When they unite, they gather into form; Heaven does not originally belong to humanity alone. When they disperse, they return to the beginningless state; humanity does not originally belong to Heaven alone. The pivot of transformation can turn within me. I can not only unite with Heaven, but also assist Heaven.
Liezi asks Guanyin (Guan Lingyin Xi)
The Perfected Person can enter water without suffocating, walk on fire without being burned, and travel above all things without fear. How is this possible?
Guanyin replies
This is a practice of keeping pure Qi undisturbed; it has nothing to do with cleverness, cunning, or courage.
Let me explain: Anything with a face, form, sound, or color is a “thing.” Things are not inherently far apart from one another. What, then, enables someone to reach the state of the Perfected Person?
First, one must be “before things”
First, one must not cling to appearances. Only then can one enter the state in which things have no form and remain in what is untouched by transformation. Once there, one can pursue things to their utmost, and things will no longer obstruct one.
Faces, forms, sounds, and colors are things; I too am a thing. Things are not inherently far apart from one another. How, then, can one avoid suffocation and burns, and travel above all things?
Only when there are no things in the heart can one avoid being made into a thing by things.
If I do not first detach myself from appearances, then the realms of “formlessness and non-transformation” will use their force to exhaust me. How could I stop short of entering them?
“First” means before things exist, at the beginning of creation.
Residing within measure and concealing oneself within the order of things (including an alchemical metaphor)
The Perfected Person should reside within the bounds of what does not overindulge—like setting aside the vessels of the alchemical chamber once the great medicine has been obtained, rather than becoming attached to them. One should also remain concealed within an order without beginnings—with Shen and Qi sunk in deep stillness, their traces impossible to discern.
Note: This passage follows the style of the Nanhua Zhenjing zhushu (Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Scripture of the Southern Florescence). It interweaves the account of Liezi asking Guanyin with metaphors of alchemical cultivation—pure Qi, the measure of non-indulgence, the great medicine, and the alchemical chamber—and is connected to the traditions of Neidan and preserving Qi. Brief glosses have been added to specialized terms at their first appearance.
Plain-Language Interpretation
Awareness moves through the beginnings and endings of all things (awareness can reach the pivot of creation and transformation; the openings through which all things emerge and return are within me). Unify your nature and nourish your Qi, joining your De to reach what brings things into being. One who does this keeps the full endowment of Heaven intact and leaves no gap in the spirit. How could things enter?
To unify your nature and nourish your Qi is to reach the utmost emptiness and hold fast to stillness. Spirit and Qi embrace one another like mother and child, never parting; what is united becomes one and is not divided. Heaven is the source from which things are formed. When De connects with Heaven, Heaven’s endowment remains whole and the spirit has nowhere to retreat. How, then, could things obstruct, inflame, or frighten it? To ask “How could they enter?” means that external things have no way to invade.
A drunk person who falls from a carriage does not die, though the fall is swift. His bones and joints are like anyone else’s, yet he is harmed differently, because his spirit is whole. He does not know he is riding, nor does he know he has fallen. Thoughts of life and death, alarm and fear, do not enter his breast. Thus, things cannot make him tremble. If someone can remain whole through drink in this way, how much more so when made whole by Heaven? The sage takes shelter in Heaven, and so nothing can harm him.
Because the spirit is whole, Qi is whole; though ill, one does not die. If the spirit remains whole through drink, how much more so when it is whole through Heaven? Heaven is simply emptiness, stillness, calmness, serenity, and Wuwei (non-action). The sage stores the spirit there. To store the spirit is precisely to preserve Qi.
One seeking revenge does not break a Moye (an ancient sword), and even a person with a spiteful heart does not blame a flying roof tile. Thus the world is at peace. The way to end the disorder of wars and battles, and the punishments of slaughter, lies here.
The Moye sword and the flying tile can both wound people, yet one does not break the sword or resent the tile because things have no intention of their own. If everyone were as free of intention as the sword and the tile, the world would be at peace. How could there be the misery of war and slaughter?
Do not open the Heaven within people; open the Heaven of Heaven. Opening Heaven’s way gives life through De; opening the human way brings life to ruin.
Heaven is one. Heaven’s way is the true path by which life is received; open it, and life endures. The human way is a side path of taking and manipulating; open it, and life is brought to ruin.
Do not reject Heaven, and do not neglect the people; then you will be close to your true nature.
Heaven and humanity are one. This is the way to preserve one’s true nature and protect one’s life.
When Confucius went to Chu, he passed through a forest and saw a hunchback catching cicadas...
Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
Catching Cicadas with a Pole
Catching cicadas by coating the tip of a pole with adhesive is as easy as reaching out to pick something up.
Confucius said, “Your hands are so skillful. You must have a method, don’t you?”
The man replied, “I do. After practicing for five or six months, I could balance two pellets on the tip of the pole without letting them fall. When I tried to catch a cicada, I would miss by no more than a hair’s breadth. When I could balance three pellets without dropping them, I missed about once in ten tries. When I could balance five, catching a cicada was as steady as picking something up by hand. I stand as firmly as a wooden post driven into the ground, and raise my arm like a withered branch. However vast the world and however many the things in it, I have only the cicada’s wings in mind. I do not turn around or glance aside, and nothing else distracts me. How could I fail to catch it?”
Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “When the mind is undivided and does not wander, the spirit gathers and becomes focused. Is that not just what this hunchbacked old man has shown us?” The commentary uses this story to explain the principle of guarding the spirit and keeping Qi, and of concentrating the will on a single purpose.
Yan Yuan Asks About Boating
Yan Yuan asked Confucius, “I once crossed the deep Pool of the Goblet. The boatman’s skill was astonishing. I asked him, ‘Can anyone learn to steer a boat?’ He said, ‘Anyone who can swim can usually learn. As for someone who can dive, I have seen them steer a boat without ever having seen one before.’ I asked him to explain, but he would not say more. May I ask what he meant?”
Confucius said, “Someone who swims well can learn to forget the water through long practice: it becomes second nature, and they no longer feel afraid of the water. Someone who can dive sees a deep pool as level ground; if the boat overturns, it is like a carriage overturning, and their mind does not panic. First they learn to be at ease in the water, then they learn to steer a boat. They follow the nature of water. Learning to swim, by contrast, means moving against the current. To learn to steer a boat without understanding the nature of water is to go against one’s own nature and invite danger. I suspect that people who learn rashly, without firm understanding, worry about failure before they have even begun. If they are afraid before the battle starts, how can they accomplish anything?”
The commentary connects this passage with habit becoming nature, proceeding from the easy to the difficult, and a sequence of practice in which one forgets the self within and things without.
Brief Notes
Catching cicadas: In a Daoist story, catching cicadas with a pole serves as a metaphor for releasing the form—a practice of concentrating the spirit and relaxing the body and spirit. Even a small skill can embody the principle of “forgetting both self and things.”
“When the will is undivided, the spirit gathers”: This line comes from the cicada-catching passage in the Zhuangzi. Later generations often used it to express the need for single-minded purpose and a focused spirit in study, the arts, and spiritual practice. It follows the same line of thought as the commentary’s teaching to “guard the spirit and keep Qi.”
“Those who swim well forget the water; divers see a deep pool as a hill”: This passage describes moving from familiarity with the nature of water to a state in which the mind is undisturbed by it, and only then turning to the study of boating. It does not encourage taking risks; it emphasizes cultivating the foundation first, then practicing the outward skill.
The Boat’s Reversal and the Cart’s Rollback
When a boat capsizes in a deep pool, it is like a cart rolling backward on a slope. As the boat overturns or the cart rolls back, all manner of things spread out before the eyes, yet the mind cannot enter into them or take them in.
The Mind’s Dwelling and the Stakes
The mind is where the spirit resides. When the mind is unsettled, a person is restless wherever they go and can never find ease.
When a tile is used as a stake, the archer shoots calmly and skillfully. Replace it with an iron hook, and anxiety sets in; use gold, and the person grows dazed. The skill itself has not changed. But once someone becomes attached to what lies outside them, their mind is bound to external things. Anyone who places too much value on external things is sure to become clumsy within. This applies not only to archery for stakes, but also to steering a boat. Steering a boat serves as a metaphor for “not letting one’s focus be divided.” The three examples that follow—archery for stakes, and carts rolling backward on a slope—extend the metaphor further: a metaphor within a metaphor, a technique Zhuangzi often uses.
Tian Kaizhi Meets Duke Wei of Zhou
Tian Kaizhi went to see Duke Wei of Zhou. The duke said, “I hear that Zhu Shen studies the art of nurturing life. You have spent time with Zhu Shen. What have you heard?”
Tian Kaizhi replied, “I, Kaizhi, have only held a bundle of lianru grass—broom grass, as a humble way of referring to menial sweeping—and attended in the courtyard. What could I have heard from my teacher?”
The duke said, “Tian, there is no need to be modest. I would like to hear.”
Tian Kaizhi said, “I once heard my teacher say that one who is skilled at nurturing life is like a shepherd: keep an eye on the sheep that fall behind and whip them along.”
The duke asked, “What does that mean?”
Tian Kaizhi said, “In the state of Lu, there was a man named Shan Bao. He lived in the mountains, drank from streams, and never competed with the common people for profit. At seventy, his complexion was still like a baby’s. Unfortunately, he encountered a hungry tiger, which bit him and ate him. Then there was Zhang Yi, who was always slipping beneath the curtains of grand households. There was no place he would not go. At forty, he died of an internal fever. Bao nurtured only his inner self, and a tiger devoured his outer body; Yi nurtured only his outer self, and illness overcame him from within. These two men…”
(The passage continues with “both relied on what made them exceptional”—that is, each trusted in his own distinctive approach.)
A Plain-Language Interpretation
The ruler of the spirit refers to the spirits of the internal organs, not to a person’s hun and po souls.
Bo Hun Wuren said, “You follow the low ground, just as water flows downhill.”
Waterfowl known as chenjis roost there, and orioles roost there too. Bo Hun Wuren asked Zigong, a disciple of Confucius, “These old people have lost all their teeth, yet they can still sing like the young. Is this due to their inborn nature, or is it something they have acquired through habit?”
Zigong could not answer, so he went back and asked Confucius. Confucius said, “These people are following their natural nature. They have not used habit to change it.”
A Plain-Language Interpretation
“Planning for a Pig” and “Planning for Oneself”
When you make plans for someone else’s pig, you hope it won’t die—you take its being alive as a good thing. But when you make plans for yourself, you would rather die, because you prize wealth and status and fear death not at all. How is this different from planning for someone else’s pig? The difference lies in being burdened by desire. The point is that seeking wealth and status against the natural principles of life and nature is worse than following those principles and being content with poverty and low status. Zhuangzi used the “spirit tortoise” to represent himself and the “pig” to represent ordinary people; this is what he meant.
Duke Huan Sees a Ghost While Hunting
Duke Huan was hunting in a marsh, with Guan Zhong driving his carriage. The duke said he had seen a ghost. He patted Guan Zhong’s hand and asked, “Father Zhong, did you see anything?” Guan Zhong replied, “I saw nothing.” After returning, the duke was dazed and exhausted, as though he were ill, and stayed indoors for several days.
A man in the state of Qi named Huangzi Gao’ao said, “You frightened yourself into illness. How could a ghost harm you? When the Qi of pent-up resentment and frustration escapes and cannot return, your Qi becomes depleted. If it stays only in the upper body and does not descend, you become irritable; if it stays only in the lower body and does not rise, you become forgetful. If it neither rises nor descends but gets stuck in the chest, it makes you ill.”
Duke Huan asked, “Are there really ghosts, then?”
Huangzi Gao’ao replied, “There are. In the water are Shen and Lü, water spirits. In the kitchen lives Ji, the kitchen god, shaped like a beautiful woman dressed in red. Among the sweepings inside the doorway lives Leiting, a ghost. Beneath the northeastern corner, Bei’e and Guilong—both ghosts—leap about. The first is childlike in appearance, one chi and four cun tall, dressed in black with a red headscarf, and wears a tall hat while carrying a sword and spear. Beneath the northwestern corner lives Yiyang, a ghost with a leopard’s head and a horse’s tail. In the water is Wangxiang, a water spirit shaped like a child, black, with red claws, large ears, and long arms. On hills lives Cui, a hill spirit shaped like a dog with horns and a five-colored patterned body. In the mountains lives Kui, a mountain spirit shaped like a drum with one leg. In the wilds lives Fanghuang, a spirit shaped like a snake with two heads and a five-colored patterned body. In great marshes lives Weishe—the very kind you saw.”
Duke Huan asked, “Tell me, what does Weishe look like?”
Note: This passage comes from Zhuangzi’s story “Duke Huan Sees a Ghost” and its related commentaries. It uses the ideas of “ghosts” and “illness caused by a single Qi” to suggest that fear often arises from Qi becoming pent up in the mind. It also lists names for water spirits, kitchen gods, and strange beings of mountains and marshes found in ancient belief, offering a glimpse of how people of the time understood ghosts and spirits. It is not a “scientific theory of ghosts and spirits” in the modern sense.
A Plain-Language Reading of the Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
The Prince said: There is a strange creature called “Weiyi.” Its body is as thick as a chariot hub, and it is shaped like a chariot pole. It wears purple clothes and a red cap. It hates the sound of thunder and carts; whenever it hears them, it clutches its head and stands upright. Most people who see it are frightened into illness. Duke Huan of Qi, one of the Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period, laughed heartily and said, “That is exactly the sort of thing I have seen!” He then straightened his clothes and cap, invited it to sit, and spoke with it. Before the day was out, his old ailment had somehow disappeared.
(The commentary’s point: The Prince is describing an image of “the mean”—all things have their own forms, and these must not be forcibly erased. Duke Huan had long wanted to become a hegemon. Hearing this, his ambition to travel far and lead a great expedition suddenly surged. What illness could fail to improve?)
Ji Shengzi, a master of raising fighting cocks in ancient times, was raising a cock for the ruler. After ten days, the ruler asked, “Is the cock ready to fight?” Ji Shengzi replied, “Not yet. It is vain and relies on its own force—it is proud and trusts in its imposing manner.” Ten days later, the ruler asked again. Ji Shengzi replied, “Not yet. When it hears another cock crow or sees a shadow, it still responds and gives chase. Its mind is still drawn by things outside itself.” Ten days later, the ruler asked again. Ji Shengzi replied, “Not yet. It still glares and puffs itself up. Its spirit is unsettled and its mind is not at peace. Though it does not fight, it still wants to.” Ten days later, the ruler asked again. Ji Shengzi replied, “It is nearly ready. Even when other cocks crow, it is unmoved. It looks like a wooden cock. Its De is now complete. The other cocks dare not challenge it; they turn and flee.”
(The commentary’s point: The wooden cock has forgotten its Qi within and its form without. When other cocks crow and bristle, it pays no heed. There is no greater De than not contending. Cocks throughout the realm flee at the mere sight of it. In ancient times, people built great De and nurtured great courage by concentrating the spirit and guarding the Qi. This cannot be tried lightly: one must keep nurturing it until it is fully complete. Then, when one acts, nothing will fail to go well.)
Confucius was watching at Lüliang, a dangerous stretch of water where great rocks cut across the Yellow River; such a rocky barrier was called a “liang.” The waterfall plunged from a height of thirty ren—an ancient unit of length, roughly seven or eight feet per ren—and its rushing waters sent spray forty li downstream. Turtles, alligators, fish, and soft-shelled turtles were all unable to swim through it. He saw a man…
A Plain-Language Reading of the Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
A burly man was swimming for pleasure in the water. People nearby thought he was in danger and near death, so they told a disciple to follow the current and rescue him. After swimming several hundred paces, the man emerged with his hair loose. He walked along the riverbank, singing. Confucius caught up with him and asked, “At first I took you for a ghost, but on closer inspection I see you are human. May I ask whether there is some special method for walking on water?”
The man replied, “No, I have no special method. I begin through habit, grow through my nature, and fulfill myself through Heaven’s mandate. I am swept in with the whirlpool and carried out with the rapids. I follow the water’s own patterns, without clinging to my own opinions or forcing my private wishes. That is how I can walk on water.”
Confucius asked, “What do you mean by beginning through habit, growing through your nature, and fulfilling yourself through Heaven’s mandate?”
The man replied, “I was born in the hills, so I feel at ease in the hills; that comes from habit. I have spent a long time in the water, so I feel at ease in the water; that is how my nature has developed. I do not know why I can do this. That is Heaven’s mandate.”
Qing the Carpenter, a craftsman from the state of Lu, carved wood to make a ju—a wooden frame for hanging bells and drums, often decorated with carvings at its ends. When he had finished, those who saw it were amazed and thought it must have been made by spirits. The ruler of Lu saw it and asked, “What art did you use to make it?”
Qing replied, “I am only a craftsman. What art could I have? There is just one thing: before I begin making a ju, I never dare let my vital energy be depleted. When Qi is spent, the mind stirs; when the mind stirs, it cannot remain focused. So I take care not to waste my energy. First I fast and calm my mind. After three days of fasting, I dare not think about rewards, rank, or pay. After five days, I dare not think about praise or blame, skill or clumsiness. After seven days, I have suddenly forgotten myself, my limbs, and my body. At that point, I no longer notice the power of the court. My skill is wholly focused, and every distraction from the outside world has vanished. Then I enter the mountain forest and observe the natural qualities of the wood, looking to see whether its shape is perfectly suited to becoming a ju. Once the form of the ju is clear in my mind, I begin carving. If it is not, I do not proceed.”
How Objects Come Close to the Miraculous
Before setting to work cutting or carving, a craftsperson must first form a complete image of the object in mind, and only then add or remove material. If that whole has not yet taken shape in the mind, they should not rush to cut. In this way, their own innate nature accords with the innate nature of the material. The finished object can then astonish people, as if made with divine aid.
Dongye Ji Drives a Chariot
Dongye Ji went to see Duke Zhuang on account of his skill at driving. The chariot moved forward and backward as straight as a taut cord; its turns to the left and right were as round as arcs drawn with a compass. Duke Zhuang thought this degree of precision did not exceed the proper bounds of “pattern.” He then had Dongye Ji drive the chariot in a hundred circles. Each time, he returned to the original wheel tracks, turning with the precision of a hook catching its mark.
Yan He saw him and went in to tell Duke Zhuang, “The horse Ji is driving is about to collapse.” Duke Zhuang said nothing. Before long, the horse was indeed exhausted and had to be carried back. Duke Zhuang asked, “How did you know in advance?” Yan He replied, “The horse had already spent all its strength, but the man kept driving it. That is why I said it would collapse.” (Driving in a hundred circles means making it keep turning around until it has completed a hundred circuits; that makes its failure inevitable. Han Ying said: “Shun was skilled at employing people, and Zaofu was skilled at handling horses. They did not drive people to their limits, so there were no people who could not keep going; they did not drive horses to their limits, so there were no horses that could not keep running. A horse falls and gives out because it has been driven too hard; the people’s wisdom is exhausted because governance and instruction are too harsh. Thus, those who understand the Mandate of Heaven do not demand what intelligence cannot accomplish.”)
Gong Chui’s Skillful Hands
A craftsman named Chui could turn material with his bare hands and surpass the standards of the compass and square (“surpass” here means to go beyond: turning with his hands alone, he outdid the instruments, a mark of the utmost skill). His fingers and the material became one. He did not rely on the mind to calculate things again and again; his mind was focused and unrestrained by external things. (Lu Xixing said: “This is the marvel of natural mastery. By turning with the hands alone, the object naturally fits the compass and square. The fingers merge with the object, and the mind does not scrutinize it. This does not mean the mind is absent; it is simply focused and unbound. If one’s attention and intention are divided, then however skilled one may be, one cannot make the object fit the compass and square.” Fu Guizi said: “In learning, the greatest dangers are divided attention and deliberate effort. Divided attention makes one scattered and unfocused; deliberate effort makes one cling to things and unable to transform with them.”)
Note: This passage comes from commentaries on related chapters of the Zhuangzi. It uses chariot driving and crafting to illustrate the principle of following the nature of things and not exceeding their proper limits. Dongye Ji, Yan He, and Gong Chui are figures from parable or legendary craftsmen.
Plain-language interpretation of a related passage from the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
When one has studied Zhuangzi thoroughly, every word and phrase holds profound meaning. How much more so for someone versed in the Three Teachings who has also heard of the Great Dao of dual cultivation of nature and life through the Golden Elixir?
The general meaning of the Zhuangzi text
When a shoe fits, you forget your feet; when a belt fits, you forget your waist. When the mind is at ease with its circumstances, it forgets right and wrong. When the inner mind is focused and unwavering, while outwardly following events without awareness of oneself as “acting,” this is called being attuned to what suits you. To begin in what suits you and never be unsuited is “the ease of forgetting ease.”
Lu Xixing’s commentary: The passage above speaks of “transformation”; here it speaks of “forgetting.” Only through forgetting can one enter into transformation. When the shoe fits, you forget your feet; when the belt fits, you forget your waist; when the mind is at ease, it forgets right and wrong; when circumstances are fitting, one forgets inner and outer. To begin in what suits you and never be unsuited, and so arrive at the ease of forgetting ease, is to enter into transformation.
There was a man named Sun Xiu who came to Bian Qingzi’s door in astonishment, to tell him of an unusual event. Bian Qingzi said, “In your home region, people do not praise you for your cultivation; when danger comes, they do not praise you for courage. Yet you have not met with good fortune in the fields, your service to your lord has not brought you into accord with the times, your neighbors have rejected you, and the district authorities have driven you out. Is this Heaven’s fault?”
Xiu replied, “This is the fate I have encountered.”
Bianzi said, “Have you never heard how the Perfected One conducts himself? He forgets his liver and gallbladder, leaving the inside empty; he casts off his ears and eyes, leaving the outside still. In short, he lets his limbs fall away and dismisses his senses. Vague and untroubled, he wanders beyond the world’s dust and grime, in a state of emptiness, stillness, and serenity; he roams freely in the work of doing nothing, along the silent path of Wuwei (non-action). This is called acting without relying on one’s actions, and allowing things to grow without ruling over them: letting things act of themselves, rather than acting because one depends on something; letting things grow of themselves, rather than deliberately directing their growth. Though there is action, in truth there is non-action.
“Now you display your knowledge to startle the foolish, and cultivate yourself to expose the corruption of others. You shine so conspicuously that you seem to walk with the sun and moon held aloft. You have kept your whole body, and your nine openings have not been cut short midway through life by deafness, blindness, lameness, or other impairments. You are already more fortunate than most. How can you have time to blame Heaven? Go on your way.”
Sun Xiu left, and Bianzi went inside… (The later passage continues with sitting in forgetfulness and other matters; this section ends here.)
Bianzi asked Xiu to sit down. After a while, Xiu sighed toward the sky. A disciple asked, “Why do you sigh, Master?”
Bianzi said, “Xiu came just now, and I explained to him the De of the Perfected Ones—the Daoist ideal of people whose cultivation is complete and who have become one with the Dao. I fear it startled him and left him even more confused.”
The disciple said, “That can’t be right. Was what Sunzi said incorrect? And what you said correct? He came with doubts of his own; you did not make him confused. What fault is yours?”
Bianzi replied, “That is not so. Long ago, a bird alighted outside the walls of the state of Lu. The ruler of Lu cherished it and welcomed it with a grand sacrificial feast of the three animals, the most solemn offering made by the Son of Heaven. He had the ancient ceremonial music and dance of the Nine Shao performed for it. But the bird grew sorrowful and distressed, its vision dazzled and confused, and it dared not eat or drink. This is what it means to raise a bird by the way one raises a person.
“To raise a bird by the way one raises a bird, you should let it roost in a deep forest, glide over lakes and rivers, eat small fish and snakes, and roam freely across the plains. That is enough. Xiu is a man of shallow understanding and limited experience. To tell him about the De of the Perfected Ones is like carrying a mouse in a carriage and horses, or trying to delight a small bird with bells and drums. How could he not be alarmed?”
Wang Pang comments: “Only a Perfected One can know the way to preserve life. To speak of preserving life to someone who is not a Perfected One is like raising a bird with a grand sacrificial feast and the music of the Nine Shao: the bird is bound to be frightened. What Bianzi fears is precisely that Sun Xiu will be left still more confused.”
Fugui Zi says: “Life has its principles and its feelings. Principles are inherent in life from the beginning. Feelings can nourish life, but they can also destroy it. Only the Adept nourishes life by holding to what life already possesses, without pursuing what life was never meant to possess and thereby destroying it. This is called understanding life.
“Destiny has its nature and its feelings. Nature is the part of destiny over which one has no control. Feelings can preserve one’s destiny, but they can also impair it. Only the Adept completes their destiny by holding to what is within its power, without clinging to what understanding cannot control and thereby impairing it. This is called understanding destiny.
“People know to gather all kinds of things to nourish the body, yet there are still people in the world whose bodies go unnourished despite having more than enough. People know to rely on the body as a dwelling place for life, yet there are still those whose bodies remain while life has departed. How sad: there are many who nourish the body, but few who truly preserve life. Let things come and go of their own accord, yet this tendency cannot be stopped.”
This passage says that once one realizes that simply nourishing the body has little fundamental effect on it, one may as well let go of worldly affairs, sever entanglements with other people, and seek another realm beyond the world, free from worry and burden. In the Great Way of the Golden Elixir, the flow of Wu into Ji and the taking of Kan to fill Li are perfectly upright and balanced. After no more than a year of obtaining the medicine, one can be born together with the transformations of creation and approach long life and enduring vision. Given this, what is there one cannot bear to let go of, what life is too precious to relinquish?
If the body is endlessly taxed, it will break down; to keep the body from exhaustion, one must let go of worldly affairs. If Jing and Qi are ceaselessly stirred, they will be depleted; to keep them still, one must relinquish this life. A body made whole and Jing restored belong to a person who cultivates both within and without and unites with Heaven. Heaven and Earth are the parents of the myriad things, and the Realized Person is their “likened child,” resembling an offspring of Heaven and Earth. In stillness, one joins with the One and grasps the principle by which Heaven and Earth become a “body”: Heaven has never ceased to be the body of humanity. In movement, one disperses into activity and grasps the function by which Heaven and Earth become a “beginning”: humanity has never ceased to serve as the function of Heaven.
When the body is secure and Jing complete, this is called the capacity to transform. One begins with the work of grafting and joining, and reaches fulfillment through shedding the womb and changing one’s bones. Refining Jing ever further is what is meant by setting up the furnace again and establishing the cauldron anew: refining Shen until one returns to emptiness. Heaven and Earth, too, are encompassed by the void. Is this not a return to union with Heaven? Such a person can move beneath the earth or walk through fire, and roam above the myriad things without being obstructed, scorched, or afraid. For the bodily shell has been shed, leaving only the original Shen, in what is called the preservation of pure Qi.
Anything that has form, image, sound, or color belongs to the acquired state and cannot reach the prenatal state. Only what is formed from the formless and rests in the untransformed—what is not made into a thing by things, yet is itself a thing—can govern them. Such a person does not “take color within color,” but abides within the measure of what is not excessive; nor does this person “take emptiness within emptiness,” but holds the pattern that has no beginning. The myriad things each have their own beginnings and endings, while the Utmost Person begins before the beginnings of all things and ends after their endings. This is simply to unify one’s nature, nourish one’s Qi, unite with the De of Heaven and Earth, and penetrate the hidden workings of creation.
For a person like this, Heaven is undivided and complete, and Shen is unimpaired. How could things of sound and color hinder them? Consider the drunkard who falls from a carriage yet remains unharmed in spirit. How much more so the sage, who preserves the wholeness of Heaven within.
How could external things harm such a person? Someone bent on revenge would not go around breaking a sharp blade like Moye; even when full of resentment, they would not blame a tile that struck them by chance, as if it had flown there without intent.
If everyone could be “without intent” like swords and tiles, there would be no turmoil of attacks and warfare in the world. The contrived ways people devise belong to crooked paths; the natural way of Heaven is the true principle of the Great Way of the Golden Elixir. “Opening Heaven” means taking in precelestial Qi: it harms no one else and benefits oneself. This is called the generation of De. “Opening the human” means taking postcelestial things: it harms others and benefits oneself not at all. This is called stealing life. Heaven will surely detest and abandon one who steals life—could I truly be someone Heaven does not detest? People will surely disregard and forsake one who steals life—could I truly be someone people do not disregard? In this way, would one not come close to being a True Person of the cosmos?
Catching cicadas with a sticky pole takes skill. Before learning to catch cicadas, one first learns to balance pellets; this is just like training the eye before learning archery. The better one gets at balancing the pellets, the less likely one is to miss a cicada. This is a real principle, not a metaphor. When catching cicadas, one’s body must be upright, and one’s arms must be like stakes or dead trees. The mind must be single-minded, the cicada the only thing in one’s sight, with no awareness of Heaven and Earth or the myriad things. Then would catching a cicada with a sticky pole not be as easy as picking something up? Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “When the will is undivided, it becomes concentrated in the spirit.” This applies not only to catching cicadas, but also to becoming a sage or worthy. The old hunchback who caught cicadas relied on this principle; why should anyone with resolve not use it to cultivate immortality and become a Buddha?
The boatman at the deep-water crossing handles his boat with such miraculous skill that he seems to disappear into the water. If he were not in the water, he would not need to see a boat to know how to handle one. Why? Water cannot drown him, and thoughts of gain and loss cannot enter his heart. So whether he is in a deep pool or a shallow stretch, in one boat or another, it is all the same to him. He is not merely unaware that the boat might capsize; he has even forgotten the “self” among the myriad things. Where could he fail to remain at ease? This is lightness toward external things. It is like a gambler who plays skillfully when wagering a tile, grows timid when wagering a belt buckle, and loses his head when wagering gold. His skill has not changed; the buckle and gold cloud his judgment, so that he sees only the gold and forgets his skill. Is this not what happens when one gives external things too much weight and becomes clumsy within?
Zhuangzi and Laozi had a deep purpose in adding the word “ordinary.” Sages, worthies, immortals, and Buddhas simply give weight to the inner and lightness to the outer. Ordinary people do not dare to regard themselves as sages because they give weight to the outer and, as a result, become clumsy within.
“Sheep” and “yang” are homophones in Chinese. Daoist practitioners often use the raising of sheep as an allegory, following Zhuangzi and Laozi’s idea that “cultivating life is like herding sheep.”
“Yet he watches the sheep at the rear and whips it.” This is the hardest line to understand. Cultivating both within and without, each nourishing the other, is the path of great practitioners. If one gives precedence to one side alone, the other will inevitably fall behind. “Whipping” means applying one’s attention to supervise and spur it onward. The sheep in front is already moving, so there is no need to whip the one at the front; the one at the rear must be whipped. Shan Bao first cultivated the inner and then the outer; Zhang Yi first cultivated the outer and then the inner. Both made the mistake of “not whipping the one at the rear,” and so lost their lives. How, then, should one cultivate life? I think it is better to refine oneself; better still than refining oneself is settling the breath. When a person’s Qi is breathed in and out, it has both an entrance and an exit. Without breathing in and storing it, the inner Qi does not enter; without breathing out and becoming Yang, the outer Qi does not emerge. To have neither in-breath nor out-breath is the practice of breath retention. “Standing like a bare tree at the center” means keeping the spirit in the Mysterious Female, the Daoist name for the Dantian and the place of origin. This is what the Wuzhen Pian calls “the method of closing the breath and contemplating the spirit through the mirror of one’s form.” To close the breath for twelve counts is a lesser way; for one hundred and twenty counts is the Great Way; at a thousand counts, one is not far from becoming an immortal. If these three attain the method, they will surely be called perfected persons.
People know to fear the danger of “killing someone within ten paces,” but they do not know that danger lies not on the road, but amid food and sex. If, in bed and at table, one knows restraint, one may become an immortal or a Buddha; those who do not know restraint will inevitably lose their lives.
“People find nothing more hateful than death. If you were making plans for a pig, you would surely prefer it to eat husks and dregs and live in a pen, rather than have its shoulders and rump laid out on an ornate sacrificial stand.” When making plans for a person, however, people are willing to put on an official’s cap and do not fear dying on a war chariot’s shaft. In planning for a pig, they know to avoid death and seek life; in planning for themselves, they do worse than they would for a pig. Why? Because their fear of death has been overcome by their desire for fame and rank.
People know only that the living are human and the dead are ghosts, as if these were two separate paths. They do not know that ghosts and spirits “pervade things and leave nothing out”: they cannot be seen, yet sometimes they manifest in Duke Huan’s body and make him ill. A man named Huangzi Gao’ao says that the duke has harmed himself, and asks how a ghost could harm him—as if saying that ghosts and spirits do not exist. Yet he also says that anger and resentment, if dispersed and not gathered back, leave one depleted; that moving with the breath up and down can make a person angry or forgetful; and that when it neither rises nor falls, but settles in the chest, it can make a person ill—as if saying that ghosts and spirits do exist. If they exist, then they are everywhere. Why imagine they are confined to the Stove Spirit or the Household Spirit?
“Internal thunder” means that people often speak of ghosts and spirits in places such as the northeast and northwest, as well as by the water, in hills and mountains, in wilderness, and in marshes.
The weiyi, a legendary divine beast resembling a dragon: those who had seen it were almost enough to help Duke Huan establish his hegemony. Duke Huan sat and chatted with it, and before the day was out, he did not even know that his illness had been cured. This was because nothing in Duke Huan’s heart had been harmed. How could an external ghost harm him? Cases of this kind all arise when upright Qi is insufficient and the mind and spirit have already become unsettled.
Thus the story of Ji Shengzi raising fighting cocks for the king illustrates the profound principle of concentrating the spirit and nurturing Qi.
Those who study the Dao must devote themselves to understanding this; only then can they make great progress. The same applies whether one cultivates De or cultivates courage:
After ten days of training, the cock was still vainly proud and relying on its Qi—its toughness could easily be broken.
After another ten days, it still reacted to every sound and movement—its agitation could easily be disturbed.
After another ten days, it stared fiercely, full of aggressive Qi—its fierceness could easily turn to timidity.
After another ten days, it had reached the point of attaining the utmost emptiness and holding firmly to stillness. It could not be enticed by gain, deceived by trickery, or provoked by anger. Seen from afar, it looked like a wooden cock; its spirit was whole. On examination, its De was complete. When De is complete, Qi is complete. It understands in its heart everything about emptiness and fullness, attack and defense. Who would dare face it? Those who rush to test themselves against it are always defeated; those who cultivate themselves over time have sufficient Qi. With sufficient Qi, one can range freely through the world.
The Elder of Lüliang walked through the water singing, able to swim where even giant turtles, crocodiles, fish, and turtles could not. Those who did not understand thought him a ghostly being; those who did understood that he had a way of moving through water. The Dao lies in circumstance, nature, and destiny. I began with circumstance, being at ease in the place where I lived; I was not yet familiar with water. I grew into nature, becoming accustomed to water. I came to completion through destiny, following what arises naturally; then I forgot the water, and it forgot me. I enter and leave with it, doing no more than follow the water’s way, without imposing my own intentions. I am at ease on high ground because that is where I was born—what can I do about having been born there? I am at ease in water because I grew up in it—what can I do about having grown up there? I do not know why things are as they are; they simply are. What can I do when life and death are governed by destiny, not by water? If even the nature of water follows what is natural in order to live, how much more so does human nature?
Carving wood into a ju, a stand for musical instruments, is a small craft. Yet Qing the Carpenter could preserve his Qi and keep his spirit whole through it. After three days of fasting, he forgot profit; after five days of fasting, he forgot fame; after seven days of fasting, he forgot himself—he no longer knew of the court or its power and authority. Only then did outside disturbances fall away and the skill of his heart become single-minded. Only then did he enter the mountain forest and grasp the nature of the wood. Only then was the ju completed, ready for him to set his hands to work.
Otherwise, one would not act recklessly. This is called using the heart’s undivided Heaven to accord with the natural Heaven of all things.
A vessel belongs to the realm below form, while what it receives is the spirit of the realm above form. If deliberate contrivance could bring this about, the one who did it would be called a spirit, not a human being—and that would make sense. Dongye Ji could drive a carriage so that it ran straight along the ink line and turned true to the compass and square; he drove the hooked chariot a hundred times before returning. Yan He foresaw that he would fail because the horses’ strength was already spent. Yet in cultivating life, if one keeps pursuing what life does not possess and what knowledge cannot help, one will never succeed. Even the skill of driving a carriage relies on the human heart to accord with the compass and square. Then there is Gong Chui, famed for drawing circles: his heart guided his hand, and whatever he turned with his hand came out true to the compass and square. His fingers and the objects he worked with merged, and he did not calculate with his mind—he no longer knew whether the fingers were the objects or the objects were the fingers. When the numinous terrace of the heart is single-minded and not bound by compass and square, it has forgotten the rule that lies beyond the rules. When shoes fit, one forgets one’s feet; when a belt fits, one forgets one’s waist. When the heart is at ease, it forgets right and wrong; when one is at ease in one’s surroundings, one forgets inner and outer. Once one thing is fitting, everything fits. Only then can one forget the ease that comes from fittingness—and only then is there true ease.
Sun Xiu reflected on himself: he had cultivated himself to purity and faced danger with courage, yet because his circumstances had not come at the right time, he could not help resenting Heaven and blaming others. Bianzi cautioned him: the Perfected One has a liver and gallbladder, ears and eyes, just like other people, yet has forgotten the liver and gallbladder and set aside ears and eyes, and so is unlike them. He dwells amid dust and grime yet wanders beyond them; he enters a world of affairs yet roams freely in a realm without affairs. Though he acts inwardly, he does not rely on his ability. This is unlike you, who adorn yourself with cleverness to astonish the ignorant. Though a ruler has its strengths, he does not depend on them and take them as his charge. This too differs from you: you cultivate yourself to expose what is impure, making yourself conspicuous as you walk beneath the sun and moon. You are fortunate simply to preserve your body and keep your nine apertures intact. What time have you to resent Heaven? If Sun Xiu’s questions all arise from worldly concerns, while Bianzi speaks of the way beyond the world, then those who take the worldly way as right cannot be told of the way beyond it, and those who take the way beyond the world as right cannot be told of the worldly way. When Sun Xiu heard the Perfected One’s words about preserving life, was it not like entertaining a bird with a sacrificial feast and the music of the Nine Shao? Or like carrying a mouse in a carriage and delighting a sparrow with bells and drums? I fear he would only be startled, with nothing to gain.
Outer Chapters: The Mountain Tree, Chapter 20
(This chapter explains how to preserve oneself and keep clear of harm. Its central idea is to empty the mind, adapt to the times, and let go of the belief that one is virtuous. It is best read alongside “In the Human World.”)
As Zhuangzi walked in the mountains, he saw a great tree with lush branches and leaves. A woodcutter stood beside it but did not cut it down. Zhuangzi asked why. The woodcutter replied, “This tree is of no use.” Zhuangzi said, “Because this tree is not fit for timber, it can live out its natural years.” (So many people in the world suffer harm because they are useful. Zhuangzi points this out again and again, like a bright mirror.)
After leaving the mountains, Zhuangzi stayed at an old friend’s house. His friend was delighted and ordered a servant to kill a goose for the meal. The servant asked, “One goose can honk and the other cannot. Which should I kill?” The host said, “Kill the one that cannot honk.” (The goose is killed because it cannot honk, an image of ordinary people. Later, the text describes a phoenix calling from Mount Danchu in the outer world, an image of the genuine person.)
The next day, a disciple asked Zhuangzi, “Yesterday the tree in the mountains lived out its natural years because it was not fit for timber. Today your host’s goose was killed because it was not fit for anything. Where do you intend to place yourself, Master?” Zhuangzi smiled and said, “I, Zhuang Zhou, would place myself between being fit for timber and being unfit for it. To be between the two may seem right, but it is not truly so, and so one still cannot escape trouble. Why? Because the mind is still making distinctions. Without such calculations in the mind, there would be no trouble.
“But roaming freely in accordance with Dao and De is different. One neither seeks praise nor avoids blame. The Great Dao makes no distinction between you and me or between things; people carelessly invent distinctions, and right and wrong swarm like bees. Then De departs. Without praise or blame, there is no question of high or low.
“Now like a dragon, now like a snake—there is no distinction between sage and ordinary person. One changes with the times and refuses to cling to a single way of acting. At times above, at times below, one takes harmony as the measure; rising or withdrawing, one holds no fixed position and simply tempers one’s radiance. One roams freely at the source of all things, with the mind wandering in the undivided Heaven of Chaos, at the beginning of the Great Beginning—as if to say, ‘the ancestor of all ancestors.’ Treating external things as things, without letting them treat you as an object, how could one be dragged into trouble?”
Plain-language interpretation
As the preceding passage says, “do not become an object among objects.” In other words, while living among the myriad things, do not let external things control you. One could also say: do not become attached to life as something possessed among things. How, then, could external things burden you? This is the way handed down through the line of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor.
As for “the nature of the myriad things” and “the transmission of human relationships”: “nature” refers to the character of things. Things are lowly and people are precious; fame and achievement are fleeting, while life is long-lasting. These are the circumstances proper to each of the myriad things. “Transmission” refers to the principles passed down from generation to generation: those who enter the world pass on the ways of engaging with it, while those who withdraw from the world pass on the ways of leaving it. This is the inheritance of human relationships, and it differs from the Way of Shennong and the Yellow Emperor. When things come together, they will part; when something succeeds, it will be ruined. The upright will suffer setbacks, the honored will be criticized, those who act will be taken advantage of, the worthy will be schemed against, and the unworthy will be bullied.
Given the parable of the tree that is useless, how can one expect to be certain of escaping calamity? How sad! Disciples, remember: only the homeland of Dao and De is a place to return to. Do not flaunt your abilities, deliberately conceal your shortcomings, or cling rigidly to one position. Be in harmony with the world: this is the homeland of Dao and De.
Shinan Yiliao went to see the ruler of Lu, who looked troubled. Master Shinan asked, “Why does Your Majesty look so troubled?” The ruler of Lu replied, “I have studied your Way and carried on the work of my predecessors. I honor the spirits and esteem worthy people, and I put these teachings into practice myself without a moment’s pause. Yet I still cannot avoid calamity, and so I am worried.”
Master Shinan said, “Your method for avoiding calamity is still too shallow. The richly furred fox and the patterned leopard live in the mountain forests and shelter in rocky caves, seeking quiet. They roam by night and hide by day, remaining on guard. Though hungry and thirsty, they endure in silence and forage cautiously along rivers and lakes, seeking security. Yet even they cannot escape the nets.
The fox lowers its head to forage with its mouth, then raises it to look around. It keeps to its den and ventures out sparingly to avoid danger, yet in the end it cannot escape the peril of nets, snares, arrows, and traps. All this trouble is brought upon it by its own fur. Is the state of Lu today not just such a “pelt” on your body? I urge you to cut away your form and shed your outer skin—laying down burdens that lie outside yourself, such as the state and your rank—then cleanse your heart and wash away private desires. Go roam in the uninhabited wilderness.
The commentary uses the fox and leopard as a metaphor: add “wisdom” to stillness, discipline, and concentration, and you arrive at the heart of the nondual path. For those determined to learn the Dao, if they can truly cut away their form and shed their outer skin outwardly, while cleansing their hearts and letting go of desire inwardly, then the way of immortals and Buddhas may be within reach. Why seek some secret formula?
In the south there is a place called the Land of Jiande (a pure realm where things have not yet come into being or been tainted). Its people are simple and guileless, with few selfish thoughts, few desires, and no contention. They know how to farm but not to hoard; they give to others without seeking repayment. They do not know where “righteousness” is to be found or how “ritual” should be practiced, yet they act with unrestrained freedom and naturally accord with the Great Dao. They take joy in life and are peacefully laid to rest in death. I urge you to leave your state and cast off the ways of the world, so that you may walk alongside the Great Dao. “Life is a joy” refers to the happy land described in the poem; “death is a peaceful burial” recalls how King Wen’s virtue extended even to dry bones. The state and worldly conventions are sources of burden. Only by setting them aside can one practice Wuwei (non-action).
The ruler said, “The road is long and dangerous, with rivers and mountains in the way. I have no boat or carriage. What should I do?”
Shinan Zi said, “Do not put on the airs of a ruler, and do not cling to your position. Make these your boat and carriage.” The ruler then asked, “The road is remote and desolate, with no one living there. Who would be my neighbor? Without provisions or food, how could I make the journey?”
Shinan Zi said, “Cut back on your expenses and lessen your desires; even without stored provisions, your heart will be content. Cross the river and sail out to sea. When you look ahead, you will see no shore; when you look back, you will see no shore. You will already have been carried away, while others remain on the bank. You will already have set out, while others are still debating whether to go. The state of Lu today is the shore you linger over and cannot bear to leave. I urge you to give up your position as ruler and free yourself from worldly ways, so that you may roam with the Great Dao in the boundless realm.
The original interweaves narrative with commentary: it includes both the main text of Zhuangzi’s parable and the commentary’s elaboration, in parentheses, on images such as the “pelt,” Jiande, and Shinan Zi. The passage above combines the general meaning of the text with key points from the commentary; proper names are briefly explained in parentheses on first use.
As you go farther on, you do not know where the end lies. Those who came to see you off turn back at the edge of the mountain, while you go far away from here.
(Lu Xixing says: This is another spur for the frail and for those trapped in love and unable to break free. Without a vehicle, people feel stranded; without food, they go hungry. They are all burdened by their bodies. If they could set their bodies aside, reduce their desires, and travel openly, without obstruction, they would be told: “Do not be arrogant about your body, and do not cling to your dwelling.” Then, without a vehicle, they would have a vehicle for the journey. Reduce your private concerns and curb your desires, and you will have enough even without provisions. You would roam the realm of carefree ease, eat from the fields of simplicity, and stand in the garden of self-sufficiency. From there, you could cross rivers and float over seas, trace streams to their sources, and go ever deeper and farther. Those who see you off reach the shore and turn back; from then on, you travel alone into the boundless sky, far from other people. To be far from people is to be a neighbor to the Dao. Why, then, worry about living apart from the crowd?)
Thus, whoever has people to depend on is burdened (to gather people and possess a state is to be burdened by possessing a state). Whoever is regarded by others as having something is anxious (to be regarded as the ruler means worrying over the people’s worries). So Yao did not “have people” (he entrusted matters to the officials and left things to the myriad beings), nor was he regarded by others as possessing anything (he followed the people and entrusted matters to things, without burdening himself). I would have you cast off your burdens—not having people to depend on—and dispel your worries—not being regarded by others as possessing anything—so that you may roam alone with the Dao in the land of vast emptiness (the land of vast emptiness is another name for the boundless wilderness, that is, the land of Nothing-Whatsoever).
When two boats are crossing a river and an empty boat drifts into one of them, even a short-tempered person will not get angry. But if someone is aboard, the other boat’s crew will shout, “Steer clear!” If they are not heard the first time, they shout again; if they are still not heard, they shout a third time, and then surely the shouts will turn abusive. Earlier, there was no anger; now there is anger. Earlier, the boat was empty; now it is occupied. If people could empty themselves as they travel through the world, who could harm them? (With no one aboard, the boat is empty; with someone aboard, it is occupied. Earlier, when there was no one aboard, there was no anger; now, with someone aboard, anger arises. So by casting off burdens and emptying oneself, one can avoid anxiety and trouble.)
Beigong She raised contributions for Duke Ling of Wei to make bells. He set up a worksite outside the city gate, and after three months the bells were finished, both the upper and lower sets.
Prince Qingji met Beigong She and asked, “What method did you use to achieve this?” Beigong She replied, “I hold to just one principle. Beyond that, I dare not devise any other method. I have heard that things are shaped through carving, yet in the end they must return to simplicity. Human nature is originally free of deliberate contrivance; once it is carved and shaped, that simplicity is lost. Though I now live amid human artifice, I still seek to return to the original state of Great Simplicity.”
He continued: “Let yourself be utterly unknowing, without turning things over in your mind. Remain in a state of hazy uncertainty, making no plans. Let things come and go freely: do not refuse those who come, and do not hold on to those who leave. Go along with forceful people, and do not punish them for acting against you. Follow the twists and turns of events, and do not favor those who are close to you. Wait until another’s strength is spent of its own accord; do not force anyone to do what is beyond their ability. In this way, even if taxes are collected day and night, not the slightest harm will be done. How much more so when following the Great Way, the fundamental principle by which nature operates?”
The Commentary and Subcommentary explain that one follows things in their natural state without bringing in private motives, so that even tax collection is impartial and harms no one. Here, “Great Path” means the Great Way. Beigong She may not have truly understood the Great Way, but his words come quite close to the Daoist teaching of following things as they are.
Confucius was besieged between the states of Chen and Cai and had gone seven days without lighting a fire to cook. Taigong Ren went to console him and asked, “Are you about to die?” Confucius replied, “Yes. Do you dislike death?” Taigong Ren answered, “Yes. I once spoke of a way of living that does not lead to death. In the Eastern Sea there is a bird called Yidai (‘Carefree,’ identified in the commentary as the dark bird). It flies lightly and quietly, seeming to have no skill. It flies with flocks of birds and settles near people’s homes to nest. When it moves, it dares neither to go ahead nor to fall behind, and never competes to be first. When it eats, it dares not taste the food first, always taking what others have left.”
This passage uses vivid metaphors to illustrate the Daoist wisdom of "blending with the light and merging with the dust." Trees growing in perfect rows are the first to be felled, and sweet-tasting wells are the first to run dry. Just as someone carrying the sun and moon aloft would inevitably invite disaster, those who flaunt their intelligence or pride themselves on being aloof often end up bringing harm upon themselves.
The great sages who attained the Dao (Dacheng zhiren) in ancient times said: Those who boast of their achievements never truly succeed, and worldly success only leads to decline. True masters do not chase fame or recognition—they live like ordinary people, allowing the Dao to operate naturally without deliberate display. They maintain a simple, unassuming mindset, sometimes even appearing as aimless as madmen. They withdraw from society (xiaoji), relinquish power (juanshi), and remain unburdened by reputation. Such people neither harshly judge others nor are they judged harshly in return.
After hearing this teaching, Confucius was deeply moved and went on to describe an ideal state of being: bidding farewell to friends, leaving disciples behind, retreating to the wilderness, wearing coarse cloth and eating wild fruits. Living in harmony with birds and beasts without disturbing them (ru shou bu luan qun, ru niao bu luan xing), even the animals would not resent him—how much less would people?
Finally, Confucius confided in Zisang Hu (a Daoist recluse) about his misfortunes: being driven out of Lu, humiliated by the felling of his ancestral tree in Song, barred from entering Wei, impoverished in the lands of Shang and Zhou, and besieged between Chen and Cai. He wondered why, the more he encountered such calamities, the more his friends and disciples drifted away. This dialogue reveals the profound Daoist philosophy of Wuwei (non-action) and non-contention—deliberate striving leads to the opposite of what one seeks, while following nature's course is the way to avoid misfortune.
Sang Hu said, “Have you never heard what happened when someone died in the land of Jia? Lin Hui threw away a jade disk worth a thousand pieces of gold and ran off carrying his young child. Someone asked, ‘Was it for the money? A child is worth less than a thousand pieces of gold. Was it because the child was a burden? Carrying a child is far more burdensome than carrying a jade disk. Why, then, did Lin Hui abandon the priceless jade and run with the child?’
“Lin Hui said, ‘My bond with the jade disk was based on profit; my bond with the child was rooted in natural kinship. Those bound by profit abandon one another when hardship and calamity come. Those bound by natural kinship draw closer together. Drawing together and abandoning one another are worlds apart.
“‘Besides, the gentleman’s friendship is as plain as water, while the petty man’s friendship is as sweet as wine. The gentleman grows close through plainness; the petty man’s friendship ends because of its sweetness. Those who come together for no reason will part for no reason. Consider the disciples who attach themselves to one another: they are only friends for the moment, bound by mutual interests. They gather in ordinary times, but their bond is not rooted in natural kinship. Those who come together for no reason will part for no reason. Why be troubled that the closer the association, the more the friends drift apart?’
“Confucius said, ‘I will take your teaching to heart.’ He went home at a slow, wandering pace. He abandoned his studies and put away his books; the disciples no longer had to lead the way with formal bows and deferential gestures. Once the empty formalities were cast aside, genuine feeling came through, and the disciples’ affection and care for him grew all the stronger.”
Another day, Sang Hu said, “When Shun was near death, he was truly detached from his nature: while alive, he possessed all under Heaven but did not cling to it; as he was dying, he passed all under Heaven to a worthy man rather than to his son. Was he not truly detached from worldly feeling?”
Ming of Yu said, “Be on your guard! In your conduct, nothing is better than following what comes naturally and not resisting it; in your feelings, nothing is better than being sincere, for sincerity makes things simple. Following what comes naturally keeps you in harmony; sincerity brings ease.”
A Plain-Language Interpretation
There is no need to deliberately adorn one’s appearance—follow what comes naturally. One’s innate substance is complete in itself, so why seek literary refinement to decorate the body?
Nor is there any need to rely on external things—if one does not seek literary refinement, why borrow prestigious objects to advertise oneself? Zhuangzi wore coarse, patched clothes and tied his broken shoes with hemp cord as he passed through the state of Wei. The King of Wei asked, “Sir, why are you in such straits?” Zhuangzi replied, “I am poor, not exhausted. When a scholar has the Dao and De but cannot put them into practice, that is exhaustion. Wearing torn clothes and broken shoes is poverty, not exhaustion. It means one has not come into favorable times. Has Your Majesty never seen a skilled ape? In fine woods such as nanmu, catalpa, and zhang trees, it swings from the branches and plays with great ease; even archers as skilled as Yi and Feng Meng cannot get the better of it. But once it finds itself in thorny thickets of mulberry, bramble, trifoliate orange, and citrus, it must move sideways with care, trembling with apprehension. Its bones and sinews have not stiffened; its circumstances are unfavorable, and it cannot act freely. In these times, among a benighted ruler and rebellious ministers, how could one possibly avoid exhaustion? The fates of Bi Gan, whose heart was cut out, and Weizi, who fled, make this plain.
Confucius was trapped between Chen and Cai. For seven days, no fire was lit to prepare food. Leaning his left arm on a withered wooden table, he tapped a dry branch with his right hand and sang in the style of the Yan clan—an ancient clan name that here refers to a kind of old song. He had an instrument but no rhythm: the dry branch struck the deadwood with sound but no beat. There was sound, but it did not form the notes of the gong and jue modes; the wooden notes and human voice nevertheless entered the heart clearly. Yan Hui straightened his clasped hands and glanced sideways at Confucius. Confucius feared that Yan Hui was taking too much upon himself and speaking with excessive certainty.
Note: This passage comes from a related commentary on the Zhuangzi. Through the contrasts between “poverty” and “exhaustion,” the ape’s circumstances, and Confucius being cut off from food, it explains that when a scholar cannot put Dao and De into practice in troubled times, this is imposed by the age, not a sign of personal weakness. Yan Hui’s sidelong glance also introduces a warning against enlarging oneself and claiming too much. Pronunciation and character notes in the commentary, such as bei for “exhaustion” and jie for “correctly bound,” have been incorporated into the translation rather than listed separately.
Plain-Language Interpretation
“When love goes too far, excessive sorrow follows.” (The deeper the love, the more overwhelming the grief.)
Yan Hui said, “It is easy to avoid harm from Heaven, but hard to avoid benefit from people. There is no true beginning and no true end—human beings and Heaven are one. So who, exactly, is singing now?”
Confucius said, “What does it mean that it is easy to avoid harm from Heaven? Hunger and thirst, cold and heat, poverty and hardship, constraint and frustration—these are all part of Heaven and Earth’s workings and the transformations of the myriad things. One’s words must pass along with them. A minister does not dare defy his ruler; even when he upholds the way of a minister, he is bound by this. How much more so when facing Heaven’s decree? (Hunger and thirst, cold and heat, poverty and frustration are imposed on me by Heaven. They are part of Heaven’s workings: people cannot stop them. They are an outpouring of fortune that no one can block. I can only go along with them and let them run their course; I dare not evade them simply because they bring harm. If a minister does not dare defy his ruler, how could a person dare defy Heaven?)”
“What does it mean that it is hard to avoid benefit from people?”
Confucius said, “To begin with every avenue open, with rank and emolument arriving together in more abundance than one can use—that is benefit from external things, not one’s original self. (Once people are born, whatever is not theirs by nature is added from outside; this is called ‘benefit.’ If one abandons the four foundations of the original heart and instead takes every avenue to pursue rank and emolument, it benefits external things but means losing oneself.) There is a kind of destiny that lies outside oneself: a noble person does not rob (forcibly seizing fame and status despite others seeing it is called robbery; a noble person would not do it), and a worthy person does not steal (secretly taking fame and status for fear of being found out is called theft; even a worthy person would not do it). If I were to take them, what would I be taking? (Only the destiny bound up with one’s innate nature and life is truly one’s own. The destiny of hardship or success lies outside; to seize it would be to steal without understanding destiny.) That is why it is said: among birds, none understands this better than the swallow—it does not look where its eyes ought not to rest.”
An explanation of the Nanhua True Scripture with Commentary and Subcommentary
(The passage above discusses a certain bird.)
It never looks at anything it should not look at, and it simply drops fruit it cannot eat. Though afraid of people, it nevertheless roosts among their halls and ancestral altars. It arrives at the spring community festival and leaves at the autumn festival. Its comings and goings are driven by a current of Qi (vital energy). Sometimes it goes south, sometimes north, as if someone were driving it along; in truth, it cannot control its own course.
“What does it mean to have no beginning and yet not be at an end?”
Zhongni (Confucius) said: “Creation transforms and nurtures the myriad things, but no one knows what force drives its cycles of change. If we do not know what drives them, how can we know where they end or where they begin? We can only hold to the center and calmly wait for creation to run its course.”
Note: Here, “Chan” refers to the cycles of renewal and change in creation: “creation” brings what is absent into being, while “transformation” returns what exists to absence.
“What does it mean for humanity and Heaven to be one?”
Zhongni said: “There is such a thing as ‘humanity and Heaven,’ and there is also such a thing as ‘Heaven being Heaven.’”
Humanity is born of Heaven, so we speak of “humanity and Heaven.” But Heaven is what it is because creation governs it, so we also speak of “Heaven being Heaven.” Does this not mean that humanity and Heaven were originally one?
“Why can people not preserve their inborn nature?”
If we speak of “humanity and Heaven,” why can people not preserve the heavenly side of themselves? The reason is that human interference has altered and damaged their nature: people use their private desires to suppress Heaven, and their fixed ideas and habits to suppress their natural allotment of life.
The sage follows things calmly, embodies the Dao of Heaven completely, and reaches the end of life.
The sage’s composure and ease are what is meant by “pure Qi showing in the face and filling the back.” To “embody fully what passes away and come to an end” means that only the sage can truly live out and make full use of the form bestowed by Heaven.
Zhuang Zhou wanders beyond the fence at Diaoling.
As Zhuang Zhou wandered beyond the fence at Diaoling, he saw a strange magpie flying in from the south. Its wings spread seven feet across, and its eyes were so large that their circumference measured an inch. It brushed against Zhuang Zhou’s forehead, then settled in a chestnut grove.
Zhuang Zhou said, “What kind of bird is this? Its wings are so large, yet it cannot fly fast; its eyes are so large, yet it cannot see clearly.” He gathered up his robe, tiptoed forward, and took up his slingshot, hoping to catch it.
Just then, he saw a cicada that had found a fine patch of shade and was so pleased with itself that it forgot its own body. A mantis held up a leaf to hide itself and lunged at the cicada; seeing its prey, it too forgot its own shape.
Note: This section opens the Zhuangzi parable “Zhuang Zhou Wanders at Diaoling.” The strange magpie, cicada, and mantis each become so absorbed in their aims that they forget themselves. This sets up the later episodes in which Zhuang Zhou dodges a shot, the keeper of the chestnut grove pursues him, and Zhuang Zhou remains unenlightened for three days. The story explores how creatures entangle one another and lose their spiritual awareness.
Modern Interpretation
Its shape resembled a magpie. It followed behind, hoping to peck at the mantis, which had forgotten its own nature in pursuit of gain. (The mantis, intent only on catching the cicada, would not fly away; it could not see that it had already lost its true nature.) Zhuang Zhou exclaimed in surprise, “Ah! All things are entangled with one another, and creatures of different kinds draw one another in.” (The cicada attracted the mantis, and the mantis in turn attracted the magpie.) He dropped his slingshot and turned to run, but the keeper of the woods caught up with him and scolded him. (Zhuang Zhou had broken the hunting prohibition in the chestnut grove, so he was pursued and berated.) After returning home, Zhuang Zhou stayed inside for three months. Lin Ju came to see him and asked, “Why have you hardly been going out lately, sir? What happened?” Zhuang Zhou replied, “I was intent on guarding my ‘form,’ but forgot my ‘body.’” (He had been practicing the way of guarding form, but while chasing the magpie he forgot his physical body.) “If you look into muddy water, you will lose your way in a clear pool.” (To stir and engage with external things is like muddy water; to become still and behold things in quiet contemplation is like a clear pool.) “Besides, I once heard you say that when you come to a place, you should follow its customs.” (In other words, I should not have broken the chestnut grove’s hunting prohibition in defiance of local custom.) “Now, while wandering in the Diao Mausoleum, I forgot my body and let a strange magpie strike my forehead. Then, while wandering in the chestnut grove, I forgot my true nature, and the keeper took me for a thief. That is why I no longer wish to go out.” (His humiliation and refusal to leave home both arose from regret.)
Yangzi arrived in the state of Song and stayed at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines, one beautiful and one plain, yet he favored the plain one and treated the beautiful one with less regard. Yangzi asked him why. A young servant at the inn replied, “The beautiful one thinks herself beautiful”—so we do not see her beauty. “The plain one thinks herself plain”—so we do not see her plainness. A disciple of Yangzi remembered these words and took them away with him. Yangzi said, “If I shed the air of someone who thinks himself virtuous, where could I go and not be welcomed?” (Pride, complacency, and self-praise are not approved by the spirits; if one is humble and follows what is natural, people everywhere will gladly support him.)
Fu Guizi says: The preceding chapter, “Mountain Trees,” spoke repeatedly of “the use of the useless,” showing how a useless tree can live out its full natural lifespan. Here, it says again that a goose was killed because it could not honk. So how should a person conduct themselves in the world? Zhuang Zhou says one can remain between “useful” and “useless” and seem to avoid misfortune, but this is still not the true path of virtue. Only by riding upon Dao and De and roaming with nature does one follow the genuine way.
(This passage comes from “Mountain Trees” in the Zhuangzi and related commentaries. Through episodes involving being driven away by a forest keeper and the two concubines at an inn, it shows that in navigating the world one should adapt flexibly between being “useful” and “useless.” More fundamentally, one should let go of thinking oneself virtuous and preserve one’s true nature, avoiding the loss of self in the pursuit of gain and the loss of one’s nature through defying local customs.)
A Colloquial Interpretation of the Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
The one who drifts freely is different. When things come into being or fall short, they invite praise or blame. The Perfected Person has neither achievement nor deficiency, and so is neither praised nor criticized.
Among things, some are deemed sage and others ordinary, giving rise to distinctions of rank like those between dragons and snakes. But the Perfected Person’s status is impossible to discern: one cannot tell whether he is a dragon or a snake. When the moment calls for advance or retreat, he advances or retreats with it, without clinging to the idea that he must always move forward. When the moment waxes or wanes, he waxes or wanes with it, without clinging to the idea that he must always withdraw and hold his ground. He moves only by the Great Harmony—the Qi of harmony between Heaven and Earth. His body stays behind while his spirit roams ahead. He is not only the father of the people, but also the ancestor of all things. He is not ruled by external things, and is not even constrained by the fact that things exist.
Among the ancients, Shennong and the Yellow Emperor practiced the Dao in this way. This is the way of transcending the world and roaming with the Dao. But without understanding how to move among people and worldly affairs, how could one understand the nature of all things and the transmission of human relationships?
People want to unite without ever parting, and to succeed without ever being ruined—but this has never happened. If you seek union, people will part; if you seek success, people will bring it to ruin. People want to be upright without meeting setbacks, and to be respected without facing criticism—but this, too, has never happened. The more upright you are, the more setbacks you invite; the more respected you are, the more criticism you attract.
Whenever people in the world act with intent, they cannot avoid loss. You try to accomplish something, and others interfere. You try to benefit others without suffering loss, and the world calls you virtuous. Once people admire cultivation and seek the worthy, others will scheme against you and sully your conduct. Even those lacking virtue in the world have some particular skill; if you associate yourself with the capable, people will find every way to block your progress. Only those who roam in the realm of Dao and De, stand beyond all things, and do not count themselves among them can remain unhindered by things.
The Marquis of Lu studied the Dao and cultivated his practice, honored ghosts, and revered the worthy. He hoped to avoid disaster but could not, and so Nan Yiliao—a realized adept like Nanguo Ziqi, here named Yiliao—mocked him.
The luxuriant fox and the patterned leopard live quietly in mountain caves, stay alert by traveling at night and hiding by day, and hunt at regular times. Yet they still fall prey to nets and snares: their skins bring them disaster. Is not the state of Lu, today, the Marquis’s “skin”? Why not purify his person and make fewer enemies; purify his mind and stop struggling inwardly day after day; and roam in a Heaven free of human desire? Then Heaven could not bring him misfortune, and Earth could not bring him harm.
Everyone in the world today has a skin, and everyone has desires. Those who read the Nanhua Classic: why not turn inward and examine yourselves?
On “Nüshu” and “Xuanxuan”
Nüshu is the Wind Earl, the deity who governs the wind. Because wind can stir people’s hearts, the text says, “Nüshu sets things stirring and billowing.” The rain deity is called Xuanxuan; rain nourishes the myriad things.
People Are All Affected by Heaven’s Seasons
The point is that no matter how wise a person may be, they cannot escape the stirring and blowing of wind and rain brought by the seasons. What can they do? The Way of Heaven has coolness and warmth, waxing and waning in turn. Who can say whether this moment is cool or warm? The stirring and blowing may be the Wind Earl’s work, but human desires are not so easily stopped.
With No Mind, the Ruler Remains at Ease
The master of the text—a term Daoists use for an enlightened person—says that one can be without mind, like clouds moving across the sky. If external things become entanglements, awareness awakens; once awake, the ruling principle is at ease. Heaven moves when it turns cool or warm; when it moves, awareness arises, and the ruling principle remains at ease. What has this to do with people? Even the most sage-like person has not escaped the inner heart, and so may be revered as a spirit. Do not grasp at celestial signs through one’s awareness. This is what is meant by “responding to Heaven without being cut short.” Although nature and life are divided in principle and Qi, heat is easily mixed into them; only through impartiality does timely rain come.
On “Great Delusion” and “Great Folly”
Great delusion means never understanding throughout one’s life; great folly means never becoming perceptive throughout one’s life. The implication is that those who spend their whole lives without understanding or perception are greatly deluded and greatly foolish.
The Rule of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors
The rule of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors can be summed up in four words: “governing by knotted cords.” This was the method by which the ancient sages governed the world: they tied knots in cords to record events, keeping things simple and plain and avoiding elaborate formalities.
“Putting Knowledge to Work” and “Making the People Simple”
The phrase “putting knowledge to work”—employing cleverness and skill—explains the idea of “making the people simple,” or leading them back to plainness. This does not mean making people truly ignorant. It means not putting cleverness to work or esteeming artifice, in keeping with the ancient practice of governing by knotted cords.
The Harm of “Broad Learning”
The harm of “broad learning” lies in breadth itself: the broader one’s learning, the more scattered it becomes; the more scattered it is, the farther it strays from the Dao. Thus Laozi says, “Abandon learning, and there will be no worries,” and Zhuangzi, too, treats broad learning as an affliction.
The Falsehood of “Sagehood”
When “sage” is clung to as a title, it becomes false sagehood. The true sage has no name; the false sage seeks one. Seeking a name puts knowledge to work, and putting knowledge to work leads away from the Dao.
The Dao Concealed
The Dao is formless; naming it conceals it. Hence the saying, “The Dao is concealed by names”: the more prominent the name, the more hidden the Dao.
The Decline of De
De is natural; embellishing it causes it to decline. Hence the saying, “De declines through broad learning”: breadth leads to scatteredness, and scatteredness leads to decline.
“Utmost De” and the “Utmost Dao”
Utmost De has no name, and the utmost Dao has no designation. Having neither name nor designation is what makes them truly utmost.
Summary
The passage proceeds step by step: from the stirring of the seasons to the ease of the mindless ruler; from great delusion and great folly to governing by knotted cords; from putting knowledge to work and making the people simple to the harms of broad learning and false sagehood; and finally to the nameless, undesignated utmost De and utmost Dao. Throughout, it urges people to return to plainness, let go of names, and hold to the Dao.
The Commentary and Subcommentary to the True Classic of Southern Florescence
First passage: On the bell and returning to simplicity
His thinking is too elaborate. I have heard that when the Great Dao is cut apart, it becomes vessels. A vessel is like uncarved simplicity; once it is carved and put to use, that simplicity is lost. Though I now find myself after the carving and crafting have already taken place, I still wish to return to what is simple and unadorned. I am wholly unaware, as if I knew nothing of refinement; I am idle and hesitant, unwilling to spend much effort.
Those who understand think this bell has been left uncarved and unpolished. Those who do not understand think it was made carelessly and badly. In truth, it is merely a signal sounded to welcome those who arrive and send off those who depart. Who knows that one need not forbid it to ring for those who come, or stop it ringing for those who leave? The hard-headed say there is no need to strike it, and I go along with them. Those who read meanings into things say it should be struck, and I go along with them too. Since it begins and stops of its own accord, it gathers taxes in the morning and evening without harming even a hair’s breadth. This is like saying: do not spend recklessly or do useless things that damage what is useful. And when there is the Great Dao to rely on, could one lack the aspiration to return to simplicity?
Second passage: Confucius’s hardship between Chen and Cai, and the sluggish bird
Confucius was surrounded between the states of Chen and Cai. For seven days, no fire was lit to prepare a meal. Great Lord Ren went to console him and said, “Let me speak with you about the way to avoid death. Birds fear people; that is their nature. In the Eastern Sea there is a bird called Yidai, ‘the sluggish one.’ It always flies in flocks and always roosts near people, so by rights it should be unable to escape disaster. Yet when moving forward, it does not try to be first; when falling back, it does not lag behind. Thus nets cannot harm it. When feeding, it does not peck ahead of the others, but waits for its companions, so poisoned bait cannot harm it. Its place in the flock is always in the master’s hall, so outsiders cannot harm it. The sluggish bird is not capable of escaping death; it simply accords with the way of avoiding death.”
Third passage: Straight trees are cut first, and the pursuit of fame
Straight trees are cut down first; sweet wells are drained first. Who does not know this? You are now besieged, perhaps because you have polished your cleverness to startle the ignorant and cultivated your person to display their defilement. The ordinary people of Chen and Cai were alarmed by this. It is as if you were walking with the sun and moon held aloft in plain sight; the worthy people of Chen and Cai grew jealous, and so you could hardly escape this hardship.
Long ago, I heard a “greatly accomplished person” say: fame and achievement belong to everyone. A person may attain them and stand on their strength, but must not claim credit for them. Rather than fall into ruin and loss through seizing credit, return fame and achievement to the people; then they are truly the people’s gain. When poor and constrained, let the Dao within you shine clearly. Though you belong among those who have the Dao, do not advertise yourself. When prosperous and at ease, let the Dao be put into practice in the world. Though you have established a name, do not take credit for it. Remain as if ignorant and incapable; be an ordinary person, plain and unadorned.
A Plain-Language Reading of the Commentary on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence
On the “Unrestrained One” and the Perfected Person
The unrestrained person leaves no trace and gives up power. Once the work is done, he withdraws. He makes no harsh demands of others, and others cannot make demands of him. This is what it means for the Perfected Person to seek no fame or advancement. Why, then, should I take pleasure in being famous?
The words “How good!” attributed to Confucius, and what follows, may not describe an actual event. Rather, they set an example for a great cultivator resolved to attain the Dao. He takes leave of his companions, sends away his disciples, and flees into a great marsh. He wears coarse clothes and eats plain food; those who live deep in the mountains are generally like this. As for entering among herds of animals without disturbing them, or among flocks of birds without startling them into flight, that happens after one has attained the Dao. If even creatures of a different kind can be transformed, how much more so can people of one’s own kind?
Confucius’s Frustrated Ambitions and the Story of Lin Hui
Confucius met with no success in Lu, Song, Wei, Zhou, Chen, or Cai, and those close to him grew distant. He sought advice from Zisang Hu. Zisang Hu said: “Suppose someone says that Lin Hui abandoned a jade disk worth a thousand in gold and fled with a baby on his back. How much could the baby fetch if sold? I know he did not do it for cloth or payment. The jade disk was simply a burden to him, and the baby was an even greater burden. Ordinary people may not understand this.”
Lin Hui said: “A jade disk a foot across is valuable, but its value comes from profit. A baby may be light to carry, but it belongs to nature. Those joined by profit cannot hold on to it when hardship and disaster come; they will abandon one another. Those bound by their nature cannot undo that bond in hardship and disaster; they will take one another in. Why wait for clever reasoning to tell abandonment from welcome?”
Among the people of the world, there are gentlemen whose friendships are as plain as water, and petty people whose friendships are as sweet as fermented wine. Some gentlemen grow close through simplicity; some bad people break off their ties over what once seemed sweet. They are attached to people, not to nature. What comes together without reason may also part without reason. What dissolves is human affection, not the Way of Heaven.
Confucius then abandoned learning and set aside his books. He told his disciples to stop performing empty courtesies such as formal bows and deferential gestures, and their feelings for one another grew deeper.
Shun’s Charge to Yu and Zhuangzi’s Meeting with the King of Wei
In ancient times, Shun charged Yu, saying: “Everything in the world that has form possesses a shape. Shapes are easily separated, and feelings are easily worn down. So, as for form, it is better to follow circumstances and adapt to what comes; then it will not be divided. As for feelings, it is better to follow what is natural and even; then they will not be worn down. Why rely on decorated objects to record things, or on fame to spread them?” It seems this means abandoning even the books of Yu and Xia.
Zhuangzi went to see the King of Wei wearing a coarse-cloth robe and patched hemp sandals. The king asked, “Why are you so worn out, sir?”
A Modern Commentary on the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence
Zhuangzi says: To have Dao and De yet be unable to put them into practice is called weariness—a state of distress and constraint. A scholar who wears torn clothes and worn-out shoes is frustrated by the times in which he lives. That is called poverty, not weariness.
Have you never seen monkeys leaping through the trees? Their leader lives among great trees such as nan, catalpa, yu, and zhang. Even the finest archer cannot show his skill there. But when the monkeys move about high in the trees and peer from the branches, they are among thorny shrubs such as zhe, ji, zhi, and gou. It is not that their muscles and bones have suddenly stiffened or lost their suppleness; the terrain simply works against them, and even the most agile cannot display their abilities. In the present day, Confucius—here called Zhou—has fallen on bad times. How could he avoid weariness? It is like the portent of Bi Gan’s heart being cut out.
Confucius was trapped between Chen and Cai. For seven days, he could not light a fire to cook; what he lacked was fire. So he struck dry branches against dry wood and sang the Air of the Yan Clan. The song had words but no fixed melody; it had sounds but no ordered sequence of musical notes. The sounds of wood mingled with the human voice, yet the result accorded with the human heart. Those who understood knew that he neither resented Heaven nor blamed other people.
Confucius feared that Yan Hui might blame himself for what had happened, or grieve too deeply. So he said: Everyone has a true ruler within. One’s inborn nature is complete and sufficient from the start; this is determined by Heaven and belongs to what is innate and Wuwei (non-action). What is damaged after birth is still, like the original, fully sufficient. People themselves ruin it. This is why a true person practices Wuwei and is not thrown into disorder by the world’s attempts to “add” to him; such a person is hard to find.
Today I am trapped between Chen and Cai. In human affairs, it is as if the game has just begun; before long it changes again, as if the game has ended. Human affairs change without pause, just as the Dao of Heaven circulates ceaselessly. When I sing now, am I singing of Heaven? I am not harmed by Heaven. Am I singing of people? I gain nothing from what lies outside myself. This is how I came to understand what governs my life.
What does it mean to “not be harmed by Heaven”? Hunger and thirst, cold and heat, and the shifting of Heaven and Earth all move me along with them. Those who come after Heaven follow the seasons; even a minister dares not defy his ruler. How, then, could a person dare to defy Heaven?
What does it mean to “gain nothing from people,” and why is that difficult? Rank, title, and emoluments are things added from outside; they do not belong to me by nature, and they do not truly add to the “self.” Those who do not understand go after them, which is like stealing in secret. Noble and worthy people do not do this, so why should I?
Thus it is said: Among birds, none knows better where to stop than the wren. It does not let its eyes wander to places where it should not stay, nor its beak to food it should not eat. It does not build a nest for itself on the days of Wu or Ji; this is knowing Heaven. Fearing people and taking from them by stealth is another matter.
A Plain-Language Interpretation of the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
“Knowing people” means understanding how to judge others. “The spring earth-god festival comes, then the autumn one goes: knowing the seasons” means understanding the turning of the seasons. What does it mean to have no beginning, yet not be an end? The transformations of creation succeed one another, past and future continuing without interruption. I do not know where one transformation ends and another begins, so how could I know their beginnings and endings? I simply observe change and dare not contend with the transformations of creation. I can only hold fast to the right Way and wait for things to withdraw of their own accord, as they did for those who stayed in Chen and Cai. What does it mean for humanity and Heaven to be one? Heaven cannot be separated from human beings—not because of the people we happen to encounter today, but because all are driven by Heaven. That is why we say, “There are people, and there is Heaven.” Human beings cannot be separated from Heaven—not because of the Heaven we happen to encounter today, but because people cannot claim all the credit for themselves. That is why we say, “There are people, and there is Heaven.” Heaven is Heaven, yet people cannot claim their own Heaven for themselves. Why is this? When one’s nature is present, Heaven is present; when one’s nature is lost, Heaven is lost. Only the sages are born knowing and act with ease; they move alongside Heaven, embody the Dao to the end, and depart together with Heaven. For them, Heaven and humanity are indistinguishable. How many people in the world can become sages?
Zhuang Zhou was walking in the fenced grounds of the chestnut grove at Diaoling when a strange bird flew in from the south, brushed his forehead, and landed in the grove. Zhuang Zhou said, “What kind of bird is that? Its wings are so large it can hardly fly far, and its eyes are so large it can hardly see clearly.” He gathered up his robe, tiptoed forward, and raised his slingshot to capture it. He saw a cicada that had just found a good patch of shade and forgotten itself, unaware that a praying mantis was behind it. The mantis raised its forelegs to catch the cicada, delighted by its prey and heedless of its own body, unaware that the strange bird was behind it. The bird, pleased to see the mantis in front of it, was intent on its prey and forgot its true nature, unaware that Zhuang Zhou stood behind it with a slingshot. Zhuang Zhou saw only that the cicada had attracted the mantis, and the mantis had attracted the magpie: two kinds of creatures drawing one another in. He forgot that he was violating the chestnut grove keeper’s prohibition, and was caught and punished. Then he came to his senses and said, “I have heard that one must care for oneself both inwardly and outwardly. Yet now I cared only for my body; for the sake of a magpie, I forgot myself and broke the rules. How am I any different from someone who sees muddy water but fails to notice its murkiness, or becomes captivated by a clear pool and fails to notice his own confusion? If people use a clear pool as a mirror, they will understand that gain is sustained by harm. Even within beauty there is ugliness. It is the same here.”
Yangzi went to the state of Song and stayed at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines, one beautiful and one ugly. The ugly one was cherished and held in high regard, while the beautiful one was kept at a distance and treated with disdain. Yangzi asked why. The innkeeper replied, “The beautiful one never forgets that she is beautiful. Because she thinks herself beautiful, she becomes arrogant, and I no longer find her beautiful. The ugly one never forgets that she is ugly…”
A Discourse on “Evil” and a Humble Mind
When people recognize their own faults, they may become humble. But by “evil” I do not mean the sort of fault one recognizes in oneself. Yangzi said: “Disciples must remember this: there is nowhere under Heaven that is not the Dao, nowhere that is not a place to learn. If you lead people to act virtuously while removing from them the thought that they themselves are virtuous, wherever they go, who would not hold them dear? Perhaps they could roam in the realm of Dao and De. Without this, no one can escape misfortune.”
The Person of Complete De
For the person of complete De, the Dao is present wherever the gaze falls. The limbs are regarded as dust and dirt, and life and death are treated as no different from day and night. Without deliberate cultivation, they understand the nature of all things. The elder Zang fishes without making fishing his aim; Yi (Bohun) shoots without making archery his aim. Only through this kind of “being present without being held in mind” can one speak of the Dao.
Tian Zifang, Chapter Twenty-One (Main Text)
Tian Zifang, tutor to Marquis Wen of Wei, was seated with the marquis. The marquis repeatedly praised Xigong, a worthy man. He asked, “Is Xigong your teacher, Master?” Zifang replied, “No. He is from my home village. His judgments often strike to the heart, so I praise him.” The marquis asked, “Then do you have no teacher?” Zifang said, “I do.” The marquis asked, “Who is your teacher?” Zifang replied, “Dongguo Shunzi.” The marquis asked, “Then why have you never praised him?”
Zifang said, “He is genuine, without pretense. His appearance is like other people’s, but his heart is pure in accord with the natural order. He empties himself and follows things, preserving his true nature. The ordinary person’s mind is continually entangled with things, while the realized person empties himself, follows things, and nourishes what is true in stillness and emptiness. He is pure and harmonious, and can contain all things; nothing is beyond his acceptance. Many who are discerning cannot tolerate what they see, but he is discerning and can contain everything. He corrects his bearing and awakens people, yet what he imparts is not found in persistent words. He dispels people’s intentions, yet the transformation he brings leaves no trace in their actions. How could I presume to praise him?” In other words, there was nothing by which he could be named.
After Zifang left, Marquis Wen felt as though he had lost something and remained silent for the rest of the day. He called his attendants close and said, “How distant he is—the gentleman of complete De!” He was referring to Shunzi.
An Accessible Interpretation of the Annotations and Subcommentary to the True Classic of Southern Florescence
(Zifang) At first, I thought that using a sage’s wisdom to expound benevolence and righteousness, and acting according to the virtues of benevolence and righteousness, was already the highest attainment. But after I heard about Zifang’s teacher—the realized person he studied under—I felt as though my body had come apart and I did not want to move. My mouth felt as if it had been clamped shut, and I did not want to speak.
These two sentences describe a state of disorientation and loss. In movement and conduct, one seeks something but cannot attain it, so the body slackens and does not want to move. In speech, one seeks something but cannot attain it, so the mouth closes and the tongue falls silent. I realized that what I had learned was no more than a false person made of clay and wood: unlike a realized person, it had only the outward forms and rules. The “True” of Wei—the title or status associated with a person called Wei Zhen—had instead become a burden to me.
Wen Boxuezi, a Daoist adept, was on his way to Qi and stopped in Lu. Someone in Lu asked to meet him. Wen Boxuezi said, “No. I have heard that gentlemen of the Central States understand ritual and righteousness but are poor at discerning people’s hearts. They are accustomed to outward learning and cannot see what a person is at heart. I do not want to meet him.” On his way back from Qi, Wen Boxuezi again stayed in Lu, and the same person again asked to meet him. Wen Boxuezi said, “I met him once before; now he wants to meet me again. This person must be able to stir my heart.” He went out to see the visitor, then returned and sighed. The next day he met the visitor again, came back, and sighed once more. His attendant asked, “You sigh every time you meet with him. Why?” Wen Boxuezi replied, “I already told you: people of the Central States are clear about ritual and righteousness, but clumsy at understanding the human heart. The person who met me last time followed every rule in his coming and going, and every measure in his conduct: his bearing conformed to the compass and his turns to the square. In his composure, he was sometimes like a dragon, changing unpredictably, and sometimes like a tiger, displaying dignified splendor. He remonstrated with me as a son would with his father, then guided me as a father would guide his son. We barely knew each other, yet he spoke as if our bond ran deep. He did not truly understand me from the heart. This is what it means to be clear about ritual and righteousness, yet deficient in understanding people’s hearts. That is why I sighed.”
When Confucius met Wen Boxuezi, he said nothing. Zilu asked, “Sir, you have wanted to meet Wen Boxuezi for a long time. Now that you have met him, why do you say nothing?” Confucius replied, “With someone like him, the Dao is already present when our eyes meet. There is no need to say anything more.” Meaning passes through the gaze; the Dao is fully understood through a meeting of spirits, without the need for words. It is like the discussion of the “Dharma Gate of Nonduality” between Vimalakirti and the bodhisattvas: only Manjushri remained silent, and Vimalakirti praised him. The Dao is understood in silent communion.
“On Words” likewise teaches through silence, which accords with the idea that “a glance can reveal the Dao.”
Yan Hui asked Confucius about the Dao: “When you walk, I walk; when you quicken your pace, I quicken mine; when you run, I run alongside you. Here ‘walk,’ ‘quicken one’s pace,’ and ‘run’ compare degrees of following to the movement of a horse. But once you race ahead, leaving the dust behind, I can only stare after you, left far behind.”
Confucius asked, “Hui, what do you mean?” Yan Hui replied, “When you walk, I walk; when you speak, I speak; when you quicken your pace, I quicken mine; when you debate, I debate; when you run, I run; when you expound the Dao, I expound the Dao. But once you race ahead, leaving the dust behind, I can only stare after you, left far behind.” At the level of walking, quickening one’s pace, running, and debating, one can still keep up through speech and writing. But once someone races ahead and leaves the dust behind, no human effort can catch up. That is transformation and nurture, not something imitation can achieve.
“You need not speak, yet people naturally trust you; you need not draw near, yet people naturally come close to you. You hold no rank or title, yet the people follow in your footsteps. You do not know why this happens; it simply does.” Without deliberately seeking trust, one is trusted; without deliberately seeking closeness, people draw near; without rank or title, people naturally gather around. This is what is called spirit-like transformation. No one gives an order, yet things happen of themselves. This is precisely the state that left Yan Hui staring after Confucius.
Confucius said, “Ah, can you not examine this carefully? You must look closely to see whether the mind is still present. Nothing is more sorrowful than the death of the mind; the death of the body comes second.” Here, “the death of the mind” means that the conscience one should naturally possess no longer remains, and so it is the greatest cause for grief. The death of the body is merely the extinction of its physical form; conscience may not perish with it, so this comes second. This is different from the sense of “death of the mind” in Daoist teachings, where it means putting to death the mind of emotions and desires.
The sun rises in the east and sets at the far end of the west; all things use it to establish their directions, with north and south determined by east and west. Everything with eyes and feet must wait for the sun to rise before it can carry out its work. When the sun rises, it lives; when the sun sets, it dies. A person’s mind is like the sun in the heavens: all things depend on it to orient themselves. And it is not only those with eyes and feet who must wait for daylight to act; human activity and rest follow the same pattern. All things are like this: they depend on something in order to live, and they also depend on something in order to die. People work and rest according to the sun’s rising and setting. The same is true of the transformation of things: when the sun has passed through eleven lunar lodges, the forces that store things away have died; when it has passed one degree through the Lodge of Emptiness, the forces that bring things to life begin to sprout. Once I have received a form and taken shape as a body, I no longer change. I can only wait for this life to run its course.
Once it has taken shape in the furnace of creation, the body becomes a burden. It cannot shed its shell and await its own end. This is because the mind chases after things without pause, day and night. How, then, can one know where creation begins and ends? This is called not knowing one’s destiny.
After taking shape, if one knows one’s destiny, one cannot use rules to confine oneself in advance. One can only keep moving forward, day by day. Everything that has form has its allotted course; those who do not know their destiny remain within the bounds of rules. Even when the day of their appointed limit arrives, they may not have conformed to those rules. Surely, from the very moment of taking shape in a state of natural harmony, once one knows one’s destiny, one is nowhere outside the bounds of the Way. Why insist that rules must stand before me before I am willing to wait for the day when I depart?
I have joined arms with you throughout my life, yet lost the true ruler within me. Is that not a cause for grief? You seem attached to the outward traces I once clung to. They have already run their course, yet you still seek them as though they existed. This is like looking for a horse in the Tang market, an open horse market with no walls. “Tang” means a roofless enclosure, convenient for horses to come and go; “market” means a place where horses are traded. Earlier it was said: words are still words, disputation is still disputation, and the Way is still the Way. Once the dust has settled, they cannot be pursued. Seeking the Way where things exist does not necessarily lead to finding it; the same principle applies here.
What I admired in you was your “great forgetting”—the letting go of the limbs and dismissing of the senses. What you admired in me was also this “great forgetting.” I told you about it, and you once held fast to my words about “great forgetting,” never forgetting them.
Even so, why worry that you will be left far behind? Though the former self is forgotten, there remains what cannot be forgotten: what is forgotten is the old trace; what is not forgotten is one’s true nature. Forget what ought to be forgotten and do not forget what ought not be forgotten: this is gaining through not gaining—the true attainment, and the very thing on which my life depends.
Confucius went to see Lao Dan. Lao Dan…
Confucius had just finished washing his hair. He let it hang loose to dry when Lao Dan arrived, his expression intent, seeming unlike an ordinary person. Confucius paused and waited for him.
After a while, Lao Dan said, “I was just in a daze. Was it real? A moment ago, Master, your body looked withered, like a dead tree. You seemed to have left the human world and stood there alone.”
Lao Dan replied, “I was wandering in spirit at the beginning of things.”
Confucius asked, “What do you mean?”
Lao Dan said, “When the mind is blocked, it cannot know; when the mouth is closed, it cannot speak. The mind is blocked when it seeks to know, and the mouth closes when it wants to speak. To close the scroll and not open it, to leave the mind behind and reach beyond words—this is to come near. What is to be grasped lies beyond intention and speech.”
Confucius said, “Please tell me what this is like.”
Lao Dan said, “The utmost Yin is still and solemn; the utmost Yang is bright and intense. The stillness and solemnity emerge from Heaven; the brightness and intensity arise from Earth. When the two interact and blend in harmony, things come to life. Something sets them in order, yet no one sees its form. Waxing and waning, fullness and emptiness, darkness and light alternate. The sun changes daily and the moon transforms; things are done each day, yet their achievements cannot be seen. Life has a place from which it sprouts, and death a place to which it returns. Beginning and end turn back on one another without a starting point, and no one knows where they run out. If it is not this, then what is the source that governs them? Waxing and waning follow their measures; darkness and light have their regular patterns. We say that something acts, yet we do not see its workings. Life sprouts from the indistinct; death returns to darkness. Without a beginning, no one knows where it starts; without an end, no one knows where it finishes. If there were nothing that brings things into being at their origin, what could govern all this?”
Confucius said, “May I ask what it is like to wander in spirit at the beginning of things?”
“Perfect Beauty, Perfect Joy”
The one who attains perfect beauty and can also wander in perfect joy is called a “perfect person.”
“Life” may be understood as the greatest beauty under Heaven, while the Dao is the greatest joy under Heaven. First one understands the principles of nature and life, then fully comprehends the Great Dao. In this way, one attains both beauty and joy—something only a perfect person can do.
Confucius Asks About the “Square”; the Answer Is the “Great Constant”
Confucius said, “I would like to hear the principle behind this.”
The other replied, “Animals that eat grass do not fear being moved to a different pasture; insects that live in water do not fear being moved to different waters. Though their movements involve small changes, they do not lose the ‘Great Constant’—their fundamental, natural way.”
For human beings, life and death are like animals changing pastures or fish changing waters: they are only temporary changes. Why suffer over them? When joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure do not enter the heart, one has attained this “Great Constant,” which everyone possesses. Those who understand the Great Constant cannot be disturbed by these emotions.
The world is the realm in which all things return to unity. Once one attains that unity and becomes one with it, the limbs and body are no more than dust, and life and death, beginning and end, are no more than the alternation of day and night. Nothing can unsettle the heart. How, then, could minor turns of fortune—gain or loss, calamity or blessing—trouble one’s mind?
Casting Off Servitude and the Worth of the “Self”
“Casting off servitude” means throwing away the role of a servant, a lowly position, as though it were mud. This is because one understands that the body—the self, which bears the Dao and the principles of nature and life—is far more precious than servitude. Ordinary people may turn down an official title but still seek fame. Only those who truly know the worth of the “self” can cast off servitude as easily as mud.
Its worth lies in the fact that the “self” is not lost amid the transformations of all things, and these transformations are endless. What, then, could be enough to become a misfortune in the heart? Those who have put the Dao into practice can resolve these questions and attain perfect beauty and wander in perfect joy.
Notes on the Commentary’s Line of Thought
The commentary stresses that one first understands life, then the Dao. The perfect person regards life and death as the Great Constant, and keeps honor, disgrace, sorrow, and joy from entering the heart. All things “emerge from the pivot and return to the pivot”: they are expressions of one Dao. Having attained unity, one regards flourishing and decay as no different from one’s own life and death. The body is more precious than servitude, and the transformations of all things have no limit. Those who have attained the Dao resolve these matters and reach perfect beauty and perfect joy.
Someone asked, “Even a person of virtue equal to Heaven and Earth, such as Confucius, had to cultivate the heart and nature through words of the highest truth. Which ancient gentleman could explain the Dao without using words? And who could seek the Dao through silence alone, without relying on speech?”
Laozi said, “That is not so. When water flows freely, it need not deliberately do anything; its function appears naturally. Water nourishes all things without contrivance, simply following its own nature. The Perfected Person need not deliberately cultivate virtue, yet nothing can do without him. He does not rely on cultivation, yet he accords with all things and responds to them. It is like Heaven being high, Earth being deep, and the sun and moon shining bright by their very nature. Why would they need further ‘cultivation’?”
“This teaching calls for no contrived cultivation and no striving to attain realization. Heaven is naturally high, Earth naturally deep, and the sun and moon shine of themselves. Rivers, lakes, and marshes need only be drawn upon to nourish things. Why should any of this depend on practice? The Perfected Person makes no deliberate effort; he lets his limbs fall away and casts off his cleverness, and so can respond to all things. Someone asked what ‘not cultivating’ means. The answer was: to become obsessed with learning, like Yuankai, or to write in a style approaching the buffoonery of Sima Xiangru. Among Confucius’s disciples, only Yan Hui sat quietly, doing nothing, and awakened to the mind through ‘fasting of the mind.’”
Confucius came out and told Yan Hui, “When it comes to the Dao, I, Kong Qiu, must be like a tiny fly in a vinegar jar! Had the Master not pointed this out, I would have been as if shut inside the jar, unaware of the vastness and wholeness of Heaven and Earth.” A “vinegar fly” is a tiny insect in vinegar: covered by the jar, it cannot see the boundless world unless the Master lifts the lid.
Zhuangzi went to see Duke Ai of Lu. The duke said, “There are many Confucian scholars in Lu, but few dare to discuss methods of the Way before you, sir.” Zhuangzi replied, “There are few Confucian scholars in Lu.” The duke said, “Throughout all of Lu, people wear Confucian dress. How can you say there are few?” Zhuangzi said, “I have heard that Confucians wear round caps, symbolizing knowledge of Heaven’s seasons; square shoes, symbolizing knowledge of the land; and loose belts with jade rings, whose notched shape signifies decisiveness. A gentleman who has the Way does not necessarily wear Confucian dress, and someone who wears it does not necessarily understand the Way. If you do not believe me, why not issue an order throughout the state: anyone who wears Confucian dress without possessing the corresponding learning will be put to death.” Duke Ai then issued the order. Five days later, no one in Lu dared to wear Confucian dress. Only one man—an allusion to Confucius—stood at the duke’s gate wearing it. Duke Ai summoned him and asked about affairs of state. He responded to every question, no matter how varied or changeable.
The Perfected Person is an ideal Daoist figure, complete in virtue and united with the Dao. “Vinegar fly” refers to a tiny insect in vinegar and serves as a metaphor for narrow vision and failure to awaken to the Great Dao. “Fasting of the mind” is Yan Hui’s method of cultivation: keeping the mind empty and still, and putting aside distracting thoughts; a chapter of the Zhuangzi discusses it in detail. The round cap, square shoes, and jade ring are interpreted in commentaries as symbols of what Confucians claim to possess: knowledge of Heaven’s seasons, knowledge of the land, and decisiveness. They distinguish between looking like a Confucian outwardly and truly possessing the Confucian Way.
Zhuangzi said, “Take the state of Lu: was there really only one Confucian? Can we say there were many?” Zhuangzi lived at the same time as King Hui of Wei, a hundred and twenty years after Duke Ai of Lu. This is simply a parable. The examples that follow are selected to illustrate the subtle power of moving others without conscious intent.
Baili Xi was unmoved by rank or stipend. When he tended cattle, he sought only his own contentment and never wished for office or income. The cattle grew fat, and Qin Mugong, overlooking his lowly origins, entrusted him with the affairs of state.
The Yu clan was unmoved even by life and death. Building granaries and digging wells did not make them fear death. Thus they were able to move others. The founding of Cheng, the development of Du, and the transfer of power to Yao by Shixi are all examples of moving people’s hearts.
When Duke Yuan of Song commissioned a painting for his pavilion, all the painters arrived. After exchanging bows, they stood licking their brushes and mixing ink; half of them remained outside. One painter came last, unhurried and composed, making no effort to hurry forward. After exchanging bows, he did not stand waiting but went straight inside. The duke sent someone to look in and found him with his robe loosened, sitting cross-legged. The duke said, “That one will do.” His mind was calm, and the image already formed before the brush touched the page. This was a true painter, with the whole scene held within him.
King Wen was surveying the land at Zang when he saw a man fishing: Taigong Wang, also known as Jiang Taigong. He was not fishing to catch fish. The tale says he fished with a straight hook, using the act of fishing to await the right moment. He did not hold a rod simply for the sake of fishing; he had another purpose, intending to “fish” for the realm. Perhaps he often held his rod this way simply for his own pleasure.
King Wen wanted to appoint him and entrust him with the affairs of state, but worried that his ministers, elders, and brothers would be unsettled. He considered giving up the idea, yet could not bear to leave the people without a ruler. So one morning he told his ministers, “Last night I dreamed of a worthy man, dark-complexioned and bearded, riding a piebald horse with one red hoof. He commanded me: ‘Entrust the affairs of state to that man at Zang; then perhaps the people may be saved and governed well.’” The ministers were alarmed and said, “That was the former king.” King Wen said, “Then shall we consult the oracle?” The ministers replied, “It was our former ruler.”
Collected Annotations on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence: A Plain-Language Interpretation
King Wen was instructed: “Apart from following the command of the former king, do not entertain other thoughts or indulge in excessive suspicion. Why consult the oracle again?” He then welcomed Zang Zhangfu (that is, Taigong Wang, or Jiang Ziya) and entrusted him with the affairs of state. All institutions and laws remained as they were, and no arbitrary or self-serving orders were issued.
Three years later, King Wen toured the country and saw that scholars had broken up their private factions and no longer gathered followers; officials did not display their virtue or make their achievements visible; and foreign measures of capacity (the character yu is read as yu and refers to a unit of measure) dared not enter the borders—measures from other states could not get in.
When scholars broke up their factions and groups, this was called “esteeming unity”: showing no favoritism and forming no cliques. When officials did not display their virtue, this was called “sharing in the work”: not competing for credit. When foreign measures could not enter the borders, the feudal lords had no divided intentions and harbored no suspicion.
King Wen then appointed Zang Zhangfu Grand Preceptor. Facing north (the Preceptor’s seat was to the south, so the king faced north to consult him), he asked, “Can a ruler deliberately extend his influence throughout the world?” The commentary explains: if one sets out with the intention of reaching the whole world, one is no longer acting naturally through Wuwei.
Zang Zhangfu seemed dazed and did not reply, then mumbled a refusal. He accepted the appointment in the morning and fled that night, and was never heard from again. The commentary notes that Taigong’s departure may have reflected his understanding that one should follow Heaven’s mandate and let things unfold naturally; to contrive at every turn would greatly diminish one’s De.
Yan Hui asked Confucius, “Perhaps King Wen had still not reached the utmost? Why did he have to act as if in a dream?” Confucius said, “Be quiet. Say no more. King Wen had already arrived.” By appointing the ministers rather than taking the work upon himself, he had completed the Dao. “Why speculate and criticize? He merely followed the circumstances of that moment.” King Wen’s supreme De was beyond reproach. He had simply followed human feeling for an instant. To respond to circumstances by appointing the right people was a sagely exercise of authority; for those below not to criticize those above was, in turn, the finest conduct for a minister.
Lie Yukou demonstrated archery before Bohun Wuren. He drew the bow to full measure—with the arrowhead level with the bowstring, the method of a full draw—and held his forearm level, with a cup of water balanced on his elbow, showing how still his body was. As one arrow flew, the next was already nocked; ta means “to follow in succession,” while da-da describes one arrow just gone and another immediately taking its place. The following arrow was already in position.
This brings us back to the passage about “the arrow on the bowstring,” which describes a shot so swift that its movement can scarcely be seen.
At that moment, his whole body was as steady as a wooden puppet. His body did not move, and only his focused intention remained undistracted. That was what it meant to be skilled at archery.
Hun Wuren said, “This is archery that depends on clever force and technique. It is not yet the kind of archery in which one hits the mark without shooting.”
He once said to you, “Suppose we climb a high mountain together, tread on dangerous rocks, and stand at the edge of a hundred-ren-deep gorge. Could you still shoot?” Hun Wuren then actually climbed the mountain, stepped across the dangerous rocks, and came to the gorge. With his back to the drop, he moved his heels to the edge of the stone, leaving his toes hanging two cun beyond it. He bowed and invited Lie Yukou to come closer. The mountain was high, the rocks treacherous, and the gorge deep, yet he neither swayed nor moved. His spirit and vital energy were complete, and his mind was settled. Lie Yukou lay flat on the ground, sweat running all the way to his heels.
Hun Wuren said, “A perfected person can look up and discern the blue sky, look down and enter the Yellow Springs, and move freely to the farthest reaches in all eight directions without his spirit and vital energy changing. This is not forced endurance; it comes from genuine inner cultivation. That is why he can clearly see the turning point between safety and danger. This is what is called ‘shooting without shooting.’ But now you are trembling with apprehension. Your eyes are full of distracting thoughts about tricks, and your heart is already unsteady. This is dangerous.”
Shangwu asked Sun Shuao, “You served three times as Lingyin, the highest official in Chu, without seeming proud of the honor, and left office three times without grieving. At first I did not believe it. But now I see your breathing, at your nostrils, is faint, even, and long, as though you were full of life and inwardly cultivated. How do you manage it?”
Sun Shuao said, “I have nothing exceptional. What comes cannot be stopped; what goes cannot be held. I regard gain and loss as belonging outside the sphere of ‘me,’ so there is no need to look troubled. What is exceptional about that? Besides, I do not know whether what is precious is my position in the outside world or the nature of my own mind. If what is precious is the office of Lingyin, then it has nothing to do with me; if what is precious is me, then it has nothing to do with the office of Lingyin. I am simply hesitating and turning the matter over in my mind.”
This chapter continues the account of Lie Yukou learning archery. Through Hun Wuren, the commentary distinguishes “skillful archery” from “spiritual archery.” It then uses Sun Shuao’s “three appointments and three departures” to show how outer circumstances come and go while the inner mind nurtures its vital energy and remains unmoved by gain or loss. Both elaborations follow the Zhuangzi’s themes of “guarding the spirit” and being “free from entanglement.” Terms such as Lingyin, perfected person, and spirit and vital energy are briefly explained at first mention.
Plain-Language Interpretation
Why bother weighing the distinctions between high and low, noble and humble, as the world sees them? From a vantage point above, looking back over heaven and earth, how could anyone still tell who is noble and who is humble?
When Confucius heard this, he said: “The True Ones of ancient times had reached such a state that the wise could not confound them with words, beautiful women could not beguile them with their looks and charms, and bandits could not intimidate them with force. Even sage kings such as Fuxi and the Yellow Emperor could not draw them into ‘friendship’ through power and wealth. Life and death are great matters, yet they could not change these people’s original nature; how much less could rank and salary do so? Their spirit seemed able to pass through mountains without hindrance and plunge into the depths without being soaked by water. They felt no weariness even in lowly and trivial circumstances. They filled heaven and earth; the more they gave to others, the more abundant they themselves became.” This means that when one sees clearly without relying on external things or being changed by them, the spirit can pass through mountains, enter the depths, and fill heaven and earth. “The more one gives to others, the more one has” is a true expression of the Dao’s inexhaustibility.
The king of Chu and the ruler of Fan sat together. After a while, the people around them said, “Fan has faced the signs of ruin three times already.” The ruler of Fan replied, “The destruction of Fan cannot destroy the ‘preservation’ within my heart. If Fan’s ruin cannot make me lose what I preserve within, then Chu’s existence cannot preserve it for me either. From this we can see that Fan may not truly be destroyed, and Chu may not truly exist.” What a noble person holds to—the Great Way—is neither increased when they succeed nor diminished when they live in hardship. “Though Fan is destroyed, it cannot make me lose what I preserve within”: these are the words of a ruler of Fan who has seen the Dao. From this we can see that Fan’s ruin cannot destroy what is preserved within, and Chu’s continued existence cannot preserve it. In truth, Fan was never destroyed, and Chu never truly existed. Once we understand the existence and destruction of Fan and Chu, all worldly gain and loss, misfortune and good fortune are external things. This is a teaching with practical value.
Fugui Zi said: “Why did Tian Zifang repeatedly praise Xi Gong’s worthiness to Marquis Wen of Wei, yet never praise Dongguo Shunzi? It was because Dongguo Shunzi was a True One: he had a human form while preserving the De of Heaven, and saw all worldly conditions as illusory. Nurturing one’s original nature and keeping it true is essential. What is there that the Great Void cannot contain? Merely ‘sheltering dirt and taking in filth’ is nothing to prize; what makes Shunzi’s natural course is the ability to transform dirt and filth into purity.” Marquis Wen was then left feeling bereft and humbled, and began to understand that the teachings of sage wisdom and the practice of benevolence and righteousness had not yet reached the Dao.
Note: This chapter follows the idea that those who attain the Dao regard high and low, noble and humble, as one. Confucius describes four things that cannot sway a True One, and their unchanging nature in the face of life and death. The story of the king of Chu and the ruler of Fan then discusses existence and destruction, bringing out the point that these are external things. Finally, Fugui Zi interprets Tian Zifang’s praise of Dongguo Shunzi and returns to the themes of the True One and the De of Heaven.
This passage expounds profound truths about cultivating and realizing the Dao (the Way). Through the story of Wenbo Xuezhi, Zhuangzi illustrates that true enlightenment doesn't lie in external words and actions.
Though the body remains motionless, the heart can comprehend all under heaven without error; though the mouth stays silent, the mind can encompass the world without transgressing boundaries. What one learned in the past was as rigid as clay figurines and wooden puppets. Now we must transform decay into wonder, no longer constrained by human forms but following the natural movement of heavenly Dao.
Wenbo Xuezhi was extraordinary. When traveling to Qi via Lu, the Lu people wished to meet him, believing central plains scholars understood ritual propriety—outwardly refined in manners yet fundamentally ignorant of human hearts, thus unable to fully express their true nature to understand others. Upon meeting Wenbo Xuezhi, he proved exactly as initially described: "Those who've met me before could alternate between square and round yet never transcend these confines; could shift between yin and yang yet never surpass these polarities. They merely used words to explain Dao and De (Virtue), failing to realize them through the realm of 'forgetting words.'"
Confucius remarked: "Common people hear Dao with ears, inferior to Wenbo Xuezhi seeing Dao directly with eyes; explaining principles through speech, inferior to Wenbo conveying Dao's meaning through gaze. Few in this world can realize Dao without words." Even the wise Yan Hui had to seek truth through Confucius' words and deeds, while Confucius' realm had already transcended such external forms. Without speaking, Confucius could inspire belief; without forced intimacy, he could unite people; without official position, he could attract followers—none achievable through mere words and writings.
The crux is: Dao resides not in the mouth but in the heart. The human heart resembles the sun—people follow its rising and setting to regulate their lives. An enlightened heart brings vitality; an unenlightened one brings spiritual death, more dreadful than physical demise. Those viewing themselves merely as physical shells become slaves to external things, failing to comprehend life's beginnings and ends. Those knowing heavenly mandate can chart their own course with boundless prospects. Dao manifests for reasons—only by understanding these can one truly grasp it.
A Plain-Language Interpretation
If you search only among things that “exist,” then what you seek has already ceased to exist—yet you stubbornly keep looking for it among what exists. It is like searching for horses in a horse market that has already emptied out. Where could any horses still be?
So I do not fear failing to attain the Dao (the Way); I fear only being unable to forget the Dao. I do not fear that you alone cannot forget the Dao; I fear that I cannot forget it together with you. The “former self” is the formed, embodied self: it does not change or transform, and so it must be “forgotten.” The true self is the self that understands its allotted life, without beginning or end. To “forget” is to forget and yet not forget, naturally and without effort; there is no need to deliberately keep from forgetting.
Confucius went to visit Laozi. Laozi had just bathed, and looked as though he had lost his spouse. Confucius thought he had withdrawn from the world and stood alone. Laozi said, “I let my mind wander at the beginning of all things.” Why? People can see only what has already happened, not what is yet to come. So one must set aside fixed ideas and speak sparingly before one can discuss these matters with you.
Now I will speak of the Perfected Person. The Perfected Person does not begin with human affairs or events of the past, but with the Dao of Heaven and the principles of what is to come. The utmost Yin is somber and still, like an image of sorrow; the utmost Yang is blazing and bright, like an image of openness. The somber stillness does not rise from the earth but descends from Heaven: after the summer solstice, Yin energy descends. The blazing brightness does not issue from Heaven but rises from the earth: after the winter solstice, Yang energy rises. When Yin and Yang are in harmony, all things come to life. The great patterns become manifest while subtle details remain hidden; the waxing and waning of fullness and emptiness are the transformations of creation working unseen, while the changing brightness and darkness of the sun and moon make those transformations visible.
Where there is a way of Heaven, there is also a way of human life. Life does not suddenly begin on the day it is “meant to begin”; there must first be a seed, which then develops. Death does not suddenly occur at the place where one is “meant to die”; there must first be a return, which then reaches its destination. Life and death are each other’s beginning and end. With no beginning, one cannot know where they start; without end, one cannot know where they finish. If there were no layer that stands as the beginning of all things, who could govern them? Nothing under Heaven is more beautiful than one’s allotted life, and nothing brings greater joy than the Dao. The Perfected Person first understands life, then understands the Dao, and so attains supreme beauty and wanders in supreme joy.
Confucius said, “I would like to hear how this is done.” Laozi replied, “Ordinary people regard life as constant and death as change. The Perfected Person sees life and death as part of the great constancy; their mind does not stir. How could joy, anger, sorrow, or happiness change them? People see that the world contains all things, and so they also see that there is an ‘I.’ I am one thing among all things. What I share with them is the pattern of flourishing and withering, life and death; what sets me apart is that I forget my bodily form and transcend the view that life and death are separate.
Note: This text belongs to the tradition of commentary on the Zhuangzi. It brings together themes of Confucius questioning Laozi, the waxing and waning of Yin and Yang, and the Perfected Person’s forgetting the Dao. Commentators often distinguish between the “former self,” the embodied self, and the “true self,” the self that understands its allotted life, connecting this distinction with the practices of “forgetting the Dao” and “forgetting together.”
《Explanatory Notes on the True Classic of Southern Florescence》
The Subtlety of Having No Mind
Those who understand gain and loss, good fortune and misfortune, and are willing to give up the status of a servant still know that their own body is more precious than that status. Would they really allow what they cherish in their hearts to be taken from them by changes in the outside world?
If someone cannot see gain and loss, good fortune and misfortune, then they will surely feel none of the fluctuations of joy, anger, sorrow, and delight. One whose mind is free of illness naturally possesses subtle insight. This is enough to show that the joy of cultivating the Dao (the Way) is the highest joy.
Confucius said, “Even Confucius, whose De (Virtue/Power) matched Heaven and Earth, needed the aid of the highest teachings to cultivate his mind. Among the gentlemen of antiquity, who could truly explain this Dao?”
Lao Dan (Laozi) said, “No. Everywhere between Heaven and Earth, there is water. People draw water from it and drink every day. Water’s nature and De are Wuwei (non-action), yet there is nothing it cannot do. The De of the Perfected One is likewise beneficial to all things, like water: it needs no cultivation and proves nothing, yet all things depend on it. Heaven and Earth need no cultivation to be lofty and generous; the sun and moon need no cultivation to shine down upon us. The Perfected One needs no cultivation to be one with the Dao, Heaven and Earth, the sun and moon.”
The Turning Point in Confucius’s Awakening to the Dao
Confucius came out and told Yan Hui, “The smaller the realm a person inhabits, the less they know; the greater the realm they have heard of, the more they know. My understanding of the Dao at first was like a chicken in a vinegar jar: I knew only the jar’s confines. If Laozi had not pointed this out, I would have remained in the dark. How could I have known the fullness of Heaven and Earth? I nearly wasted my whole life.”
Distinguishing the “Confucians” of Lu
The state of Lu was said to have many Confucians. Zhuangzi said to Duke Ai of Lu, “In truth, Lu has few Confucians. A Confucian’s true inheritance is not found in clothing. Do you know what the parts of Confucian attire symbolize?”
A round cap symbolizes Heaven and knowledge of the seasons.
Square shoes symbolize Earth and knowledge of what the land affords.
A belt ornament shaped like a split jade ring symbolizes resolving disputes and making decisions when matters arise.
Those who possess the Dao often hide fine jade beneath coarse clothes; those who lack the Dao are often carelessly dressed. Why not issue an order throughout the state: Anyone who wears Confucian clothing without the Confucian Way shall be executed without exception.
Sure enough, no one in Lu dared wear Confucian clothing. Only one man stood at the duke’s gate dressed as a Confucian. The duke asked him about affairs of state, and he answered each question as it came, responding to a thousand questions with a thousand answers, without end.
Zhuangzi said, “Then Lu has only one true Confucian. The rest are impostors. Can this be called a state with many Confucians?”
From this we can see that throughout the ages, only what is genuine can move people.
Two Examples of the Mindset of the Ancients
In ancient times, there was someone whom rank and stipend did not enter the heart. He tended cattle until they grew fat, and Duke Mu of Qin appointed him to govern affairs of state. That man was Baili Xi.
In ancient times, there was someone whom life and death did not enter the heart: with…
Note: This passage is written in the style of explanatory commentary. It interweaves the parable of Zhuangzi and Duke Ai of Lu discussing “true and false Confucians” with Confucius’s account to Yan Hui of the limits of his own understanding of the Dao. It develops the Southern Florescence commentator’s teaching that having no mind is the way. The final example of someone for whom “life and death did not enter the heart” could be completed from other chapters of the Zhuangzi, such as the “Sang Hu” chapter; the source text here may be incomplete.
A Plain-Language Reading of the Annotations and Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
Section One: The Way of Governing and the Metaphor of the Cook
The gist of the original: The Way of governing does not rely on political cunning and clever schemes. Hence calamity is used as a restraint, and cooking as a metaphor. Laws and prohibitions cannot keep people in check. Even efforts to rescue those subjected to cruel punishments such as burning the nose or gouging out the eyes ultimately fall into a trap. The feudal lords then seize power and compete to grant fiefs…
Plain-language reading: A country should not be governed through clever tricks and political schemes. Just as cooking cannot be done by watching only the heat, governing cannot rely only on harsh punishments and prohibitions. No matter how many prohibitions are imposed, they cannot stop the feudal lords from acting on their own and fighting for power. The people still suffer.
Section Two: The Court and the Countryside, Accommodation and Theft of Methods
The gist of the original: The court and the countryside accommodate and imitate one another… Those engaged in factional struggles steal the method of Hongguan (Hehuan), inserting it between themselves and their true purpose… Hongguan goes to wash at the embankment and meets an old fisherman holding a rod. The two sit facing one another and talk.
Plain-language reading: The various factions undermine one another. Some steal other people’s “Hehuan” or “Hongguan” methods and use them, placing them between themselves and their true intentions, so that names and realities no longer match. Hongguan is bathing by the embankment when he meets an old fisherman with a rod. They sit down and talk—a familiar “meeting a wise person” scene in Zhuangzi’s stories.
Section Three: The Old Fisherman Discusses the Dao (Core)
The old fisherman says:
- I have heard that a person who has the Dao harbors no likes or dislikes toward things. Starting from what is natural, they observe the transformations of the myriad things, understand Yin-Yang, and hold fast to the original. They are of one body with the Dao and roam together with spirit. They hold fast to a single nature in order to respond to the myriad changes. Only then can the world be governed well.
- What you, Hongguan, are asking about belongs to the methods of governing people and regulating forms and names. These are tools of form and name, and the starting points of right and wrong. They are not what I intend to discuss.
Hongguan asks again: I have heard that you once studied the Dao with Confucius. Is that true?
The old fisherman replies:
- When I was young, I traveled throughout the world and regarded Confucius as my teacher. I went to the state of Lu to meet him. When I left Lu, I forgot everything about Lu; when I entered Wei, I forgot Wei; when I reached Song, I forgot Song; and when I reached Zheng, I forgot Zheng.
- On the journey from Song back to Zheng, I forgot the carriage, the horses, walking, and traveling on foot. Where the Dao is present, I forget even if it is far away; where the Dao is absent, I forget even if it is near.
- My mind was forgotten, and my body was forgotten. I merged with the Dao and merged with spirit; I transformed together with the Dao and transformed together with spirit. You ask whether I was Confucius’s student, but I have long since stopped knowing who Confucius is.
Plain-language reading: The old fisherman says: A truly accomplished person does not act according to personal likes and dislikes. They follow nature, observe the changes in all things, understand Yin-Yang, and keep to the original. They become one with the Dao and roam together with spirit, using an unchanging nature to respond to endless change. Only in this way can the world be governed well. What you ask about—governing people, correcting names, and distinguishing right from wrong—is all a matter of tools of form and name, and the sources of judgments about right and wrong. That is not what I want to discuss.
Hongguan asks again: I have heard that you once studied the Dao with Confucius.
The old fisherman says: When I was young, I traveled everywhere and regarded Confucius as my teacher. I went to Lu to meet him. When I left Lu, I forgot Lu; when I entered Wei, I forgot Wei; when I reached Song, I forgot Song; and when I reached Zheng, I forgot Zheng. On the journey from Song back to Zheng, I even forgot the carriage, horses, walking, and traveling on foot. Where the Dao is present, I do not forget it, however far away it may be; where the Dao is absent, I forget it, however near it may be. My mind was forgotten, and my body was forgotten. I merged with the Dao and with spirit, and transformed together with the Dao and with spirit. You ask whether I was Confucius’s student, but I no longer know who Confucius is.
Section Four: Confucius’s Response on Hearing This
After hearing this, Confucius withdrew, bowed twice, stepped forward, bowed twice again, and withdrew, feeling completely disoriented.
A disciple asked: Why are you like this, Master?
Confucius said: I have long heard of a “Great Person” but never seen one face to face. Now I have met one, and still feel as though it is not enough. Could this person not be a Great Person? A Great Person merges with the Dao and with spirit, and transforms together with the Dao and with spirit. I, Confucius, cannot measure up to him.
Plain-language reading: After hearing this, Confucius withdrew, bowed twice, stepped forward, bowed twice again, and withdrew, as though he had lost his bearings. A disciple asked: Why are you like this, Master? Confucius replied: Until now I had only heard of a “Great Person”; I had never met one. Today I have met one, and still feel unsatisfied—as though I have not had enough. Could he not be a Great Person? A Great Person merges with the Dao and with spirit, and transforms together with the Dao and with spirit. I cannot measure up to him.
Section Five: Liezi and Guanyinzi
Liezi asks Guanyinzi: The Perfect Person can move unseen through fire, walk on water without drowning, tread on metal without being injured, enter the abyss without danger, walk on frost without feeling cold, and remain unafraid in fierce winds and thunderclaps. How is this possible?
Guanyinzi replies: It is because the Dao extends through the body and Qi (vital energy) abides in spirit. There is no choosing and no delighting; one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. In this way, one connects with the source of what lies beyond oneself. That is why it is possible.
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks Guanyinzi: Why can the Perfect Person walk through fire without being burned, step on water without drowning, tread on metal without being hurt, enter an abyss without danger, walk on frost without feeling cold, and remain unafraid in fierce winds and thunder? Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit. There is no choosing or delighting; one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. Through this, one connects with the source of what lies beyond oneself. That is why the Perfect Person can do these things.
Section Six: The Fisherman and Confucius (Continued)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? If so, return to your nature. When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole. When your spirit is whole, no one will dare to hate you; and when no one dares to hate you, you can enter fire without feeling heat, enter water without drowning, tread on metal without being injured, enter an abyss without danger, walk on frost without feeling cold, and remain unafraid in fierce winds and thunderclaps.
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature. When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole… The rest is the same as above, emphasizing that when one returns to one’s nature and one’s spirit is whole, one is free from fear.
Plain-language reading: The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? If so, return to your nature. When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole. When your spirit is whole, no one will dare to hate you; and when no one dares to hate you, you can enter fire without feeling heat, enter water without drowning, and so on. Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials. The fisherman repeats: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Section Seven: Confucius and His Disciple
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. He acts before he speaks, then speaks before he acts; he acts before he speaks, then speaks before he acts… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui about the encounter. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master? Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. He acts before he speaks, then speaks before he acts… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Eight: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Continued)
Liezi asks: Why can the Perfect Person move unseen through fire…? The rest is the same as above.
Guanyinzi replies: It is because the Dao extends through the body and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Nine: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again: If you want to hear what I have to say, return to your nature. When your spirit is whole, you are free from fear. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Ten: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. The fisherman acts before he speaks… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Eleven: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Twelve: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Thirteen: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Fourteen: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Fifteen: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Sixteen: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Seventeen: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Eighteen: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Nineteen: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Twenty: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Twenty-One: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Twenty-Two: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Twenty-Three: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Twenty-Four: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Twenty-Five: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Twenty-Six: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Twenty-Seven: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Twenty-Eight: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Twenty-Nine: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Thirty: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Thirty-One: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Thirty-Two: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Thirty-Three: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Thirty-Four: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Thirty-Five: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Thirty-Six: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Thirty-Seven: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Thirty-Eight: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Thirty-Nine: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Forty: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Forty-One: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Forty-Two: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Forty-Three: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Forty-Four: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Forty-Five: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Forty-Six: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Forty-Seven: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Forty-Eight: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Forty-Nine: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Fifty: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Fifty-One: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Fifty-Two: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Fifty-Three: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Fifty-Four: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Fifty-Five: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Fifty-Six: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Fifty-Seven: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Fifty-Eight: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Fifty-Nine: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Sixty: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Sixty-One: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Sixty-Two: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Sixty-Three: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Sixty-Four: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Sixty-Five: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Sixty-Six: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Sixty-Seven: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Sixty-Eight: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Sixty-Nine: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Seventy: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Seventy-One: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Seventy-Two: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Seventy-Three: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Seventy-Four: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Seventy-Five: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Seventy-Six: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Seventy-Seven: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Seventy-Eight: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Seventy-Nine: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Eighty: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Eighty-One: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Eighty-Two: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Eighty-Three: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Eighty-Four: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Eighty-Five: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Eighty-Six: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Eighty-Seven: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Eighty-Eight: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Eighty-Nine: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Ninety: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Ninety-One: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Ninety-Two: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Ninety-Three: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Ninety-Four: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Ninety-Five: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Ninety-Six: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section Ninety-Seven: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Section Ninety-Eight: Liezi and Guanyinzi (Conclusion)
Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can move unseen through fire… Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, and Qi abides in spirit…
Plain-language reading: Liezi asks why the Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. Guanyinzi replies: The Dao extends through the body, Qi abides in spirit, and one unifies one’s nature, nourishes one’s Qi, and joins with De. That is why it is possible.
Section Ninety-Nine: The Fisherman and Confucius (Conclusion)
The fisherman says to Confucius: Would you like to hear what I have to say? … When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole…
Confucius bows twice and says: I would like to hear the essentials.
The fisherman says: If you would like to hear what I have to say, return to your nature…
Plain-language reading: The fisherman emphasizes again and again that one should return to one’s nature so that one’s spirit is whole. Confucius bows twice and asks to be taught.
Section One Hundred: Confucius and His Disciple (Conclusion)
Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui what happened. Yan Hui asks: What was it like to meet the fisherman, Master?
Confucius replies: Meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon… I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Plain-language reading: Confucius returns and tells Yan Hui that meeting the fisherman was like meeting a dragon. I still do not measure up. Could he not be a Great Person?
Core Ideas (Based on the Commentary and Common Interpretations)
1. Governing does not rely on political schemes: Prohibitions, forms and names, and distinctions between right and wrong are not the Dao’s way of governing. The feudal lords’ seizure of power and competition to grant fiefs are consequences of losing the Dao.
2. The old fisherman: He represents a Great Person who has merged with the Dao. He does not cling to Confucius’s name or to forms and names. He travels among the states and “forgets” each one; he forgets both mind and body and transforms together with the Dao.
3. Confucius: After hearing the old fisherman or fisherman, he loses his composure, bows again, and acknowledges that the Great Person has merged with the Dao, beyond his own reach. The commentary uses this to show that even a sage must humble himself before the Perfect Person.
4. Returning to one’s nature and making the spirit whole: The fisherman teaches Confucius, “When you return to your nature, your spirit will be whole.” When the spirit is whole, one is free from fear, able to enter fire without feeling heat, and so on. This echoes the passage in which Liezi asks Guanyinzi about the Perfect Person moving unseen through fire, emphasizing the joining of nature, Qi, and De.
5. Liezi and Guanyinzi: The Perfect Person can enter fire without feeling heat, and so on, because “the Dao extends through the body and Qi abides in spirit.” Unifying one’s nature, nourishing Qi, and joining with De follows the same line of thought as the fisherman’s teaching that one should return to one’s nature and make the spirit whole.
The material above has been arranged according to commonly recognized chapters and annotations in the True Classic of Southern Florescence. The plain-language reading aims to stay faithful to the original meaning while making it easier for modern readers to understand.
Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence, Outer Chapter “Knowledge Wandered North” (Chapter 22, excerpt): A Plain-Language Reading
You may be able to master “shooting without shooting”—hitting the mark without aiming with your eyes. But you still use your eyes to steal glances and survey the world in every direction. Your spirit and Qi are insufficient, so thoughts of safety and danger find their way into your heart, and you will ultimately be unable to avoid peril.
Sun Shuao served three times as chief minister of Chu, yet neither favor nor disfavor stirred him. Shoulder-Wu asked him about this. Sun Shuao replied, “I am no better than other people. Those who come arrive of their own accord, and I cannot stop them; so I have not ‘gained’ them. Those who leave go of their own accord, and I cannot keep them; so I have not ‘lost’ them. That is why I feel neither joy nor sorrow.” He had forgotten both rank and the distinction between self and others. If honor lay in the office of chief minister, then there was no “I”; if honor lay in “me,” then there was no chief minister. Just as all things come and go when it is time for them to do so, so too do people in the world gain and lose. How could he find time to concern himself with someone else’s high or low status?
When Confucius heard this, he said, “The True Person of ancient times—the one who had attained the Dao—forgot words and speech, sound and color, power and might, emperors and kings. He regarded death and life as the alternation of morning and evening. How much less would he care about titles and emoluments? In a person like Sun Shuao, the spirit could pass through mountains and plunge into the depths; Qi could fill Heaven and Earth; and his cultivation could remain among petty, lowly affairs without being defeated. This is simply what it means not to have lost that innate spark of original spirit and original Qi. When the True Person uses this Dao to teach others, the spirit becomes all the more sovereign.”
The king of Chu sat with the ruler of Fan. A man of Chu said that Fan had already shown three signs that it would fall. The ruler of Fan replied, “Even if Fan falls, there are things that do not fall along with it; so not everything that exists is lost. Even if Chu survives, there are things that do not survive along with it; so we cannot say that everything survives. Seen this way, there is survival within Fan’s fall and loss within Chu’s survival. It is also reasonable to say that Fan has never truly fallen and Chu has never truly survived.” To understand this, consider Fan’s and Chu’s survival and fall as small examples; Qi’s gain and loss are greater ones, and fall and death, life and death, greater still. To regard the body’s limbs as if casting off a layer of skin—how could anyone explain this principle to a person who has not seen it firsthand and whose Dao is not present within them?
The chapter’s central idea (as summarized by the commentators)
The chapter takes “no knowledge, no action, and no cultivation” as its central theme, rejecting speech and cutting off attachment to names and appearances. Many Buddhist scriptures also draw their meaning from this approach.
“Knowledge” (The “knowledge” set against “non-action,” as well as “Kuangqu” and the other names below, are hypothetical names used to break attachment; they do not refer to actual people.)
“Wandered north at the Dark Water” (In alchemical contexts, “Dark Water” often serves as a metaphor for the river’s source, where ingredients are gathered. It refers to the region north of the “Red Water” through which the Yellow Emperor wandered.)
Zhī ascended the hill of Yǐnfén and happened upon Wúwéiwèi, a fictional “man who does not speak,” created by the author to represent a state of direct, sudden awakening that goes beyond words and is not caught in verbal explanations.
Zhī said to Wúwéiwèi, “I would like to ask you: What kind of thought leads to understanding the Dao? Where should one stay, and how should one settle oneself, to be at ease in the Dao? What should one follow, and what path should one take, to attain the Dao?”
Wúwéiwèi did not answer any of the three questions. It was not that he did not want to answer; there was simply no way to respond by answering. This “not answering” is precisely what is meant by not speaking. If he could give an answer, he would fall into a web of doubts and become caught in words, starting from knowledge and views and giving rise to distinctions—thereby moving farther from the Dao. Unable to get an answer from Zhī’s questioning, Zhī went south to the bank of the White River, climbed Mount Quē, and met Kuángqū. He asked him the same questions.
Kuángqū gave an “ah”—a response to show that he had heard—and said, “I understand what you want to ask. I was just about to tell you. I wanted to speak, but I’ve forgotten what I should say.” Zhī still had no answer, so he returned to the imperial palace, met the Yellow Emperor, and asked once more.
The Yellow Emperor said, “Only when you do not think or deliberate do you begin to understand the Dao. Only when you do not choose a place or cling to a particular form or appearance do you begin to be at ease in the Dao. Only when you follow no particular route and cling to no method do you begin to attain the Dao. The Dao has no name or form. There is no one who ‘knows’ it and no one who ‘does not know’ it, so it cannot be understood through thought and deliberation. There is no place where one ‘settles’ and no state of ‘not being settled,’ so you cannot become at ease in it by finding a place or wearing a certain garment. There is nothing to ‘attain’ and nothing that cannot be attained, so it cannot be attained by following a particular path.”
Zhī wanted to ask more, but the Yellow Emperor said, “You and I ‘know’; Wúwéiwèi and Kuángqū ‘do not know’—because they cannot give an answer. So who, in the end, is right?” The Yellow Emperor said, “Wúwéiwèi is truly right. Kuángqū is somewhat close to being right, because in his heart he still had the thought of ‘giving an answer.’ You and I are far from it, because we remain caught in the obstacles of answering and verbal explanation.”
The Dao De Jing says, “Those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know.” Thus the sages practice the “teaching without words”: their teaching lies in their conduct and their state of being, not in verbal disputes.
What is called the Dao (the Way) cannot be summoned to your side with words; what is called De (Virtue/Power) cannot be forcibly brought to you from elsewhere. The commentary explains: “Bring” means to summon something. The Dao has no fixed form—how could it be summoned? “Arrive” means to come from there to here. De is already within oneself, so from where could it arrive?
Benevolence can still be practiced through effort, but righteousness is easily taken too far or left wanting; ritual often becomes mere appearance and hypocrisy. Thus it is said: only after the Dao is lost do people speak of De; only after De is lost do they speak of benevolence; only after benevolence is lost do they speak of righteousness; only after righteousness is lost do they speak of ritual. Ritual is the Dao’s superficial adornment and the beginning of disorder. The commentary explains: De is originally Wuwei (non-action), while benevolence can still be imposed by human effort. Righteousness draws distinctions so finely that it easily falls short; ritual is often used by scheming men to dress things up. This is what is meant by calling it the beginning of disorder.
Therefore it is also said: those who cultivate the Dao must diminish day by day—diminish desire and fixed views, then diminish them again and again, until they reach Wuwei. First diminish cleverness, then diminish attachment to being “unclever,” until there is neither knowledge nor attachment, neither striving nor action. At that point, which of benevolence, righteousness, ritual, or music is not the Dao? Through Wuwei, nothing is left undone. Now that the myriad things have been fashioned—the commentary says that when simplicity is broken apart, it becomes vessels—is it not difficult to return to the root, to return to Dao and De? Who can do it easily? Only the Great Person. The Great Person can diminish again and again and return to Dao and De, so for them it is easy.
Life is the companion of death, and death the beginning of life. Who can fully grasp the order of things? The commentary says: ordinary people know something of the broad pattern of life and death, but its subtleties are difficult to know. Human life forms through the gathering of Qi (vital energy): when it gathers, there is life; when it disperses, there is death. If I see life and death as part of a cycle, why should I worry like someone fearing the sky might fall? The commentary says: life and death cycle through one another, while the transformations of gathering and dispersing are governed by the workings of Nature. Only a realized person understands more than the broad outline; the subtleties are hard to fathom. When Qi gathers, there is life; when Qi disperses, there is death. To be a companion to life and death is to share in the human condition—no one can escape them, so why worry over them?
Thus the myriad things are originally one. What people regard as precious they call “wondrous”; what they despise they call “foul and rotten.” Yet the foul and rotten can turn into the wondrous, and the wondrous can turn into the foul and rotten. The commentary explains: it is not only people who undergo life and death. The myriad things, too, enter and leave the “pivot” of transformation, and are one with it.
All things originally exist in a state of “nonbeing.” Nonbeing can give rise to “being”—isn’t that wondrous and worthy of praise? Yet being does not last forever. In the blink of an eye, it returns to nonbeing. Doesn’t that seem like decay and corruption, something repellent? These, after all, are simply the many forms taken by life and death as they follow and transform into one another.
Thus it is said: all under Heaven runs through as nothing more than a single Qi. For this reason, the sage prizes this “One” above all. Heaven and Earth rise, fall, and move through this Qi; all things gather and disperse through it, passing through life and death. The sage receives this Qi, keeps hold of it, and gathers it without letting it dissipate, and so can live forever, never dying. Is the “One” not worthy of being cherished?
In the story, a man named Zhi asked Wuwei. Wuwei did not answer him—not because he deliberately withheld an answer, but because he did not know how to answer. Zhi then went to ask Kuangqu. Kuangqu wanted to speak in his heart but did not give voice to it—not because he was unwilling, but because he wanted to speak and then forgot. Now you ask me: if you truly know, why don’t you draw near to the Dao?
The Yellow Emperor said: “Wuwei truly understands, because he ‘does not know’—he does not regard himself as one who understands. Kuangqu seems to understand, because he ‘forgot.’ You and I, in the end, cannot draw near to the Dao, because we still think we ‘know.’” Hearing this, Kuangqu judged the Yellow Emperor’s words to be the words of true knowledge.
(A note on the commentary:) Wuwei represents a state without words; Kuangqu represents having forgotten words; the Yellow Emperor represents having words. This is why they differ in how near they are to the Dao.
Heaven and Earth possess great beauty but do not boast of it. The four seasons follow clear patterns but do not discuss them. The myriad things have their own inherent order but do not explain it. The sage takes Heaven and Earth’s beauty as a foundation and comprehends the order of all things. Thus the Perfected Person practices Wuwei, and the great sage takes no action. This is called “contemplating Heaven and Earth.”
The spirit-bright, most refined Qi and the myriad kinds of things, through their transformations, move between life and death, between the square and the round; no one can explain the root cause of it all. This Qi is present throughout all things and has existed firmly since ancient times.
A Plain-Language Interpretation
If this were not so, how could one say, “From time immemorial, it has always been this same Heaven and Earth; from time immemorial, it has always been this same process of transformation”? Amid the vast, distant obscurity, neither people nor the myriad things have any traceable form. Where, then, could words be placed?
The Dao (the Way) is vast: the Six Directions are immense, yet nothing can exist outside it. Even as small as an autumn hair, a thing must have the Dao flowing through it in order to take shape. All things under Heaven sink and rise, float and settle; no one can remain unchanged throughout a lifetime. Yin-Yang waxes and wanes, and the four seasons turn, each keeping its order. The Dao, meanwhile, seems dimly to vanish, yet truly exists; it wells forth without form, yet its spiritual efficacy is there of itself. The myriad things are nourished by the Dao without knowing it. This is what is called the “root”: through it, one may contemplate the Way of Heaven.
(The general meaning of the commentary: Though the Six Directions are vast, the Dao encompasses them, and nothing can exist apart from it. Though an autumn hair is tiny, the Dao enters it and gives it form. Things rise and fall, but the Dao has neither beginning nor end. Yin-Yang gives rise to the four seasons; their ordered movement is directed and arranged by the Dao. The Dao has no fixed form: it seems to vanish, yet truly exists; it leaves no visible trace, yet, though formless, it has spiritual efficacy. The myriad things are nourished by the Dao, yet forget that they are nourished by it—how could they know? The Dao is in truth the root of all things, and this root does not come from the earth; its source lies in Heaven. If people can contemplate the Way of Heaven, they will understand the principle of “returning to the root and restoring life,” and can align their De (Virtue/Power) with Heaven and Earth and their order with the four seasons.)
Nie Que asked Bei Yi about the Dao. Bei Yi said: “Make your body upright” (do not wear out your physical form). “Unify your seeing and hearing” (do not look upon things that stir desire). “The harmony of Heaven will arrive” (then concentrate your Qi and attain suppleness, and your original Qi will naturally be restored). “Gather in your knowledge” (be without thought and action). “Make your measure one” (neither adding nor diminishing). “The spirit will come to dwell within you” (the true master will always be present). “De will become beautiful for you, and the Dao will bring you peace” (when De is beautiful, it is pure and returns to the beginning; when the Dao dwells within, it settles and gathers in emptiness). Your gaze is clear, like that of a newborn calf; you do not seek to know what happened before you were born.” (A newborn calf knows only the perceptions and activities that come after its birth. It does not ask what came before. This image describes the unselfconscious ease of a person who has the Dao.)
Before Bei Yi had finished speaking, Nie Que had fallen asleep. Bei Yi was delighted. Singing as he walked away, he chanted: “The body is like dried bones; the mind is like dead ashes. The True Person truly understands this principle and does not rely on knowledge from the past” (one may learn something new by reviewing the old, but should not become attached to old traces). “Dim and silent, with no mind that plots—what manner of person is this!”
An Accessible Commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing (True Classic of Southern Florescence)
“Dazed and silent”—like a skilled merchant who keeps his goods hidden, seeming to have nothing, or a perfected person whose abundant De (Virtue/Power) makes him seem foolish. He has no contriving mind, so no one can scheme with him; his way cannot be grasped through “knowledge” or recognized through “understanding.”
Shun asked Cheng, who assisted the ruler through the Dao (the Way), “Can the Dao be acquired and possessed?” Cheng replied, “Even your body does not belong to you. How, then, could you possess the Dao?” Shun was asking because he wanted to treat the Dao as something that could be exclusively claimed as private property.
Shun said, “If my body does not belong to me, then whose is it?” Cheng replied, “It is a physical form entrusted and gathered together by Heaven and Earth.” “Gathered” means accumulated: the human body is formed from the union of the four great elements—earth, water, fire, and wind. Heaven and Earth are originally one Qi (vital energy); Qi has no form, but when it gathers, form appears.
“Life, too, does not belong to you. It is the harmonious Qi entrusted by Heaven and Earth.” The subtle union of the two fives—Yin-Yang—produces harmony, and only then does the Qi of life arise. So life, too, is not yours.
“Your nature and your life do not belong to you. They are the natural order entrusted by Heaven and Earth.” Nature is the principle of life; life is its Qi. Once you are born, nature and life become attached to your body. As the saying goes, they do not wait to be made compliant, but follow their own course. Yet Heaven and Earth, not human beings, govern all this.
“Your descendants, too, do not belong to you. They are the shedding shells entrusted by Heaven and Earth, replacing one another.” Forms pass on without end, like the shells left behind by cicadas. Thus you walk without knowing where you are going, settle without knowing what sustains you, and eat without knowing the taste. These are all workings of the vigorous Yang Qi of Heaven and Earth: through movement, Yang brings forth things. Which of them is “yours”? And how, then, could you possess the Dao?
Confucius asked Lao Dan (Laozi), “Today I have some leisure. May I ask about the highest Dao?” Lao Dan said, “First, fast; clear your thoughts; cleanse your spirit; and cast off your intellectual knowledge. Only then can you know the Dao. The Dao is profound and mysterious, difficult to put into words. I will begin by giving you a general idea: brightness arises from darkness, and order arises from the indistinct chaos.”
The principles for preserving life over the long term require first understanding how to live in one’s dwelling and how to recognize and avoid taboos. Practice should begin in childhood, so that breathing and habits can be cultivated. If one takes it up suddenly, it is difficult to achieve real success.
A Plain-Language Interpretation of the Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
The outward aspect of the Dao: It sets the myriad things in motion without ever running dry. Some of the Dao that a noble person understands is clearly visible in the world; others can see and experience it through outward phenomena.
The inward aspect of the Dao: The myriad things draw nourishment from it, yet cannot drain it. It is like an invisible ruler, silently sustaining everything from within. Another aspect of the Dao understood by a noble person lies whole and hidden within the heart, beyond the direct view of others.
In the Central Plain there was once a kind of person called a Perfected One (one who has attained the Dao). Belonging wholly to neither Yin nor Yang, this person seemed to have escaped the constraints of the two Qi of Yin and Yang. Between Heaven and Earth, the Perfected One still looked like an ordinary person, yet devoted their heart to returning to the root (“root” here means the foundation or source).
From the perspective of the root, “being alive” is simply Qi temporarily gathered into a mass, like the yin-yi—the heavy, murky odor that arises when Qi gathers during fermentation. What great difference is there between a long life and an early death? In the end, both dissolve, and only an instant separates them. Seen this way, why contend over whether Yao was right and Jie wrong?
The Perfected One is not shaped at will by Yin and Yang. Though their appearance remains human, their heart has returned to the source and wanders in the beginning, before things were divided, in harmony with the obscure and wondrous Great Dao. In their eyes, a living person is only Qi temporarily gathered; long life and early death are both fleeting. Sages and madmen alike must come to an end, while Yao may not be entirely right and Jie may not be entirely wrong.
Guo (the fruit of a tree) and luo (the fruit of a herbaceous plant) each follow their own pattern of growth. Human relationships are far more complex than plants, but their order has the same underlying principle as teeth fitting together above and below, each in its proper place.
When a sage encounters duties that must be fulfilled, they do their utmost without forcing matters against their course. Once circumstances have changed, they do not cling rigidly to the old way. The bonds between father and son cannot be undone, and the distinction between ruler and minister cannot be escaped: one fulfills what must be done without turning “keeping one’s integrity” into a badge of ascetic hardship. This does not mean coldly abandoning one’s principles once a matter has passed; it means responding to events and changing with them.
To intentionally bring things into harmony and handle them well is called De (deliberate cultivation). To respond aptly by chance is called the Dao (acting without intention and being in accord). The rise and fall of emperors and kings are likewise connected with the waxing and waning of Dao and De.
Human life between Heaven and Earth is like a colt flashing past a gap—a white horse glimpsed through a crack, gone in the blink of an eye.
This passage discusses the fleeting brevity of life, the separation of body and spirit, and the idea that the Dao cannot be grasped through words yet is present throughout all things.
On the swiftness of life and death
The commentary says: All things suddenly come into being—this describes how easily a person is born in an instant. Then all things suddenly disappear—this describes how easily a person dies in an instant. One has already transformed and emerged in birth, then transformed and withdrawn in death.
The bodily shell and the true self
Living things grieve for it, and human beings mourn. The pouch for Heaven’s bow is unfastened, and the pouch for Heaven’s garments falls away. The human body is like something bound by Heaven in a bow pouch and a garment pouch; once death comes, these restraints are undone and fall away. “Tangled and twisting” describes what this release and falling away look like. As the hun and po souls depart, the body departs with them: this is the “Great Return.” If people understand that death is the greatest return, they need not fear it excessively.
“Form without form” and “the formless within form”: The visible body is an illusion, a temporary assemblage. “Form without form” is the true body, the real; it is free of illusion and destruction, and is what is called that which abides forever and does not perish. This is something everyone can know, but it is not something those who are about to attain the Dao and reach truth should cling to or pursue. It is merely what people in general can discuss together.
The highest Dao and discourse
One who has truly reached truth no longer relies on discussion; once discussion begins, one has not yet arrived. What can be discussed is generally the shallow level of the Dao; what cannot be discussed is the Dao at its utmost. Thus, where the Dao reaches, it falls outside words and needs no elaboration. So long as discussion remains, one is still entangled in traces and effects; the Dao cannot be said to have truly arrived.
Clear seeing without “encounter”: “encounter” means two things meeting. When one sees the Dao clearly, one becomes one with it; there are no longer two things facing one another, so it is called “no encounter.” Argument is inferior to silence. The Dao cannot be grasped by hearing; hearing is inferior to closing oneself off. Here, “closing off” means not being drawn along by external circumstances. This is called “great attainment”: advancing deeply and realizing for oneself through wordlessness and hearing nothing.
Dongguozi asks, “Where is the Dao?”
Dongguozi asked Zhuangzi, “Where exactly is what people call the Dao?” Zhuangzi replied, “It is everywhere.”
The commentary explains: The Dao is inherently present everywhere. Those who seek it often look in lofty and distant places, so Zhuangzi deliberately answers by naming things that seem ever more lowly.
Dongguozi said, “You must be able to point to some place.”
Zhuangzi replied, “It is in ants.”
Dongguozi said, “Why so lowly?”
Zhuangzi replied, “It is in weeds and grasses.”
Dongguozi said, “Why lower still?”
Zhuangzi replied, “It is in bricks and tiles.”
“Why keep asking more deeply, and then still more deeply?”
Zhuangzi said, “In excrement and urine.” (Note: Before it rains, ants emerge from their holes, showing that they understand the principles of Yin and Yang. Tibi and bai grass grow on their own without being sown and harm the Five Grains. They are a metaphor for how, if a person is ruled by selfish desires, those desires can obstruct cultivation of the Great Dao. Since we know that tibi and bai grass must not be left in a field of the Five Grains, we should likewise know that selfish desires cannot remain within the Great Dao. A roof tile begins as clay shaped in a kiln and is then tempered by water and fire; its substance remains unchanged for a thousand years. This is a metaphor for how those who study the Dao should also bring water and fire into balance—that is, harmonize Yin and Yang and complete their cultivation. Excrement and urine are not themselves the named concept “Dao,” but the aperture through which they are expelled is often where Dao cultivators truly gain their strength. The passage for excretion is the grain passage. Its point lies between the Ren and Du meridians, connecting above to the Niwan (the Heavenly Valley) and below to Yongquan. When true Yang first arises, a surge passes through the Three Passes and reaches the crown of the head. This is not achieved through the brute force of holding the breath and shutting everything in. Lü Zu (Lü Dongbin) also said, “Search heaven and dig the earth until you see heavenly light; to plant and grow the Golden Flower is true strength.” From this, one may understand that even excrement and urine carry a trace of the Dao.)
Dongguo Zi did not reply. Zhuangzi said, “What you asked about in the first place never reached the ‘substance’—the essence, the ultimate reality.”
Zheng Huo, an official in charge of the marketplace, once asked the market inspector, the chief market official of the time, “How do you tell whether a pig is fat or thin?” The inspector replied, “By pressing the pig’s thigh near the base” (xi, a large pig). The lower down he pressed, the more clearly he could tell whether it was fat or lean. (The lower you go, the clearer the judgment.)
(Zhuangzi continued:) You need only stop insisting that the Dao must be located in some fixed place. If the Dao escaped all concrete things, how could it be the Dao? The highest Dao is like this; the highest words are so, too. Zhou, bian, and xian are different names, but their meaning is one. (This illustrates that words may differ while the underlying principle remains one.)
We once traveled together in the Palace of Nowhere, discussing the Way in unity, without end. We once joined one another in Wuwei, tranquil and at ease; we joined one another in stillness that was clear, and in harmony that was open and unconfined. (I used words to speak of the Dao, and you used questions to inquire into it, but neither reaches the ultimate. Only by traveling together to the land of Nowhere and discussing the Way of Nowhere as one can we escape all limits. Then perhaps we may join one another in Wuwei, tranquil and still, in quiet clarity and harmonious ease—I will not speak, and you will not ask.)
“Vast and empty—there lies my aspiration.” (My heart and mind are set on this boundless expanse.)
(“Vast emptiness” refers to the ultimate realm of wondrous emptiness. Once I reach it, my aspirations will go no further.) Though I have nowhere to go, I do not know where I will arrive. (When one’s aspirations no longer pursue external things, there is nowhere to go; yet, in stillness, one does not know where one is.) Between coming and going, I do not know where I will stop. (I go and return, yet do not cling to staying.) I am already moving back and forth, yet do not know its beginning or end. (I move back and forth within the Dao; who can know its beginning or end?) I wander amid vast, boundless openness, lingering only across the spacious wilderness. (Great knowledge) enters it, yet does not know its limits. (Entering the Great Dao, one forgets oneself in not knowing where it ends.)
“Things that make things things” refers to the Dao. The Dao is everywhere and nowhere, so it has no boundary with things. What has boundaries is what we call the boundaries of things. (Whatever has a boundary is called a thing; hence we say that things have boundaries. These are the boundaries of things; a boundary is where things meet and intersect.) “The boundary of the boundless” and “the boundless boundary” are both true expressions. (The Dao is the boundary of the boundless, but this does not mean that there is a separate Dao apart from things. It is simply the boundless boundary; both expressions are true.) As for fullness and emptiness, decline and flourishing: what is full or empty is not truly full or empty; what declines or flourishes is not truly in decline or flourishing; what is beginning or ending is not truly beginning or ending; what gathers or disperses is not truly gathered or dispersed. (The original character for “not” was “without.” Fullness and depletion are opposites, as are emptiness and growth: where there is fullness and emptiness, there is depletion and growth; without fullness and emptiness, there is no depletion or growth. Decline and flourishing are opposites, as are destruction and ascent: where there is decline and destruction, there is flourishing and ascent; without decline and destruction, there is no flourishing or ascent. The beginning is the root, and the end is the conclusion: where there is a beginning and an end, there is a beginning and a conclusion; without a beginning and an end, there is neither. Before attaining the Dao, one gathers spirit and essence; after attaining it, one releases boundless radiance. This is gathering and dispersal. Yet gathering and dispersal still belong to deliberate action; gathering and dispersal that are not truly gathering and dispersal are Wuwei (non-action). The Buddhists’ saying, “Sweep away the dust with a single phrase,” and then sweeping away that very phrase, has its origin here. Who says that Nanhua is merely metaphysics, and not a source embraced by Chan Buddhism?)
Ehe Gan (a personal name) and Shennong (an ancient sage king, the legendary Shennong who tasted the hundred herbs) both went to study with Lao Longji (a man who possessed the Dao). Shennong…
The Classic: Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
Plain-language interpretation:
Shennong, a legendary ruler of high antiquity associated with the Daoist traditions of health cultivation and medicine, shut his door and lay with his eyes closed during the day, as if taking a nap. At noon, someone pushed the door open and said, “The Old Dragon has died.” Shennong rose from his armrest, leaned on his staff, and suddenly burst out laughing. He tossed the staff aside and said, still laughing, “Heaven knows that my nature is narrow and vulgar, and that I have been lax and disrespectful. So he abandoned me and let himself die. The Master will no longer have a chance to awaken me with his grand discourse.”
Yan’gang came to pay his respects and, on hearing this, said: “One who takes the Dao as his very being is someone upon whom the gentlemen of the world set their hearts. Yet this man’s understanding of the Dao has not touched even one ten-thousandth of the subtlety of an autumn hair’s tip, and he already knew to gather in his wild words and die. How much more so for one who truly takes the Dao as his very being!” The commentary explains: What is called “gathering in” means restraining sight and hearing, and knowing without speaking; this is what is meant by the obscure. Shennong had barely begun to approach the Dao, yet already knew to gather in his words. How much more so for one who embodies the Dao and has become one with it? Look for it, and you cannot see its form; listen for it, and you cannot hear its sound. When people discuss it in words, they call it “the obscure.” So to speak of the Dao as “the obscure” is already to say that it is not the Dao. The commentary explains: Those who embody the Dao see this, and so restrain their sight and turn back their hearing. To discuss the Dao with others and call it “the obscure” is merely a metaphor. How could the obscure itself be the Dao? Why? The obscure is nothingness. Knowing that what is “there” is “nothing” is still not as good as forgetting even “nothingness.”
Then Taiqing asked Wuqiong, “Do you know the Dao?” Wuqiong replied, “I do not know.” Taiqing went on to ask Wuwei. Wuwei replied, “I know the Dao.” Taiqing asked, “You know the Dao—does it have names and numbers?” Wuwei said, “It does.” Taiqing asked, “Then what are those numbers?” Wuwei replied, “I know that the Dao can make people exalted or humble, can make them restrained or free to disperse. These are the measures by which I know the Dao.” The commentary explains: Wuqiong was right to answer that he did not know. By asking Wuwei, Taiqing had already gone astray. Wuwei offered measures of the Dao as proof of his knowledge, yet the Dao has neither name nor number; anything that can be stated is a name imposed upon it.
Taiqing took these words to Wushi and asked, “If that is so, which is right and which is wrong: Wuqiong’s not knowing or Wuwei’s knowing?” Wushi replied, “Not knowing is profound; knowing is shallow. Not knowing is inward; knowing is outward.” The commentary explains: The Dao cannot be given a name by force. Not knowing means that, having attained the Dao, one forgets both the Dao and one’s knowledge of it. That is why this is called knowing deeply, while knowledge remains shallow; and inward, while knowing remains outward.
One may practice in accord with the Dao yet still be unable to set the Dao aside in one’s heart. That is why this is called shallow: one has not touched the Dao’s root. It is also called inward: what one knows is no more than scattered branches and fragments of the Dao. And so it is called outward.
Then, within Supreme Clarity—the utmost purity in the heavens—someone sighed and said, “Is it truly knowing that counts as not knowing? Or does knowing become a kind of not knowing? Who can understand that not knowing is itself knowing?” Wu START said: The Dao cannot be heard; once heard, it is no longer the Dao. The Dao cannot be seen; once seen, it is no longer the Dao. The Dao cannot be spoken; once spoken, it is no longer the Dao. The Dao is originally without form or sound. Hearing, seeing, and speaking all belong to the side of what exists, so to become entangled in any of them is to miss the mark.
Those who know about form—do they not know that behind form there is, in truth, no fixed “thing”? The Dao should not be confined by a name.
Wu START said: Someone who comes with a question about the Dao does not yet understand it; even the one who comes to ask has not truly heard the Dao. When you ask and I answer, the one who answers has already departed from the Dao, and what the one asking asks about is not the Dao itself. The Dao cannot be questioned as though it were an ordinary matter; questioning cannot bring it to light. Nor can it be met with an ordinary reply: to force an answer is to show that the Dao is absent from the heart. To answer a question that has reached its furthest point without inner understanding—if one does this, then one cannot see through the cosmos from the outside (the utmost limit of what exists is the Supreme Ultimate, Taiji), nor recognize the Great Beginning within (the “existence” that precedes all existence is the Non-ultimate, Wuji). One can then neither ascend Mount Kunlun (the world’s center, rising from earth to heaven and home to divine beings), nor roam through the Great Void (the emptiness that surrounds heaven and earth).
Radiance—the presence in the heavens that shines and illuminates all things—asked Nonbeing, “Are you something that exists, or are you nonbeing?” Radiance could not get an answer and could only study Nonbeing’s appearance closely: profoundly still and empty. All day long, Radiance could not see it, hear it, or touch it. Radiance said, “There it is! Who can reach such a state? I can grasp ‘being’ and ‘nonbeing,’ but I still cannot let go even of ‘nonbeing.’ Once only nonbeing remains, how could one go further still?” (Lü Jifu says: Radiance is the light of the Great Cosmos, shining out and illuminating things. When it reaches Nonbeing, there is nothing left to illuminate. So Radiance cannot tell whether it exists or does not exist, and its question receives no answer. Profoundly still and empty, beyond the reach of sight, hearing, and touch—this is what is meant by Nonbeing. Because it remains caught between being and nonbeing, Radiance cannot reach that state.)
A Plain Language Reading of the Nanhua True Scripture: Commentary and Subcommentary
Light and brightness cannot be separated from “nothing,” so they have not yet truly attained “nonbeing.” Once I treat everything as “nothing,” how can I enter that profound, tranquil realm?
A man in the service of the Grand Marshal, a high official who oversaw military and civil affairs in ancient times, specialized in hammering and forging the hooks used on chariots. Even at the age of eighty, his work was never off by more than the thickness of a single hair. The Grand Marshal asked him, “Are you skilled at your craft, or have you attained the Dao?” The man replied, “I have a way of holding fast. From the age of twenty, I devoted myself to hammering hooks. My eyes saw only hooks, and I looked at nothing else. If it was not a hook, I did not look at it. This is using ‘not using’ to accomplish ‘use,’ and so I have been able to apply my skill to its utmost for a long time. How much more so for someone whose mind is set on nothing at all? What in the world does not benefit from such a person?”
(Lu Xixing’s commentary: Among the Grand Marshal’s officials was a master hook maker whose skill became superb in old age, with no deviation even by the width of a hair. He said, “I have something I hold to”: what he held to was the preservation of pure Qi. He did not look at anything that was not a hook; his mind was single-minded, and “not using” was the root of his use. Thus he could sustain his use over time. What is used is skill; what is not used is Shen (spirit). Shen leaves nothing unused. How much more does this apply beyond a minor craft? All things benefit through him.)
Ran Qiu asked Confucius, “Can we know what existed before Heaven and Earth took shape?” Confucius said, “Yes. The ancient and the present are one and the same.”
(Commentary: Knowing that the ancient is like the present makes it possible to reason from the world as it is now, after Heaven and Earth came into being, to what existed before they did.)
Ran Qiu realized that his question had been mistaken and withdrew. The next day he came to see Confucius again and said, “Yesterday my mind was clear, but today it is confused. May I ask why?” Confucius said, “Yesterday you understood because your mind and spirit first received it. Today you are confused because you are again using that which is ‘without spirit’ to seek ‘spirit.’”
(Commentary: At first, he asked with an empty mind; when it was empty, Shen could arise first, and he could grasp the matter. But once he added his own ideas, he was already without Shen, yet he tried to seek Shen through what was ‘without Shen.’)
“There is no ancient or present, no beginning or end. Before there were descendants, there were already descendants—is that possible?” Ran Qiu could not answer. Confucius said, “Enough. There is no need to answer.”
(Commentary: Ran Qiu wanted to ask about the “primordial state,” before Heaven and Earth had separated. He did not understand that ancient and present, beginning and end, and descendants all belong to the “later state.” Confucius answered in terms of no ancient or present, no beginning or end, and no descendants: he was speaking of the “primordial state,” and Ran Qiu did not understand and could not reply. Confucius’s words, “Enough; there is no need to answer,” mean that nothing more needs to be said.)
A Plain-Language Reading of the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
The first passage (the Dao’s presence; what comes before and after the beginning)
What does it really mean to say, “The Dao is there”? It refers to the stage before Heaven and Earth took shape, when the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) had not yet become manifest, and before your parents had given birth to you. At that point there was only “the absence of this One”—that is, the Great Change, the most primordial state of the hexagrams. Even Qi (vital energy) had not yet appeared. Without Qi, there could be no past or present, beginning or end, or descendants. Only when the “Nameless” became the beginning of Heaven and Earth did past and present, beginning and end arise. And only when the “Named” became the mother of the myriad things did descendants arise. A person must first penetrate the postcelestial realm—with birth and death, names and forms—before being able to verify the precelestial realm, where there is no name or Qi.
Lu Xixing’s commentary (Ran Qiu asks Confucius whether tomorrow can know today)
Ran Qiu asked Confucius whether the day after tomorrow could know today, with a subtle, abstruse meaning behind his question that was hard to state directly. Confucius simply answered, “It can.” The “present” of today was once the “past” of earlier days; what exists with Heaven and Earth is “present,” and what existed before Heaven and Earth is “past.” If there were no “past,” there could be no “present.”
At first Ran Qiu did not understand. He asked again and gradually glimpsed a state of empty clarity, but then began to doubt: just as clouds can suddenly arise in empty space, this “nonspiritual” reality—the elusive, ungraspable essence—can easily become an obstacle. When people then pursue it, one obstacle gives rise to another. So Confucius brought the discussion back to “nothingness”: past and present, beginning and end, and descendants all return to nothingness. Only then do the obstacles become completely transparent.
The second passage (life and death do not depend on one another)
“Do not use life to depart from life and death; do not use death to depart from life and death.” Death does not exist in itself; it becomes apparent because there is life. Life does not exist in itself either; it emerges in turn because there is death. Life and death each abide in their own unity. Neither waits on nor serves as collateral for the other. This unity is like a single root or principle: it is simply the way transformation unfolds.
The third passage (the “thing that things all things” and precedes Heaven and Earth)
The discussion then takes up the postcelestial changes of life and death and asks whether there is something that existed before Heaven and Earth and can “thing all things”—that is, bring each of the myriad things into being as the thing it is. Yet what can thing all things cannot be called a “thing” in the ordinary sense. As soon as it is called a “thing,” it has already entered the realm of things that exist, and can no longer be said to precede Heaven and Earth. Hence the phrase “still there is a thing”: it still belongs to the side of what exists.
The fourth passage (the sage’s love)
The sage’s love for people is boundless and without end, and this too comes from awakening to this level. Because things exist, they meet other things, endlessly. The sage’s activity arises from the emptiness of one’s nature, so it can “have no end at all” without becoming attached.
Love and attachment were added to it as well, passing through the ages in an unbroken succession. If this sage still had “intent,” he would cling to a self; the Great Dao, too, rejects this.
Yan Yuan asked Confucius, “I once heard you say, ‘Neither sending anything off nor welcoming anything in.’ May I ask how one can roam in the heavens without a mind?”
Confucius said, “The ancients adapted outwardly as things changed, while remaining unchanged within. People today are changed inwardly by external things, while outwardly they cannot transform them. To transform outwardly is to respond to what one encounters without leaving a trace; to remain unchanged within is not to be carried along by things. Yet there must be something that remains unchanged before one can transform things. For example, when a person holds firm within and is not changed, they can regard wealth and rank lightly and treat life and death as equal. That is outward transformation. People today have no true ruler within: they are changed by human desires, and constrained by habits and influences from without, unable to be unified. They cannot forget distinctions of rank or regard life and death as equal. That is failure to transform outwardly.
“To change along with things is to be unified in what does not change. To be at ease with change and also at ease with what does not change, and to move in accord with it, is surely to avoid contending with it over abundance or lack. Some treat life and death as equal and forget poverty and prosperity; this is changing along with things, though there may still be something outwardly that does not change. I take ‘the One’ and become one with it; even what is ‘neither one nor changing’ is within change. What is ‘the One’? It is the Golden Elixir, the Great Dao. Thus there is neither change nor its absence. That which is utterly firm in its substance and does not wear itself down against the world is this thing; that which is so subtle in its form that it does not contend with others over abundance is also this thing. It is what ‘treats things as things, yet is not treated as a thing by things.’
“The gardens of Xīwéi, the orchards of the Yellow Emperor, the palaces of Youyu, and the halls of Tang and Wu: if a gentleman is a teacher of the Confucians or Mohists, he will use these to argue over right and wrong—just as the five flavors contend with one another. How much more so do people today! Gardens, orchards, and palaces: as the Dao declines, fewer people roam in them, and the places they inhabit grow narrower. As for the teachers of Confucianism and Mohism, none has fully grasped the Way of remaining unchanged within; hence their disputes over right and wrong.
“The sage dwells among things without harming them. One who does not harm things cannot be harmed by them. Only one who is unharmed can accompany others in welcoming and seeing them off. The sage is skilled at dwelling among the myriad things and forgetting them along with himself; thus there is no distinction between sameness and difference. It is like Heaven hiding away filth and taking in refuse, or Laozi blending his light and mingling with the dust. This is what it means not to harm things. On a small scale, one loves others, and others love and respect one; on a great scale, one transforms all who pass by.”
Preserving the spirit, how could external things harm you? If you hold fast to your spirit, how could anything outside you injure you?
In dealings with others, there is no real “leading and welcoming.” When you associate and interact with people, you are not truly engaged in “leading and welcoming”—others coming forward and you receiving them are separate matters.
When others lead, I do not fall into their leading; when others welcome, I do not fall into their welcoming. Others may “lead”—directing or manipulating me—but I do not get drawn into it. They may “welcome”—seeking my favor or trying to win me over—but I do not get drawn into that either. To say that I lead when others lead, and welcome when others welcome, is simply to follow external circumstances. On my part, there is no deliberate leading or welcoming.
What is meant by “others lead and I lead; others welcome and I welcome” is that I merely follow along passively; inwardly, I have none of the contrivance involved in leading or welcoming.
Mountains, forests, marshes, and open country make me rejoice and feel glad, but before that joy has run its course, sorrow follows. A visit to the mountains, forests, and open country brings delight, yet before the pleasure is over, sadness comes after it.
When sorrow and joy arrive, I cannot fend them off; when they depart, I cannot keep them here. The moment grief or happiness comes, I cannot stop it. When it leaves, I cannot make it stay.
How sad that people in the world truly treat themselves as inns for external things. External things are always present, while the human body does not endure; sorrow and joy are both stirred by circumstances and lie entirely beyond one’s control.
When one travels among mountains, forests, marshes, and open country, one is sure to feel at ease and happy at first. When joy reaches its height, sorrow arises: this is the way of the cycle.
Their arrival cannot be resisted, and their departure cannot be halted. Sorrow and joy are wholly beyond one’s control; one treats one’s own body simply as a lodging place for things.
Things remain, while my body does not.
One knows what it is to encounter good fortune, but not what it is to miss it. One recognizes favorable circumstances and opportunities, but not their absence.
One knows what one can do, but not what one cannot do.
Ignorance and incapacity are, after all, things no person can escape.
Lu Xixing says: “People today know only the good fortune they encounter now, not the lack of it that may come later. They know only that they can travel and enjoy themselves today, not that one day they may be unable to. Ignorance and incapacity are things no person can escape.”
To devote oneself to avoiding what no person can escape—is that not also sad?
The highest words leave words behind; the highest action leaves action behind. The highest speech does not rest on the tongue, and the highest action is not entangled in worldly affairs.
To bring what one knows into line with what is already known is shallow indeed. If one merely tries to make what is “already known” level and uniform, one’s understanding remains shallow.
To pretend to know what one cannot know, or to be able to do what one cannot do, only makes one more clumsy and more weary of heart, and so one becomes sorrowful again.
Thus the highest words do not cling to the fish trap or the hare snare—that is, to the means by which something is conveyed. The highest action is not entangled in worldly affairs; it follows its own transformation and lets things take their natural course. If one insists on making what one knows uniform, yet cannot nurture what one does not know, then one’s understanding is shallow.
Fu Gui-zi says: This chapter elucidates the line from the Dao De Jing, “The nameless is the beginning of Heaven and Earth,” as well as the lines, “Those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know.”
“Those who know” means people who possess knowledge; “Wuweiwei” means the one who does not speak.
Zhi—the one who knows—asks Wuweiwei: “Heaven and Earth are simply one Dao. By what thought or reflection can it be known? Where, and in what way, can it be settled? By what path can it be attained?”
Wuweiwei does not answer, because he does not know and therefore cannot reply.
Zhi then asks Kuang, another character…
Kuang Chu wanted to speak, but forgot what he meant to say, so he went to ask the Yellow Emperor. The Yellow Emperor said, “The Dao seems to know nothing, yet knows everything; it cannot be understood through thought. It seems to be at rest nowhere, yet is at rest everywhere; it cannot be grasped by arranging things through human effort. It seems to possess nothing, yet lacks nothing; it cannot be gained by pursuit. Otherwise, why say, ‘Those who know do not speak; those who speak do not know’? Thus the sage teaches without words. Knowing that the Dao has no fixed form, one cannot obtain it through human effort. De is already within oneself; it has never come from outside. The Dao, De, benevolence, righteousness, and ritual declined one after another, with each stage bringing further loss. When the name of ritual arose, simplicity was scattered and turned into artifice; only then did the world begin to use falsehood to disturb what is true. So those who cultivate the Dao must diminish day by day: first diminishing knowledge, then diminishing ignorance, until they reach a state beyond knowing. Only then can they practice Wuwei (non-action) and leave nothing undone. Once simplicity has been scattered and turned into things, is it not difficult to return to the root?”
Only the great person is a friend to Heaven, knowing neither birth nor death. Ordinary people, by contrast, are at once being born and dying, and at once dying and being born. They let Qi (vital energy) gather and disperse as it will, and so they are born and die, merely sharing the common lot of humankind. And it is not only people who are like this: all things emerge from the hinge and return to the hinge, joining with Qi and becoming one. In life, they are wondrous; in death, they are foul and decayed. In an instant, what is foul and decayed today becomes wondrous tomorrow; in another instant, what is wondrous today becomes foul and decayed in days to come. Things differ, but their Qi does not; thus it is said that all under Heaven is one Qi. Ordinary people receive this Qi and let it gather and disperse of itself, and so they have life and death. The sage receives this Qi and gathers it without letting it disperse; this is why unity is prized. It was not that the Yellow Emperor failed to understand the principle that “those who do not know accord with the Dao, those who forget words draw near to the Dao, and those who ask and answer depart from the Dao.” After hearing the Yellow Emperor’s words, Kuang Chu believed that he understood.
Heaven and Earth forget their beauty; the four seasons keep no record of their accomplishments; the myriad things keep no record of what they achieve. The sage unites Heaven and Earth, the four seasons, and the myriad things in a single body. He acts through Wuwei and does not strive, yet in truth leaves nothing undone and nothing unaccomplished. The world has numinous intelligence, and so there is transformation in a hundred ways; there is utmost essence, and so there is life and death. Things that are square or round, coarse or crude, are found everywhere; nothing is ever otherwise. The six directions are not too vast to contain all that is great, and the finest autumn hair is not too small for anything fine to enter it. All under Heaven has its rises and falls; the four seasons have their cycles. What seems absent is in fact present; what seems to have form is in fact spirit.
Spirit operates naturally, without deliberate effort; this is the foundation of the Great Dao. Nie Que asked Bei Yi about the Dao. Bei Yi said, “Do not wear out your body or let your gaze wander aimlessly. The harmonious Qi of Heaven will come of its own accord. Do not let your intellect run wild or your judgments become confused. Spirit will naturally come and settle within you. De will soon be entrusted to you, and the Great Dao will soon make its home in you. Simply recognize that today is right and yesterday was wrong. Why pursue the reasons any further?” After sleeping, Nie Que awoke already wandering in the Heaven of “forgetting words.” Bei Yi departed, delighted, and said, “Nie Que’s body is like a withered corpse, and his mind like dead ashes. He seems ignorant, yet he has grasped this truth. Otherwise, how could he be renewed with each day and fade into darkness with each month? Acting without a mind of one’s own, he follows the Dao of Heaven; human schemes cannot fathom it. What an extraordinary person!”
Shun asked Cheng, “Can the Dao be obtained and possessed?” Cheng replied, “Your body does not belong to you to begin with, so how could you possess the Dao? If you did not know that you had a body, you would not be alive. With life comes nature and life; with nature and life come descendants. Heaven and Earth are the great parents. Your body is not yours: it is provisionally formed from the Four Great Elements of earth, water, fire, and wind. Heaven and Earth have entrusted you with a form. Life is not yours: it arises when the two Qi of Yin and Yang blend in subtle harmony. Heaven and Earth have entrusted you with this harmony. Nature and life are not yours: Creation and transformation express their principles as nature and condense their Qi as life; only when the two are joined do they take shape. Heaven and Earth have entrusted you with this ordering. Your descendants are not yours: they pass on like fire carried from one piece of kindling to another, with no knowing when the flame will end. Heaven and Earth have entrusted you with this succession. Even your movements, rest, and eating and drinking are driven by the force of Heaven’s Yang Qi; you cannot claim them as your own. So how could you possess the Dao?”
Confucius asked Lao Dan about the Dao. Lao Dan said, “First, fast—not with the fast of ritual sacrifice, but with the fasting of the mind. Begin by clearing and washing the inner heart, leaving nothing behind. Purify the spirit as though washing snow, so that no speck can stain it. Strike down the intellect until no thought arises; only then can I speak with you, briefly, about the outline of the Dao. The Dao is at once hidden and manifest: radiant in its manifestation, obscure in its concealment. Nothing manifest in the world is without roots in what is hidden. The Dao is at once within and without: what has distinctions belongs to the outer, while what has no form belongs to the inner. Nothing outside arises without first emerging from within. The cosmos is filled with spirit. When spirit is concealed, there is no form or image, and the Dao is the Great Beginning. When spirit appears, names and things arise, and form takes shape afterward.”
An Explanatory Commentary on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence
The number of Jing is nine, the number of Yang: True Yang rises from within the earth, so animals with nine orifices are born from the womb and walk upon the ground.
Eight is the number of Yin: True Yin descends from the heavens, so animals with eight orifices hatch from eggs and fly through the sky.
This Dao moves back and forth without a trace, enters and exits without a gate, and reaches in every direction without cease.
The Perfected One, a person who has attained the Dao, obtains it: though the body is sovereign, the spirit is numinous; through Wuwei (non-action), nothing remains undone. When Creation and Transformation obtain it, Heaven and Earth remain lofty and vast, while the sun, moon, and myriad things continue to move and flourish.
Rather than rely on wisdom and be rejected by the sages, it is better to cast wisdom aside and be preserved by them.
Its expanse has no bounds, and its movement has no point of origin. The myriad things draw from it their beginnings and their life, without end.
Unless one is a Perfected One, one cannot be neither Yin nor Yang and leap beyond Yin and Yang. How else could one roam at the beginning of Nothingness?
Only by returning to the source can one attain the same longevity as Heaven. Sages and madmen alike may encounter one another without opposition; better to go beyond them than to cling to their ways. To deliberately cultivate the virtue of mediation is inferior to the Dao of responding spontaneously without intention. This is the distinction between rulers.
Human life unfolds between Heaven and Earth, and time passes like a white colt flashing past a gap. In an instant, one emerges from the hinge of change; in the next, one enters it. In a moment, the dead become alive, and the living die. When things grieve over their transformation, I say Heaven is releasing them from their burdens. When people mourn the dead, I say Heaven is freeing them from their loss. Once the hun and po souls have departed, the body too returns to the same end.
Who knows that alongside bodily form there is also a formless form? It comes with the body but does not depart with it. Learning can be attained through practice, but argument cannot bring one to it. Thus, meet it with the eyes rather than explain it with the mouth; hear it with the ears, but better still, hear it with the heart. To hear what cannot be heard and attain what cannot be attained—this is called great attainment.
When Dongguozi insists on asking where the Dao is, the answer is: it is in ants and crickets, for they know Yin and Yang; it is in wild grasses, for they do not let the false confuse the true; it is in tiles and bricks, formed through the tempering of water and fire; it is in excrement and urine, for from this opening the wondrous can be transformed.
Though the Dao does not adhere to things, neither is it separate from them. Seeking the Dao in “being” is inferior to seeking it in “nonbeing.” Those who dwell together in Wuwei are tranquil and still, distant and clear, harmonious and at ease. They come and go without a trace, with neither beginning nor end.
Plain-Language Interpretation of the Commentary on the Nanhua True Classic
Is the Dao (the Way) one of the “things” among all things? Everything has limits, but the Dao has none. If we draw boundaries using fullness and emptiness, rise and decline, life and death, beginning and end, or gathering and dispersal, rather than taking the Dao’s boundlessness as our boundary, then these changes cannot be spoken of at all.
Ahegan and Shennong, an ancient sage ruler who tasted the hundred herbs, studied with Lao Longji. When Lao Longji died, he passed on the teaching of “wordlessness” through silence, and Shennong received the teaching in this way.
Yan’gang, a man’s name, came to offer condolences and said: “The Dao has no form and makes no sound. Looking at it with the eyes or listening for it with the ears does not reveal the Dao. Calling it ‘dark and obscure’ does not reveal it either. For the Dao is not merely ‘nothing’; it is the ‘nothingness of nothingness,’ which dissolves even ‘nothing.’ So, foolish people cannot accord with the wordless teaching or the Dao of Wuwei (non-action), yet they want to ‘know’ the Dao by counting things such as high and low, gathering and dispersal. Is that right?”
Wushi, a wise figure in a parable, said: “Not knowing is profound; knowing is shallow. Why? Knowing makes things explicit and cannot be kept within, so it is shallow. Not knowing nourishes and does not recklessly reveal itself, so it is profound. Not knowing is within; knowing is outside. Why? Knowing grasps only appearances, so it is outside. Not knowing alone contains the numinous intelligence, so it is within.”
Clearly, the Dao cannot be heard or seen, and cannot be forced into words. Those who insist on asking about the Dao become trapped in appearances; those who insist on answering become trapped in their own minds. Only those who see through the cosmos can roam in spirit through the Great Beginning, look down upon Kunlun, the sacred mountain, take the Great Void as their substance, and encompass all that lies beyond Heaven and Earth.
Guangyao asked “Nonbeing” about the Dao: “Sir, are you being or nonbeing?” Guangyao could see nothing, hear nothing, and touch nothing, and said: “You have reached the utmost limit! I can grasp being and nonbeing, but I cannot grasp ‘the nothingness of nothingness.’ Once everything has been reduced to nothing, from where can one enter that deep, empty realm? I see that even the craftsmen who hammer hooks in the Grand Marshal’s mansion use their bodies for practical work while borrowing the spirit’s capacity for what is useless. How much more, then, is this true of what has no use at all and borrows nothing: how could it nourish the myriad things?”
Ran Qiu wanted to know what came before Heaven and Earth existed. At first he held his spirit in emptiness, but the moment a thought arose, his spirit was obstructed by discrimination. How could he know that before Heaven and Earth existed, before past and present, there was no end or beginning? Without ancestors, how could there be descendants? In short, all was nothing. To know nothing is to know being: nonbeing can give rise to being. In the world, there was originally no death; because there is life, there is death. There was originally no life; because there is death, there is life. To know that life and death do not depend on one another is to know their underlying reality.
The True Classic of Southern Florescence: Miscellaneous Chapters, “Gengsang Chu” — A Plain-Language Reading
The text first says that the various “things” born of Heaven and Earth come first, followed by the various “things” born after Heaven and Earth. Things depend on one another and are distinguished from one another.
“Without end” means that there is no limit. The sages therefore used human relationships to instruct the world, adding such things as compassion and affinity; these, too, are without end. Yan Hui wanted to use “nothingness” to… (the passage continues) wander in the mindless Dao of Heaven, clinging neither to what is coming nor to what is arriving.
Confucius said: The ancients changed outwardly along with their times; nothing remained unchanged or untransformed. Inwardly, however, they held fast to an integrity that did not change or transform. People today are inwardly swayed and changed by hardship and success; outwardly, they either flee poverty and low status or pursue wealth and high status. Their outward appearance changes as well. So the side of us that changes along with external things must be brought into unity with the side that does not change or transform. Only then will things be right. To treat what does not change as itself a kind of change is not to understand. Not even knowing that there is what does not change is an even greater lack of understanding.
I neither shrink back in weakness nor press greedily ahead. This is called wandering in the Heaven of neither pursuing what is coming nor welcoming what is arriving.
From the time of Xiwenshi, a legendary ancient ruler, to the time of the Yellow Emperor, royal gardens changed into cultivated plots. From the time of Youyu, or Shun, to the time of Tang and Wu, palaces and houses changed in style. As the Dao declined, fewer and fewer people could wander in accordance with it. Gentlemen, Confucians, and Mohists each clung to their own views, each declaring right what they approved and wrong what they rejected. How much more so is this true of people today? Where there is right and wrong, there is mutual injury. Only the sage does not harm things, and things cannot harm the sage.
“Pursuing” is still pursuing, and “welcoming” is still welcoming. Not falling into pursuit or welcome means that in my heart there is neither pursuit nor welcome.
I sigh alone over people who make their bodies an inn for the myriad things. Mountains, forests, and open fields can fill them with joy, while external things can make them sorrowful. When joy comes, they cannot block it; when it goes, they cannot keep it. They know only that things may be encountered, not that they may not be; they know only what they can know and do, not what they cannot know or do. This is unavoidable in human life, yet people hope to escape it by relying on their ability to wander and master things. How sad!
Thus, the highest words are wordless; the highest action is Wuwei (non-action); the highest knowledge is knowing nothing. One cannot use what one does not know to nourish and preserve oneself, yet one tries to make the great knowledge conform to limited understanding. This is a great loss of Wuwei. It is called failing to answer the question of knowledge.
Plain-Language Interpretation
“Before there was anything that could be called a ‘thing,’ that was the utmost of knowing. To go on speaking of ‘moving’ and the like is not worth the effort. So one must first forget the fixation on ‘being a person’ before one can truly be a person.”
(This follows the previous chapter’s discussion of “knowing” and “forgetting.” The general idea is that the highest knowing comes before anything has been distinguished as a “thing.” Being attached to shifting judgments or calculating gains and losses is insignificant. In cultivation, one must first let go of the cleverness used in dealing with people and affairs to accord with what it means to be a person of Heaven.)
Among the attendants of Lao Dan (disciples who served under Lao Dan) was a man named Gengsang Chu, who alone had grasped Lao Dan’s Dao. He went north and lived in the Mount Wei Lei region (Wei Lei is a mountain name; one account associates it with the area around Mount Yu in the “Tribute of Yu”).
At first, those around him who regarded their command of the classics and their scheming as “wisdom” left. The female attendants who prided themselves on being gentle and benevolent also grew distant. He dismissed those serving at his side who made a strength of “wisdom” or a virtue of “benevolence.” This is the kind of choice Zhuangzi often describes as “cutting off sagehood and abandoning wisdom”: governing oneself and others without relying on clever schemes or a reputation for benevolence.
Gengsang Chu lived only with people who were misshapen and ugly, and had rough, unkempt people run errands and attend to him. After three years, Mount Wei Lei had a great harvest.
(The commentary suggests that the people stopped pursuing clever schemes and devoted themselves to farming, so the crops flourished.)
The people of Wei Lei gathered and said, “When Master Gengsang first arrived, we thought he was extraordinary. Now, even after spending every day with him, we still find his goodness beyond words; the longer we reflect on it, the more we find it inexhaustible. Could he be a sage? Why don’t we honor him together as we would a spirit receiving sacrifice or the gods of the soil and grain?” (“Set him up as the ritual corpse and offer blessings to him; honor him as the god of the soil and grain”: in ancient rites, having someone represent a deity to receive offerings and making sacrifices to the gods of the soil and grain were highly solemn acts of reverence. The people wanted to honor Gengsang Chu as a divine being and a ruler.)
When Gengsang Chu heard of this, he sat facing south, but looked troubled. His disciples were puzzled, and he said:
“Why are you surprised by me? In spring, Yang Qi stirs and the plants sprout; in autumn, all things ripen and bear fruit. Do spring and autumn come from nowhere?”
(Heaven and Earth follow the seasons according to their own Dao. There is no need to credit any one season or person with the achievement.)
“The Great Dao has already passed through me.” (He felt uneasy because he believed he was acting in accordance with the Dao of Heaven and feared falling into self-congratulation over his virtue.) “I have heard that the Perfect Person—one who is united with the Dao and takes the Dao as their very being—lives in a humble room with walls only a few feet high, while the people follow their own inclinations and do not know where they are going. The Perfect Person is empty, still, and free of attachment; even within a tiny enclosure, people outside follow their own natural impulses and are not led by the nose. Yet now these few people of Wei Lei are whispering among themselves and want to take up sacrificial vessels to honor me. How could I be at ease?”
Key points for understanding the surrounding passage
After receiving Lao Dan’s Dao, Gengsang Chu deliberately distanced himself from reputations for “wisdom” and “benevolence” and lived among simple, rustic people. The region prospered naturally. When the people revered him so much that they wanted to offer him sacrifices as they would a deity of the soil and grain, he instead grew uneasy. By invoking spring’s growth and autumn’s ripening, he explains that the great beauty of Heaven and Earth does not claim credit. The way of the Perfect Person is to seek no credit and to keep people from becoming dependent on oneself, rather than to accept worship and become a local god or ruler. This accords with Zhuangzi’s consistent opposition to rule by human artifice and to using the name of benevolence and righteousness to lord it over others.
A plain-language interpretation of a passage related to the Nanhua Zhenjing (True Classic of Southern Florescence)
(Gengsangzi) humbly says before the worthy: “Am I perhaps merely a petty man who holds the ritual vessels and recites the prayers at sacrifices? That is why I cannot put Lao Dan’s (Laozi’s) words out of my mind, yet cannot explain them clearly.”
A disciple says: “That is not so. Eight feet make one xun, and two xun make one chang. An ordinary ditch is only as deep as its name suggests: a large fish cannot turn around in it, but small fish such as salamanders and loaches can swim freely. Six feet make one bu, and seven feet one ren. On a hill only a few bu or ren high, a large beast cannot hide its body, while wildcats and foxes can lord it over the place. What of honoring the worthy and appointing the capable, putting good government first, and sharing benefits with the people? Yao and Shun did just that in ancient times. Why should the people of Weilei be any different? You should listen to them, Master. Even sages as great as Yao and Shun could not govern the world by themselves; they had to rely on worthy and capable people. How much more so in Weilei? Let them make offerings and prayers for you. Why remain troubled and unable to let the matter go?”
Gengsangzi says: “Young man, come here. A huge beast that can swallow a carriage is bound to be trapped or struck by an arrow if it leaves the mountains and roams alone. A great fish that can swallow a small boat, once swept onto shore and left without water, can be bullied even by ants. So birds and beasts do not shun high places, and fish and turtles do not shun deep water. Those who preserve their lives and keep their bodies whole should likewise seek deep places to hide—not because they wish to be seen, but because they do not. They live quietly and withdraw from view, entrusting themselves to secluded places. All things preserve themselves in this way; how much more should those who preserve both body and spirit? To do less than birds, beasts, fish, and turtles shows that a reputation made conspicuous in the world will surely harm its bearer.
“And those two, Yao and Shun—why praise them so extravagantly? They were fond of argument and action, like people who recklessly bore holes in a wall and build it up again, decorating their halls and chambers, thereby damaging what was simple and unadorned. They were also like people sowing weeds where nothing should be planted, disrupting the life already there. This is what it means to say that Yao and Shun were far from the Great Dao. Cutting one’s hair and then combing it every day, counting out grains of rice to cook: these images suggest that their efforts were petty and trivial, not governance in accord with the Great Dao.”
Note: This passage belongs to the context of the Zhuangzi, in the chapter “Gengsang Chu” and related material. “Weilei” is a place name. “Ritual officiant” refers to the person who presides over a sacrifice and recites the prayers. Gengsangzi is a realized figure in the Zhuangzi, and Lao Dan is Laozi. Explanatory notes on the pronunciation and historical measures—such as xun, chang, bu, and ren—have been incorporated into the interpretation to make the original meaning easier to understand.
This dialogue comes from the Nanhua Zhenjing (also known as the Zhuangzi), discussing the Daoist critique of "action-oriented" governance and the principles of self-cultivation.
The passage begins by criticizing governance that exalts the worthy and employs cleverness. It argues that promoting worthiness leads people to vie with one another (as everyone strives to appear more virtuous), while employing the clever encourages deception and contention among the populace. Such methods cannot truly bring prosperity to the people. In the present age, excessive pursuit of profit has led to extreme cases where sons murder fathers and ministers kill rulers, with daylight robberies becoming commonplace. The roots of this chaos were actually sown during the reigns of Yao and Shun, though the symptoms had not yet manifested then. By later generations, the disorder intensified to the point where people might even resort to cannibalism.
At this point, Nanrong Chu (a disciple of Gengsang Chu) sits up respectfully and asks, "For someone like me, already advanced in years, how should I practice to attain the state you describe?" Gengsang Chu replies, "Preserve your physical form, safeguard your inborn nature, and do not allow distracting thoughts to trouble your Shen (spirit). Persist in this for three years, and you will approach this state."
Nanrong Chu then raises another doubt: "Eyes and ears—these organs seem the same in everyone, yet the blind cannot see and the deaf cannot hear. The mind works similarly—those who are deranged cannot control themselves. Our physical constitutions are nearly identical, so why do such differences arise? Is it due to external influences? I wish to recover my original mind but cannot find it."
This passage embodies key Daoist ideas: excessive emphasis on worthiness and cleverness disrupts the natural order, and the essence of self-cultivation lies in returning to one's inherent nature. Nanrong Chu's confusion also reflects a common challenge in spiritual practice—understanding the principles intellectually but encountering obstacles in their application.
A Modern Interpretation:
(Gengsangzi says:) If they cannot understand one another, then perhaps Rong Chu is ashamed of what he has learned about cultivating himself.
Gengsangzi said, “That is all I have to say. Yuequ, take care of your body and cherish your life. Do not let your thoughts churn and disturb you.” Yuequ listened to the teaching only reluctantly. It reached his ears, but he had not yet truly grasped it.
Gengsangzi continued, “A tiny bee cannot transform the green worm inside a bean, and a Yue chicken cannot hatch a goose’s egg, but a Lu chicken can. Chickens are alike in their nature, yet some can do this and others cannot; their abilities differ in size from the outset. My own ability is still too small to transform you. Why not go south and seek out Laozi?”
Rong Chu shouldered a load of provisions and walked for seven days and nights before reaching Laozi. Laozi said, “Have you come from Chu?” Rong Chu replied, “Yes.” Laozi said, “Why have you come with others? There are so many of them.” (The Dao is originally one and undivided. Chu had arrived with three sayings in mind, and the turmoil of his thoughts was almost visible between his brows. That is why Laozi said he had come with others. It is just as Buddhists say: “There is a great commotion in your heart.”) Rong Chu looked back in alarm, not understanding what Laozi meant by “coming with others.”
Laozi said, “You do not understand what I mean?” Rong Chu lowered his head in shame, then looked up and sighed. “Now I have forgotten how to answer, and in doing so I have also lost the question I wanted to ask.” (Forgetting the answer and losing the question marks a great turning point between delusion and awakening. Unless people emerge from minor delusion, they cannot attain great awakening.)
Laozi said, “Why do you say that?” Rong Chu replied, “If I know nothing, people call me foolish. If I do know something, it brings anxiety to my body. If I am not benevolent, I will harm others; if I am benevolent, I bring anxiety upon myself. If I am not righteous, I will harm others; if I am righteous, I bring anxiety upon myself. (Laozi’s Dao calls for abandoning sageliness and knowledge, and abandoning benevolence and righteousness. Chu wanted to learn this Dao, so he began by asking about these three things.) How can I escape this? These three things are what trouble me. I hope that by traveling to Chu I can seek Laozi’s advice.”
Laozi said, “A moment ago I saw anxiety between your brows. Why not go south and seek Laozi?”
The phrase “between the eyebrows and eyelashes” means that a sage—someone who sees clearly into things and understands the natural Way—can understand a person’s heart just by looking at their eyes and brows. “That is how I knew you” means that I had already seen your true condition. Now you have taken these words to heart, and have become even more certain that what the eyes and brows reveal cannot be wrong.
Yet now you look dazed and distraught, as though you had lost your parents, probing the depths of the sea with a short pole. This means that you are trying to measure profound and far-reaching truths with limited, paltry means. You have truly lost touch with your own nature, with nowhere in your heart to turn for refuge. You want to return to your true nature, but cannot find the way in; this is indeed pitiable. You want to know the natural Way but have not managed to do so, like a poor man who does not know there is a precious pearl hidden in his sleeve.
Nan Rongchu asked to stay and continue learning. He drew close to what he liked and considered right, and kept away from what he disliked and considered wrong. Ten days later, he was still troubled. Laozi saw him again and asked, “Have you become practiced in cleansing your mind and body?” Nan Rongchu looked downcast; inwardly he was still uneasy and conflicted, and he still held on to his likes and dislikes. When cultivation has become refined, one is not troubled without cause, nor swayed by likes and dislikes. His continuing distress showed that his careful efforts had not yet gone far enough. This was why he was eager for quick results but had not achieved them.
When external constraints are tangled and numerous, they are hard to grasp one by one, so one can only shut them out from within. When inner constraints are entangled and confused, they are hard to sort out, so one can only block them from without. This is how people become trapped by obstacles within and without. The ears and eyes belong to the external; the mind and intellect belong to the internal. Those who preserve their bodies and nourish their lives do not cling inwardly to the distinctions made by the mind, nor are they drawn outwardly by what the ears hear and the eyes see. To focus instead on sounds and sights is another matter.
When a person is entangled by external things, the mind’s resolve is sure to be obstructed within. Now, to seek order amid turmoil in the outer world is to have no settled view within. When desires and aversions bind the mind within, the eyes and ears are sure to lose their bearings in the outer world. Now, to seek order amid turmoil within is to have no firm ground to hold to without.
A person bound within cannot even uphold Dao and De, so how could someone who abandons the Dao and goes on their way?
If one is constrained within by various desires and bound without by fame and profit, then, with inner and outer entanglements working upon each other, even someone who already has Dao and De within cannot maintain their own composure. How much less could someone wholeheartedly follow the Dao?
Nanrong Chu said: “A person in the village falls ill, and the villagers come to ask about it. The sick person can describe the illness; yet, as far as the sick person is concerned, an illness that can be described is not yet a serious one.”
Someone who can recognize illness as illness is often not yet very ill.
“For someone like me, Chu, hearing of the Great Dao is like taking medicine that makes the illness worse.”
This illness arose from the earlier “ten days of worry.” It is a metaphor for wanting to hear of the Great Dao without knowing where one’s affliction lies: whatever one hears only makes one more confused.
“I only wish to hear the essentials of preserving life.”
This is just what the Buddhist scriptures call delighting in a lesser teaching. Such a person does not understand that the essentials of preserving life cannot be grasped without Dao and De.
Laozi said: “The essentials of preserving life: Can you embrace the One? Can you keep from losing it?”
This is the meaning of the Dao De Jing: “Carrying body and soul, embrace the One; can you keep them from separating?”
“Can you know good and ill fortune without divination?”
This is the meaning of: “Without going out the door, know the world; without looking out the window, know the Way of Heaven.”
“Can you know when to stop? Can you bring things to an end?”
Know when to stop and when enough is enough.
“Can you leave other people aside and seek the answer in yourself?”
Attend urgently to correcting yourself, with no time to concern yourself with others.
“Can you be unencumbered?”
Be free of all burdens.
“Can you be simple and unknowing?”
Make no display of cleverness.
“Can you be like an infant?”
Concentrate the Qi and become supple, like an infant.
An infant cries all day, yet its throat does not grow hoarse. This is harmony at its utmost.
An infant keeps its hands clenched all day, yet its fingers do not stiffen. This is because it shares in De.
If a person keeps a hand clenched for a long time, then when they open it, movement will be impeded. An infant is different: this is simply the nature of each one, sharing in the purity of De.
“An infant looks all day without its eyes growing weary, …”
The text here seems incomplete or affected by a variant in transmission. A common version of the related passage in the Zhuangzi reads, “An infant looks all day without blinking.” If the sense is taken as “looking,” this too fits the example of harmony at its utmost.
According to the punctuation commonly used in commentaries, the next line should read:
“An infant looks all day without blinking, …”
Paired with “harmony at its utmost” and “sharing in De,” this means that the infant’s eyes do not tire and its spirit remains whole.
“Blinking, yet one’s attention is not turned outward”: When the eyes blink, Jing and Qi shift. It is like a child looking at something as though not seeing it, unaware that there are things outside. As soon as one recognizes the existence of external things, the heart-mind becomes partial.
“Walking without knowing where one is going; dwelling at rest without knowing what one is doing”: This describes acting without intention, following things as they unfold.
“Winding along with things and moving with their waves”: To wind along is to follow external things, bending with their current without resistance. This is what is called the essential method of nourishing life (the key to preserving the body and sustaining life).
Nan Rongchu asked: “Then is this the Virtue of the perfected person, one who has attained the Dao?”
The reply was: “Not yet. This is only what is called ‘ice melting and frost dissolving.’ The Virtue of the perfected person has no agent or object and clings to nothing. Once there is a ‘can’ in the statements above, there is an agent and an object, and attachment. The human heart-mind is originally like clear water: neither being nor nonbeing. When obscured by the desires of things, it is like water frozen into ice. Hearing the Dao and awakening to its principle is like ice melting and frost dissolving.
“The perfected person is the same as other people: eating on the ground together (when others eat, they eat too), and sharing in joy beneath Heaven (when others are happy, they are happy too; they are no different from others). They are not disturbed by things’ benefits or harms, do not join others in strange behavior, do not scheme with them, and do not contrive things with them. They regard deliberate action as a trace and doing nothing as natural. They depart lightly and freely and arrive open and unknowing, coming and going at ease. This is the essential method of nourishing life.”
Nan Rongchu asked: “Then has one reached the goal?”
The reply was: “Not yet. I told you long ago: Can you be like an infant? An infant moves without knowing what it is doing and walks without knowing where it is going. Its body is like a withered branch, its heart-mind like dead ashes. In this way, misfortune does not come, and good fortune does not arrive—for misfortune and good fortune arise from gain and loss, and calamities among people arise from likes and dislikes. Now, withered wood and dead ashes are utterly without feeling, so likes and dislikes, gain and loss, have no way to arise. This is the practice of ‘dying to the heart-mind’ undertaken by the two vehicles in the Buddhist path. Even a trace of something to grasp remains. This is a level that Chu can readily attain, and it is the ordinary way of nourishing life.
“The cosmos within is calm and settled”: The cosmos within is the ruler of the heart-mind; when it is settled, wisdom arises, and one’s sincerity is complete. ‘Radiance issues from Heaven’: Once the radiance of Heaven appears, people see that person…”
Though outwardly an ordinary person, one's inner being is already connected with the Heavenly Dao (Tian Dao). This is the state where one appears human yet acts in harmony with heaven. Those who cultivate body and mind to achieve such tranquility attain an enduring realm. To such people, the multitudes will flock, and heaven itself will lend aid (the term "she" implies drawing others near while uniquely embodying Dao's truth amidst humanity). Those whom the multitudes follow are called "heaven's people" (transcending ordinary states), while those aided by heaven are called "heaven's children" (cherished by heaven for embodying its will).
Practitioners must study truths that seem unlearnable, walk paths that appear impassable, and discern principles that defy ordinary analysis. True wisdom lies in recognizing the limits of knowledge—knowing where unknowable realms begin marks the highest attainment. While the knowable aspects of all things can be studied, practiced, and examined, Dao's essence transcends conventional understanding. Thus one explores the unknown based on the known, stopping where appropriate. Violating this principle invites defeat by "heaven's forge" (the creative work of nature).
Gather resources to nourish the body, maintain reverential caution to nurture spiritual nature (xing), and preserve inner devotion to penetrate all phenomena. Having done so, recognize that encountered calamities stem from heavenly decree rather than human fault—never let these disrupt inner attainment, nor allow distractions to invade the "spirit terrace" (lingtai, the mind). The true spirit terrace appears to maintain something yet transcends deliberate holding, arriving at spontaneous perfection.
(Note: This passage teaches transcendence of superficial perception while maintaining detachment within worldly life. Key concepts include "heaven's forge" as nature's formative power and "spirit terrace" as Daoist terminology for consciousness. Cultivation requires simultaneous care for form and spirit, preserving equanimity amid external changes to ultimately reach the wuwei (non-action) state of "holding without holding.")
This passage expounds on the principles of mental cultivation and ethical conduct. If a person lacks true inner mastery (referring to steadfast moral principles), their heart becomes as empty as something without foundation. In such a state, any attempt to grasp external supports proves futile.
The text then critiques two types of negative behavior: First, those who speak and act without sincerity, whose expressions never align with reality—like speaking recklessly. Second, those who knowingly persist in wrongdoing, compounding their errors. Such individuals cannot escape retribution, whether exposed for public misdeeds and condemned by society, or punished by unseen spirits for secret transgressions.
It distinguishes between "inner cultivation" (neigong) and "outer pursuit" (waiqiu): Those devoted to inner refinement don't chase empty fame, yet naturally radiate virtue. Those obsessed with external reputation and gain remain shallow, like merchants. Truly virtuous individuals often appear unremarkable—their profound simplicity allowing them to embrace all things. By contrast, those who flaunt wealth and status cannot even contain themselves, let alone others, ultimately facing abandonment.
The passage concludes with a merchant metaphor: A wise merchant hides precious treasures, just as the truly virtuous may outwardly seem simple. This state of humble emptiness becomes the vessel that contains all things.
All things are in fact already present within me. If a person is driven by external things and pursues desires merely to get by, never turning back even at the cost of their life, they cannot even contain themselves—how could they contain others? Without the capacity to accommodate others, people will leave, and no one will remain close to them. Without close companions, they become cut off from external things, and humanity as a whole can no longer keep them company.
No weapon is more deadly than the will; swords such as Moye come second. What the heart-mind turns toward is called the will. A single careless thought can bring great disaster. This is what is meant by desire erupting with a violence as cruel as warfare.
No “bandit” is greater than Yin-Yang (life and death); no one can escape it within Heaven and Earth. It is not Yin-Yang itself that harms you, but your own heart-mind that brings you to this state. The commentary says: ordinary bandits can be avoided, but the turning point between life and death lies amid sitting, lying down, and eating. Once you lose due measure, even the most adept at evasion cannot escape Yin-Yang’s passage within Heaven and Earth. Yin-Yang does not rob you; rather, the heart-mind fails to nourish you, and your spirit is worn away. At first, it is like Water and Fire not yet having crossed over, unable to reach completion. In the end, Yang Qi is stripped away until only pure Yin remains: this is death. One has robbed and attacked oneself.
The Dao runs through all things. One may speak of “division,” “completion,” and “destruction,” but what the noble person dislikes about division is that division makes it necessary to “make things complete.” What they dislike about making things complete is that it depends on human effort. The Dao is originally vast and all-pervading: it has no division, no completion, no destruction, and nothing that needs completing, yet nothing is left incomplete. Why call it “all-pervading”? It is like rivers flowing into the sea and the qi of mountains and marshes communicating: what pervades reaches everywhere. Once things are divided, there is what is partial and what is not. What pervades begins without a head; once something is regarded as complete, there is what is whole and what is not. What pervades ends without a tail. If one clings to “destruction,” one is confined by number and cannot go beyond it. Wherever power falls short, one must divide one’s efforts to make things complete. Only when they are complete can the spirit run through them; if they are even slightly incomplete, things become lopsided and depleted. The noble person dislikes “division” and dislikes “making things complete” not because they dislike the act of completing things itself, but because they dislike the spirit having to be made whole through inspection and correction. The Great Dao runs through things naturally: if there is no division, how could there be completion or destruction? And where would there be any question of completeness or incompleteness?
(The final phrase, “therefore, going out and not…,” appears unfinished in the original. In keeping with the argument, it is often completed with “coming in” or similar wording. The general sense is that seeking outwardly without returning inward is misguided. Here the translation follows the common interpretation in the commentaries: the Dao pervades all things without depending on division or deliberate completion.)
A Plain-Language Interpretation
“Reversing one’s gaze to see the ghosts.” (People are born by receiving the Qi of Yin and Yang; this is “going forth.” Within the human body is one or two liang of innate true Yang Qi, which grows by one liang each year. By the age of fifteen, it has grown to fifteen liang, making a jin in all. This is pure Yang Qi. When sexual desire awakens, true Yang is depleted through relations between men and women. That is why extraordinary men spare no expense to visit immortal teachers and seek companions, hoping to obtain a method for prolonging life, restore pure Yang, and bring forth the Yang spirit. Those who do not understand know only how to go forth with their true Yang, not how to turn it back, and so fall into the realm of ghosts. Everything they see, therefore, is nothing but ghosts.)
“Going forth and attaining this is called attaining death: to perish and yet possess a substantial ghost.” (Those who understand, having left the human world and attained this way of restoring primordial Yang, die without truly dying. This is called “attaining death.” All things that are born must perish. Only those who attain the Dao are born without birth and perish without perishing; in not perishing, they return to emptiness. If one perishes and truly comes to an end, one is no different from a ghost.)
“Taking what has form as an image of what is formless, and thereby becoming settled.” (Ordinary people see only the formation and destruction of things with form, but not the source of their formation and destruction, which itself has no form. That is why their minds are restless and unsettled. If they can refine Jing into Qi, refine Qi into Shen, and refine Shen into emptiness, they will use what has form as an image of the formless, and will surely be able to escape beyond Yin and Yang.)
“It goes forth without a root and enters without an aperture.” (Going forth is the Dao’s manifestation. The things that come forth all have roots, but the Dao has no root. Entering is the Dao’s concealment. The things that enter all have apertures, but the Dao has none.)
“It is substantial yet has no place; it endures without beginning or end.” (Here, “end” means the same as “mark.” The Dao is fundamentally empty. Emptiness can give rise to substance, yet the Dao cannot be sought in any particular direction or place. It reaches back to antiquity without growing old, and so has no beginning; it is transmitted far into the future without being exhausted, and so has no end.)
“That which comes forth without an aperture is substantial.” (When something comes forth without an aperture, people may think it is empty. They do not realize that emptiness is inexhaustible: the more it moves, the more it comes forth. In this way, it is substantial.)
“What is substantial yet has no place is space; what endures without beginning or end is time.” (The four directions above and below are called space. Does space truly have a place? The past and present, from antiquity to today, are called time. Does time truly have a beginning or an end?)
“There is birth and death, going forth and entering; when things enter and go forth without their form being seen, this is called the Gate of Heaven.” (There is birth and death, going forth and entering. When things enter and go forth and their form cannot be seen, this is called the Gate of Heaven.)
This passage discusses the “Heavenly Gate,” “nonbeing,” and several levels of insight into the Dao among the ancients, using several aristocratic clans of the state of Chu as a metaphor.
The Heavenly Gate
The “Heavenly Gate” is the place through which life and death pass. In principle, coming and going through life and death are real, yet no fixed form can be seen. If we say they exist, there should be a “gate” through which they enter and leave. This gate is also what is commonly called the “Gate of the Myriad Wonders.”
The text also says that the Heavenly Gate is, in fact, “nonbeing.”
All things emerge from “nonbeing.” Being alone cannot establish itself as being; being must come from nonbeing. And nonbeing itself is encompassed within that deeper level of “nothingness.”
The Sage Dwells in Nonbeing
Being cannot sustain itself as being; it must arise from nonbeing. As the saying goes, the things under heaven arise from being, and being arises from nothingness. Here, “nonbeing” does not mean “nothing at all” in everyday speech. It refers to the level of nonbeing that encompasses even “nothingness.” The sage understands this level, lets go of both agent and object, forgets the distinction between knower and known, and rests the spirit there. Only then can the root of all things be established. Why, then, fear the calamities brought by Yin-Yang waxing and waning?
The Stages of the Ancients’ Insight into the Dao
In ancient times, people’s wisdom varied in depth and degree.
The First and Highest Level: Before There Were Any Things
How high did it reach? It reached the insight that “there had not yet been any things”—the stage of Great Change, when Qi had not yet taken shape. How could there be things? To speak of “no things” is to reach the highest point; nothing can be added beyond it.
The Second Level: Things Exist; Birth Is Exile, Death Is Return
At the next level, one acknowledges that “things exist”—the Great Beginning, the start of form. Where there is form, there is birth and death. To be born is like being cast out into the world; this is called “exile.” To return to the root and recover one’s destiny is called “return.”
The Next Level: First Nonbeing, Then Birth, Then Death
At a further level, one says: at first there was nonbeing; suddenly there was birth, and in the blink of an eye, death. Treat “nothingness” as the head, “birth” as the body, and “death” as the tailbone—the end of a thing. I would befriend anyone who can regard being, nonbeing, death, and birth as one and hold fast to that unity. At this level, there is already a sense of self, yet one can still hold being and nonbeing, death and birth, as one, understanding both their distinction and their lack of distinction.
The Metaphor of the Gong Clan and the Zhao, Jing, Zhu, Dai, and Jia Clans
Though the three states described above differ, they share one source. This is like the state of Chu: the Gong clan and the Zhao and Jing clans were honored and prominent because people held them in esteem; the Jia clan was prominent because it held an enfeoffed territory. The branches differed, but all were originally one Gong clan. They were not truly three separate clans.
“How could they ever have been anything but the same thing?”
Being born is called “darkness,” as though smoke from beneath a cauldron had gathered into a solid mass. People, too, come to life by gathering Jing and Qi. If someone rejects this “darkness” and suddenly leaves it, that is what is called “changing one’s dwelling.” How is it any different from a person’s Qi dispersing at death, or from moving house?
What people commonly call “changing one’s dwelling,” Buddhists describe as taking over another body and entering another abode; Daoists describe it as casting off one body and entering another. In the end, they are all “moving house.” Such matters should not be spoken of carelessly, yet there is indeed profound truth in them. Still, some aspects can be understood, while others cannot.
Consider the offerings used in the year-end rites: the honeycomb tripe of an ox is called “pi,” and its hoof joints are called “gai.” Some can be placed on the ritual stands as offerings; others cannot be offered that way. In “changing one’s dwelling,” too, there is a distinction between what can be known and what cannot.
Or consider someone who surveys an entire house. In the ancestral shrine and sleeping quarters, they grow solemn and reverent, transferring their reverence for the ancestors to that place. In a place for resting, they grow relaxed and careless, transferring their desire for repose there. These are all acts of a mind that shifts from one thing to another, and they must be carefully distinguished.
Let me try to explain “changing one’s dwelling.” It takes life as its foundation and knowledge as its guide. By relying on these, it becomes entangled in judgments of right and wrong, until name and reality become confused: which is the name, and which is the reality?
Those who do not understand the Way mistake empty reputation for something real. They make name and reality their very substance, and expect others to regard them as the standard and imitate them. Even when the bell has rung and the clepsydra has run dry, and they must “repay” that way of life with their deaths, they remain unenlightened—and even take pleasure in it.
If that is truly so, then to regard usefulness as intelligence and uselessness as foolishness, to prize penetrating insight as renown and to regard hardship as shame—this is how people today “change their dwelling.”
Plain-Language Interpretation
1. “Shifting what counts as right” and people of the past and present
People today often treat “not being used” as an insult. This is the habit of “shifting what counts as right”—moving standards of right and wrong around arbitrarily. People of the past did not see things this way.
2. The cicada, the little dove, and “being of the same kind”
The cicada and the little dove are alike in having narrow perspectives. When a person’s perspective is on the same level as theirs, this is called “being of the same kind”—that is, the same kind of view held by people today who shift what counts as right.
3. Stepping on someone’s foot and the depth of ritual
If you step on a stranger’s foot in the marketplace, you offer a serious apology, afraid that the other person will be angry. If you step on your younger brother’s foot, an older brother will often simply soothe him with a few words and a pat; there is no need for a formal apology. If parents step on their child’s foot, even soothing the child can be dispensed with. Those who are close naturally get along, so they need not be bound by formalities. Thus, ultimate ritual seems to do away with distinctions between self and other; ultimate righteousness does not depend on outward objects or formal gestures; ultimate wisdom does not rely on advance calculation; ultimate humaneness shows no deliberate affection; and ultimate trustworthiness needs no tokens such as gold or jade. At the highest level, even these forms can be set aside. (Note: “setting aside gold” is generally understood here as dispensing with material tokens of trust, rather than insisting on the literal meaning of “gold.”)
4. Seeing through confusion in one’s aims, untangling delusions, easing burdens, and opening what is blocked
Confusion in one’s aims is called “disorder”; entanglement in the heart is called “delusion.” Both burden De (Virtue/Power) and obstruct the Dao (the Way), often because people are unaware of them. If one can see through the confusion in one’s aims and untangle the knots in one’s heart, the burdens on De will naturally grow lighter, and the blockages in the Dao will naturally open.
5. Six groups of feelings that obstruct the Dao
- Wealth, rank, prominence, reputation, and profit—these six things disorder one’s aims. External things draw one away from one’s purpose: a noble person takes the Dao and De as their aim, but once enticed, their purpose is thrown into confusion.
- Appearance, conduct, expression, reasoning, bearing, and intention—these six things entangle the heart and are difficult to undo.
- Aversion, desire, joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure—these six things burden De. De is originally whole, but when feelings carve into it, it loses its natural integrity.
- Leaving and staying, taking and giving, cleverness, and ability—these six things block the Dao. The Dao is originally unified and unobstructed; acting through deliberate thought, talent, and eloquence instead blocks its course.
Brief Notes on Proper Names and Terms
- The True Classic of Nanhua: Another name for the Zhuangzi, which Daoism classifies as a “true classic.”
- Annotations and subcommentaries: Explanations of a classic’s text and clarifications of its meaning.
- Shifting what counts as right: Arbitrarily shifting standards of right and wrong, and clinging to appearances.
- Ultimate ritual, ultimate righteousness, ultimate wisdom, ultimate humaneness, and ultimate trustworthiness: The state reached when ritual, righteousness, wisdom, humaneness, and trustworthiness are carried to their utmost. It often transcends the outward forms and methods familiar to ordinary people.
They can become obstacles to the Dao through “weariness.” If these “four” and “six” do not disturb the heart, then it is upright; when upright, it is still; when still, it is clear; when clear, it is empty; and when empty, nothing is left undone, yet nothing is done. (Remove the six harms of these four things, without disturbing the heart, and one will accord with one’s own nature. When nature and life are each set right, attack and seizure cannot take them away; hence stillness. Stillness brings stability and gives rise to wisdom; hence clarity. Clarity makes the inner and outer shine lucidly, with all dross transformed; hence emptiness. In emptiness there is serene detachment and silence: through Wuwei (non-action), nothing is left undone.)
The Dao is what De (Virtue/Power) reveres; life is the radiance of De; and nature is the substance of life. The stirring of nature is called “action”; when action is falsified, it is called “loss.” (Lu Xixing says: There is nothing under Heaven that does not revere the Dao and prize De, so the Dao is what De honors. As the root descends and flows into its branches, beings and things come into existence; once life arises, all things manifest in their distinct forms and shine forth in radiance. Thus life is the radiance of De. Those who live depend on that which gives life, so nature is the substance of life. Following one’s nature in movement gives rise to all manner of activity; thus the stirring of nature is called action. When action is rooted in nature, one may act and yet in truth remain without action. But if human contrivance is added, it becomes falsity; falsity is loss—the very loss meant by Laozi when he speaks of losing the Dao, losing De, losing benevolence, and losing righteousness.)
Knowing is how one engages with things; knowing is calculation and deliberation. What the wise do not know is like a state of undifferentiated, complete unknowing. Movement that arises from necessity is called De; movement in which there is nothing that is not oneself is called governance. The names seem opposed, but in substance they accord. (Under Heaven, some things are known and some are not. What the clever know becomes entangled through engagement with things, and day by day the heart struggles with them; what they are capable of is calculation and deliberation. This is no match for what they do not know: an undivided state without a self, like an infant gazing without discrimination. One moves only when pressed to do so, and acts only when there is no alternative. Thus, apart from not moving at all, every movement is an expression of one’s own De. To govern others through one’s natural knowing may seem at odds with them, for contrived knowing appears incompatible with people. Yet bitter medicine is good for illness, and advice that grates on the ear is good for conduct: in name it runs counter, but in substance it follows the Dao.)
Yi was skilled at hitting tiny targets but poor at keeping people from praising him. The sage is skilled in Heaven but clumsy among people. One who is skilled in Heaven yet capable in human affairs— (continuing the previous passage: one who is adept at the Way of Heaven but seems slow in human affairs)—is nevertheless poor at keeping people from praising him. The sage is accomplished in the Way of Heaven, yet appears clumsy in human affairs. One who is adept at the Way of Heaven and capable in human affairs…
Notes on Terms and Allusions
1. The four, the six, and the six harms: This passage says that when opposing forces and desires stir the heart, one cannot attain the state of uprightness, stillness, clarity, and emptiness. Removing them allows nature and life to become rightly ordered, so that through Wuwei (non-action), nothing is left undone.
2. The Dao is what De honors; life is the radiance of De; nature is the substance of life: The Dao is revered by De; De is expressed through life; and life depends on nature. The stirring of nature is “action”; when human contrivance makes it false, it becomes “loss,” connected with Laozi’s teachings on losing the Dao, De, and other virtues.
3. Engagement, deliberation, and what is not known: The function of intelligence is to engage with things and calculate. What is not known is undivided, like the state of an infant. Movement arises only from necessity and is wholly an expression of one’s natural self: its name seems contrary, but in substance it accords with the Dao.
4. Yi and the sage: Yi was skilled at shooting tiny targets but could not prevent people from praising him. The sage accords with Heaven but is not skilled in worldly calculation. “Skilled in Heaven, clumsy among people” is praise, not criticism.
5. Liang: This term is often read as meaning slow or unpolished in human affairs. Set against “skilled in Heaven,” it does not mean incapable.
An Annotated Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
Only the “Complete Person” can do this (the Complete Person is the Perfected Person; only such a person can reach full maturity in both the human and heavenly realms). What is called goodness can win a person a reputation within a particular field; even the sage cannot escape fame. The principle is the same: following nature is the way of Heaven, while acting with deliberate intent is the way of the human. Those who excel at the heavenly are often inept at the human.
Only a creature can fulfill its nature as that creature; only a creature can follow its Heaven. Creatures are divided into four classes: humans are the leaders of the hairy creatures, the phoenix the leader of the feathered, the dragon the leader of the scaled, and the tortoise the leader of the shelled. “Being able as a creature” means fulfilling what belongs to one’s own kind. “Being able in Heaven” means that, though creatures are named as belonging to four classes, Heaven in fact makes them what they are; the hairy, feathered, scaled, and shelled creatures all depend on Heaven. Among the four classes, the hairy creatures are given particular importance, which is why the text below says, “The Complete Person despises Heaven.”
The Complete Person “despises Heaven.” The Complete Person brings human skill to its utmost. The “Heaven” he despises is the failure of Heaven and Earth to complete their work and make everything wholly good and beautiful.
If one despises the Heaven of other people, how much more should one despise one’s own Heaven and one’s own humanity? “Heaven’s Heaven” is neither carved nor polished; it simply follows nature. Who would dare to despise it? “The Heaven of humanity” cannot help but claim Heaven’s achievements as its own. Even a gentleman would despise this, so how much more should we? How could we dare to seize Heaven’s work to augment human power without finding it hateful?
A sparrow flies toward Yi, the famed archer of antiquity, and Yi is sure to hit it; his success lies in his imposing power (which the sparrow also fears). If the whole world were a cage, the sparrow would have nowhere to flee. Thus King Tang used the post of cook to draw Yi Yin into his service, and Duke Mu of Qin used five sheep hides to draw Baili Xi. This shows that people cannot be captured and won over simply by what they desire. How could anyone be captured by such means if their heart were free and unencumbered, without likes or dislikes?
A person with a crippled foot, a penal amputee, casts aside fine clothes and is unmoved by praise or blame. A convict in servitude climbs to a high place without fear because he has let go of life and death. If a penal amputee can cast off fine clothes and remain unmoved by other people’s praise or blame, and a convict in servitude can climb high without fear because he has left life and death behind, how much more so one who has “forgotten people”?
When people no longer exchange gifts and offerings, they forget others; through forgetting others, they may draw near to the people of Heaven.
By giving no gifts yet being able to forget other people, one is no longer entangled in the feelings that belong to ordinary human relations. To have a human form but none of the attachments characteristic of human emotion—is this not to be one with the Way of Heaven? Thus, only those who share the harmony of the Way of Heaven can be honored without delight and slighted without anger. “Anger arises, yet there is no anger” means that anger springs from an original state that is itself without anger. “Action arises from non-action” means that action proceeds from Wuwei (non-action). The harmony of Heaven is the balanced Qi within creation. People are born by receiving this Qi; free of delight and anger, they are one with the Way of Heaven. This does not mean they have no delight or anger, but that even when anger arises, there is no anger: its source is itself without anger, not anger deliberately produced by the mind. When a realized person acts in the world, nothing is held fast in the heart; though acting, they remain in non-action.
To seek stillness, one must bring the breath into balance; to guard Shen (spirit), one must follow the heart’s own nature. These two sayings point to essential practices for beginning the study of the Dao: balancing the breath means regulating Qi, settling it within the person, closing the breath and keeping to the One. When the heart does not deliberately seek stillness, it becomes still of itself. The heart’s nature is to be still; constant agitation goes against it and leaves Shen unsettled. Only by following and guarding the heart, keeping it always within the body and undisturbed by external things, can what is preserved be Shen. When one acts with the aim of getting things right, one responds because circumstances leave no choice; such action proceeds from non-action. Responding when there is no choice is precisely the way of the sage.
Fugui Zi says: “Cut off sageliness and abandon knowledge; cut off benevolence and abandon righteousness” means seeking to return to benevolence and righteousness while wandering in Dao and De (Virtue), and studying action through non-action. This is the teaching of the Highest One. Gengsang Chu alone grasped this Way. He lived on Mount Weilei and kept company with neither the benevolent nor the knowledgeable; this is what it means to cut off sageliness and abandon knowledge. He gave the Way a small trial on Mount Weilei, and the people there enjoyed a great harvest: this was acceptable. But if he caused them to suspect that he was a sage, to offer him sacrifices, and to worship him as a local deity, that would not be acceptable. So why was he not at ease while facing south? Was it because he had not observed Heaven? When spring’s Qi arrives, the grasses grow; when autumn’s Qi arrives, the myriad harvests ripen. What intention does Heaven have in bringing things to life and making them grow? It simply follows the Great Way. The realized person is likewise like Heaven: without leaving a small room enclosed by walls, the people transform of themselves, unaware that a realized person exists. Yet Gengsang Chu made the people of Mount Weilei wish to place him among the worthies and offer him sacrifices. That was action with intention, not non-action.
This passage criticizes those who have not truly understood Laozi. They talk about Wuwei (non-action), yet cannot let go inwardly.
Someone says that Wuwei is only a minor achievement. Is that not simply the attitude of someone unwilling to be a “ladle”—a tool for scooping water, and a metaphor for being put to use by others? This is not the same path as “rejecting benevolence and abandoning righteousness,” so one cannot wholeheartedly accept Laozi’s words. Hu Nan Rongchu saw that great fish cannot do without deep pools and giant beasts cannot do without mountains and forests, but he did not understand this: even if Yao and Shun honored the worthy and employed the capable for the benefit of all under Heaven, they could not prevent a beast large enough to swallow a cart from being exposed once it left the forest, nor spare it the danger of capture. Once a fish large enough to swallow a boat strays from the water, giant salamanders and eels can subdue it, and even ants can torment it. Those who preserve their bodies and nurture life hide themselves in the depths, much as birds and beasts are never weary of high places, and fish and turtles never tire of deep waters. Even the Way of Yao and Shun had not reached this level of hiding in the depths, so it is not worth holding up as an ideal. If one insists on promoting Yao and Shun, later generations will inevitably twist their teachings to fit their own views and encourage the crude outlook of those who live among the wild grasses. This is like pulling out one’s hair to use as a comb or counting grains of rice to cook a meal: it cannot save the world. Yao and Shun prized the worthy and the knowledgeable. When the worthy were promoted, the people esteemed one another for worthiness and divided responsibilities among themselves. When knowledge was prized, the people competed in cleverness, and thieves arose from it. This did not enrich the people; it taught them that profit was there to be had. People are already drawn to gain. Once the pursuit of gain is opened up, it may eventually lead to the horrors of sons killing fathers, subjects killing rulers, theft in broad daylight, and people eating one another. These calamities may well have arisen from the Way of Yao and Shun.
If Nan Rongchu wished to cultivate a rule of Wuwei, he first had to “preserve your body and hold fast to your life,” and stop his thoughts from ceaselessly striving. Only then could he speak of it. If he compared what his eyes and ears could perceive with the sight and hearing of the blind and deaf, and compared his mind and body’s gains and losses with those of a madman, he could not fulfill his bodily form or realize his nature. How, then, could he hope to hear the Dao? Gengsangzi said, “Do you understand the transformation of things? A hornet and a Vietnamese chicken are too small to transform into something large. How much less can I, whose capacities are small, transform you? Why don’t you go south and visit Laozi?” Nan Rongchu went to Laozi. When a spiritual person sees someone, he looks beyond their appearance and sees directly into their heart. Laozi said, “Why have you come with so many people?” His hint was already exceedingly clear. Nan Rongchu turned back in alarm, yet still did not understand what Laozi meant. He wondered whether the words concerned wisdom or folly.
A Vernacular Reading of the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
One may lay aside cleverness yet hesitate between “benevolence” and “not benevolence”; in the end, one cannot sever oneself from benevolence. One may hesitate between “righteousness” and “unrighteousness”; in the end, one cannot cast off righteousness. The mind is in turmoil and cannot decide—surely there are as many such people as there are visitors who come seeking the Dao.
Laozi said, “I had only just seen you, yet I already understood from your expression. Why wait for you to speak before knowing what is on your mind? Everyone who has lost their original nature longs to return to it. Now you wish to return but have no way back, and I feel great pity for you.”
Nan Rongchu then set aside thoughts of liking and disliking for ten days. Still troubled and dispirited, he came to see Laozi again.
Laozi said, “Have you cleansed your mind? To cleanse the mind is to have neither blockage nor aversion. You have not yet escaped aversion. Outside, you are pulled by sights and sounds and cannot keep thought from stirring within. Inside, you are pulled by desire and aversion and cannot keep thought from reaching outward. Those who possess the Dao and De are still unable to withstand this inner and outer entanglement. How much less can you, who are only imitating the Dao in your conduct?”
Nan Rongchu said, “People suffer because they do not know themselves. A villager who is ill and knows that he is ill is not yet seriously ill. Now I, Chu, am slow-witted and wish to hear the Great Dao. It would be like taking medicine: the old illness has not gone, and a new one appears. I do not wish to hear that. I only wish to hear the classic of nourishing life.”
Laozi said, “Can you carry your hun and po souls and hold fast to the One without letting go? Can you know before making a prediction, and be truly refined so that you are clear? Can you know when to stop and so avoid disgrace, and know contentment and so avoid danger? Can you set aside other people and seek yourself, free and unburdened, open and without knowing? Nothing preserves life better than being an infant. So, in nourishing life, can you avoid losing what belongs to the child? Then you will live long. How can we tell this is so? A child cries all day, as others do, yet alone does not grow hoarse: its harmony is complete. A child grips all day, as others do, yet alone does not bend its fingers: its De is whole. A child stares all day, as others do, yet alone does not blink: its spirit is not directed outward. It moves and rests without intention or insistence; it can be square or round without clinging to a fixed self. What could better preserve life than this?
“Someone like you was once obscured by material desires, like water frozen into ice. Now you have suddenly awakened: this is what is meant by ice melting and frost thawing. Yet your De has not reached its fullest. As for the perfected person, there is no entanglement within or without, nor any pull between the inner and outer. Is such a person merely one who eats the earth’s produce alongside others?”
Could it be only for the sake of sharing with all under Heaven the joy of the Dao?
In emptiness and stillness, all seems absent, yet nothing is lacking; gain and loss, the strange and the unusual, cannot disturb it. “Action” leaves traces, while Wuwei (non-action) follows nature. When departing, one clings to nothing; when arriving, one makes no distinction between host and guest. This is the constant way of preserving the body and enduring through life.
To reach the utmost, one must be like a child: act in accord with the Dao, with a body like dry wood and a heart like dead ashes. Unaware of fortune or misfortune, one remains beyond their reach. If one cannot be like a child, one must first become settled, and only then can wisdom arise. With wisdom, one takes human form outwardly and follows the Dao inwardly. The Dao endures and remains constant, and people too return to it.
Those whom the Dao of Heaven places in hardship below are called the people of Heaven; those it raises to prominence above are called the Son of Heaven. What people can learn, practice, and discern belongs to the human; what they cannot learn, practice, or discern belongs to Heaven. Thus one must use what one knows to nurture what one does not know. That is the highest state.
Some cultivate themselves both inwardly and outwardly, and remain respectful without fail, yet still do not accord with the hearts of others. That is Heaven’s intent, not something human effort can control. Why burden one’s De (Virtue/Power) and crowd the numinous terrace, the clear platform within the heart?
The numinous terrace endures when held fast. Yet one must hold it without clinging to the act of holding; then one returns to oneself and becomes sincere. Without sincerity, words and actions are false, and even if one wishes to avoid wrongdoing, there is no way forward. One must understand that if no one reproaches you in the dark and no ghost condemns you in secret, you can come and go freely on your own.
It is like a contract: kept within, it has no name yet is full, and shines with its own light. Displayed outwardly, it seeks recognition and squanders itself; that is merely a merchant’s business. Who understands that having nothing in the heart is true poverty? Under Heaven, only what has nothing can transform all things; therefore, there is nothing into which the myriad things cannot enter.
Some live by expediency, laboring endlessly for things, until they lose both their bodies and their friendships. They lose both themselves and the things around them. A noble person must be on guard against this.
When setting one’s aims, do not count how many people can be killed at the blade’s edge. The slaughter wrought by schemes of attack is worse than that wrought by weapons. Worse still is killing through doctrines and learning, whose poison spreads without end. These are petty bandits, and those who understand what is coming can still avoid them. The greatest bandit of all is the ceaseless change of Yin-Yang: day by day it wears you down, month by month it diminishes you. When your cleverness and skill are exhausted, how can you escape Heaven and Earth?
It is not Yin-Yang that harms people. The human heart itself holds the power to kill and to give life: whoever can kill another can also kill himself—not merely in the sense of being killed according to one’s social status.
A Plain Language Reading of the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
First passage: Killing for the sake of longevity
People take action only over food and drink: they kill at the banquet, yet are unwilling to spend worldly riches to seek the elixir of long life. Only by turning the “impulse to kill” into the “impulse to live” can one rise beyond Yin and Yang. To sit back and wait for Yin and Yang to harm you is truly pitiful.
Do you not know that the Dao itself has neither completion nor destruction; only when it is divided do completion and destruction arise? The Dao itself is neither complete nor incomplete; only when it is divided do completeness and incompleteness arise. Why, then, must people ceaselessly seek completeness outside themselves? Such people know only how to seek completeness outwardly, not inwardly. The primordial Yang within them—the vital energy at the root of life—is nearly exhausted. It has already “gone out,” yet they still cling to wealth and have no wish to seek out fellow Dao practitioners to restore their primordial Yang. They would rather keep company with ghosts and feel no regret.
Those who do not know that, after “going out,” they can attain the Way of “returning” die without truly dying; this is called “attaining death.” Those who perish and truly return to extinction belong to the way of ghosts. Why? All things under Heaven that have form eventually return to the formless: this is a fixed principle. The Dao, however, is different. The point of departure for all things is rooted in the Dao, but where is the Dao’s own point of departure? The point of return for all things is into the Dao, but where is the Dao’s own opening?
Second passage: Emptiness and the cycle
When things emerge, they are substantial; yet since they have no fixed location, they are also empty. Emptiness cycles without end, with no root or tip, no front or back, no above or below, and no four directions. This is called “space.” Does it truly have a location? Past and present, from antiquity to today, are called “time.” Does time truly have a beginning or an end?
The Gate of Heaven—the gateway of the Heavenly Dao—is vast and open. It casts shadows but has no form. Nothing can escape it: all things are born and die, emerge and return. It is neither nonbeing nor being; this is what is called “neither-being-nor-nonbeing.” What is more, it is beyond even the absence of being: it is the place where sages conceal their Shen, and the source that molds Yin and Yang. This was the knowledge of the ancients: it must have preceded the time “before anything had ever existed,” and it is the highest form of knowledge.
Third passage: Three levels of understanding
At the next level, there are things, and thus life and death. Does life truly mean loss and disappearance? Does death truly mean a return to the Real? One cannot escape the distinction between life and death. At the level below that, one takes nonbeing as the beginning, life as the body, and death as the end, blending being and nonbeing, life and death into a unity. Such a person is my friend.
These three have their differences, like head, body, and rump. It is like the aristocratic clans of Chu: divided into three branches, yet in truth they are both distinct and one. People are born when a single Qi gathers within them. How is this different from smoke gathering beneath a cauldron and forming soot, then suddenly dispersing? This is called “transformation.” Thus, the person who understands the Dao regards this as an exchange…
Note: The original is written in the style of a commentary and subcommentary, with ideas developed in successive layers through rhetorical questions and metaphors. The plain language version is divided into paragraphs by groups of sentences, while specialized terms such as primordial Yang, the Gate of Heaven, neither-being-nor-nonbeing, and rump are retained and briefly explained.
As for “transference and change,” some instances can be understood, while others remain beyond our grasp. The Buddhist ideas of taking over another’s womb or entering another’s body, and the Daoist idea of casting off one body and entering another, all stem from this principle. It is like the offerings made at the year-end sacrifice: some offerings, such as the animal’s inner organs, may not be placed on the ritual vessels, while others may. To doubt everything that can be known because some things are unknowable—or to doubt every offering that may be placed because some may not—is like giving up eating for fear of choking.
Consider, too, someone visiting a house. On seeing the ancestral shrine, they feel reverence, as though their ancestors were before them; on seeing the privy, they grow lax, as though filth were before them. These are instances of “transference and change,” in which one’s state of mind shifts with one’s surroundings. We cannot afford to ignore this principle. And beyond the unseen depths, above all that shines in plain sight, could there truly be no ruler?
“Transposing right and wrong” means taking what is wrong to be right. People in the world know only to follow what is deemed “right” and avoid what is deemed “wrong.” They would die to preserve their reputations, mistake ignorance for wisdom, and regard disgrace as honor. This is how people today transpose right and wrong. How is their outlook any different from that of cicadas and doves?
For example, if someone accidentally steps on another person’s foot, they will surely apologize to a stranger, but may grow less formal with someone close to them. Courtesy may be shown to strangers without being imposed on those close to us. Hence it is said: the highest ritual does not bind itself to people; the highest righteousness does not bind itself to things; the highest wisdom needs no schemes; the highest benevolence shows no partiality; and the highest trust is as firm as metal and stone. These are the realms of Dao and De.
When a person resolutely applies their will and dispels the errors in their heart, the burdens on De are removed and the obstructions to the Dao are cleared. A noble person’s will is not unsettled by objects of desire, nor is their heart confused by temptation. Their De is not diminished by emotional entanglements, and the Dao within them is not blocked by the demands of cleverness. Their heart remains centered and upright. Centeredness gives rise to stillness; stillness gives rise to clarity; clarity gives rise to emptiness; and emptiness brings Wuwei, through which nothing is left undone. When the Dao is honored, De becomes precious. When life flourishes, De shines. Nature is rooted in life and made manifest through action; but when action becomes contrived, nature is lost. Then one relies entirely on clever schemes and guards against everything.
With knowledge rooted in De, one acts without acting, and ears and eyes alike are transformed into spirit. Hou Yi was skilled at hitting tiny targets, something human beings can accomplish. But he was inept at keeping people from boasting of themselves—a task only Heaven, or nature, can accomplish. The sage is different: skilled in the work of Heaven, yet unskilled in the ways of people. Preserving one’s nature does not mean rejecting Heaven; it means rejecting the way people unleash their inborn endowments and thereby damage life. How could one impose one’s own nature on others? Hou Yi’s prowess could be brought to bear only on sparrows, while King Tang of Shang and Duke Mu of Qin were able to establish hegemonic power.
Commentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence: Miscellaneous Chapters, Chapter 24, “Xu Wugui” (excerpt), in plain language
Overview of the chapter
This chapter begins with desire and appetite, then clarifies the principles of nature and life: these are the root. Wei Wuhou had no realized person at his side, so he could not hear the words of a realized person. Why not look nearby and reflect on his own nature and life, instead of thinking at a distance about loving the people and ending warfare? Knowing that tending horses and governing people follow the same principle shows that, though scholars differ in rank, there is no difference in fulfilling one’s embodied form and realizing one’s nature. Confucians, Mohists, Yangists, and Bingists each take their own view as the guiding doctrine. This is inferior to the harp player who makes one string the master of all twenty-five. Knowing that Nuan Shu, Ru Xu, and Juan Lou differ, yet are alike in losing their nature and damaging their life, is also important. Knowing how things attract and cling to one another, like a magnet drawing iron, means that knowing one thing allows one to know everything. And being able to regard not-knowing as knowledge: this is the knowledge of a realized person.
Main text
Xu Wugui, a recluse of Wei, was introduced by Nü Shang to meet Wei Wuhou. The Marquis comforted him, saying, “You must be ill, sir. You have suffered the hardships of the mountains and forests, so you have agreed to come and see me.”
Xu Wugui said, “I have come to comfort you. What is there for you to comfort me about? If you indulge your desires and intensify your likes and dislikes, the very substance of your nature and life will grow ill. Chasing external things and losing your true self is an inward sickness. If you suppress your desires and restrain your likes and dislikes, you will come close to being nothing but a body. I wear out my spirit and injure my body; you wear out your spirit and damage your De. So who is wearing out whom, and who is ill?”
The Marquis asked, “How can one avoid becoming ill?”
Xu Wugui said, “Your aspiration is benevolence, and your conduct is righteousness; that is nearly enough. Yet even if you are benevolent and righteous, you cannot escape illness. Why? You apply benevolence and righteousness outwardly, to your form, but cannot nourish yourself inwardly, in your heart. So you remain vulnerable to illness.”
The Marquis said, “I have wanted to meet you for a long time. Now that I have met you, I feel I have received instruction. Please take a seat; I would like to hear your profound views.”
Xu Wugui said, “If you can listen, you can be taught. I have heard of you: what do you take to be your De as a ruler? If you consider yourself benevolent and righteous, your ministers are stealing your De. If you consider yourself wise and brave, your ministers are stealing your authority. If you act this way, the state will be in danger. If you reverse this course, there will be fewer instances of ministers stealing your De and your authority.”
The Marquis said, “I have wanted to meet you for a long time. Now that I have met you, I feel I have received instruction.”
Xu Wugui said, “Have you not heard the songs of the people of Yue? One goes: ‘Gathering bracken on the southern mountain can relieve hunger; gathering bracken on the northern mountain can relieve hunger.’ The songs differ, but both relieve hunger in the same way. You have not heard the songs of Yue, yet you want to listen to them. Even if you hear them, you will not understand what they mean. You have not heard the songs of Yue, yet you want to listen to them. Even if you hear them, you will not understand what they mean.”
(Section omitted, up to the passage beginning “caging Yi Yin and Baili Xi.”)
On “caging people” and forgetting people
If one cannot cage Yi Yin and Baili Xi, how could one cage a person whose heart has no preferences? A convict who has lost his feet casts aside fine clothes because of the disgrace he has suffered; a chained laborer forgets life and death and no longer fears standing at a height. How much more, then, would one who has forgotten other people become a person of Heaven? Only those who feel neither joy nor anger can be in harmony with Heaven. And only those who feel anger yet do not act from anger can ultimately return to Wuwei (non-action). For a person like that, how easy can it be?
If you wish to be still, begin by calming the Qi; when the Qi is calm, nothing will be unsettled. If you wish to become spirit-like, begin by following the heart; when the heart is at ease, everything will be at ease. If you wish to act with contentment and ease, nothing is better than acting when pressed by circumstances and rising only when there is no other choice. Then you will naturally accord with the Dao of the sage. How could this be only a classic for preserving health?
(Xu Wugui said:) “In this way, your ears and eyes are harmed: when the ears cannot hear and the eyes cannot see, the trouble lies outside. I said I would trouble you, but what trouble have you had to bear for me? When both inner and outer are in trouble, no burden you could bear would be greater than this.”
Marquis Wu of Wei looked troubled and said nothing. After a while, Xu Wugui continued: “The marquis’s abilities are middling; he cannot grasp the highest truths all at once. I can only speak by following what interests him. That is why I used dogs and horses as comparisons, to show that I have nothing to seek from him.
“I once explained how I judge dogs. The lowest kind seizes its prey and stops once it has eaten its fill: this is the nature of a wildcat, and is a metaphor for the lowest class of scholars. The middle kind gazes upward as though looking at the sun—ambitious and far-reaching, as if deep in thought. This represents scholars of the middle rank. The highest kind seems to have forgotten its entire body: its spirit is settled, as though it had no physical form. This represents the highest class of scholars.
“But I judge horses better than dogs. When I assess horses, those that are straight conform to the carpenter’s line, those that are curved to the hook, those that are square to the set square, and those that are round to the compass: these are fine horses of the realm. As they run, their straightness, curves, squares, and circles all conform to the proper measures. They are a metaphor for outstanding scholars within a single state. Yet they are still inferior to horses renowned throughout the world. Such horses have already brought their natural gifts to completion. As they run, they may hesitate at times, or seem to have lost something—as if they had lost the part that makes them themselves. Their spirit and Qi are settled; they do more than merely ‘forget their bodies.’ These horses race beyond all others, so swiftly that they raise no dust, and no one knows how they do it.”
Marquis Wu was delighted and laughed. After Xu Wugui left, Nü Shang asked, “How did you alone manage to move our ruler? In the past, when I tried to move him, I would speak indirectly through the Odes, Documents, rites, and music, or directly through the Golden Tablets and Six Strategies—the military methods of Taigong, recorded on golden tablets and known as the Six Strategies. Countless people have served him and achieved great things, yet he has never once smiled. What did you say to him today?”
“Was it your ruler who made you speak this way?” Xu Wugui asked. He added, “I only know how to judge dogs and horses, that is all.”
“Is that really so?” Nü Shang asked.
“Have you never heard of people exiled from Yue?” Xu Wugui replied. “After a few days away from their country, they are delighted to see someone they used to know. After a month or two, they are delighted to see anyone they once met back home. After a year, they are delighted to see anyone whose appearance resembles someone from their native place. Is this not because the longer they are away, the more deeply they long for home?” The commentary uses this to infer human feelings: Lord Wu of Wei had long gone without hearing anyone speak honestly, and now, fortunate to meet Xu Wugui, he was inwardly amused that there was no one of consequence in Wei.
“Someone who has fled to a vast, empty place blocks the mountain paths used by weasels and other small animals with mugwort and other weeds, and settles in that wilderness. At the sound of a person’s footsteps, they are overjoyed. How much more delighted must they be to hear brothers and relatives speaking softly nearby! ‘Footsteps’ means the sound of someone walking; ‘throat-clearing’ means a quiet murmur from the throat. Surely, after listening for so long to the words of a True Person—someone who has attained the Dao, like you—spoken softly in your ear, you ought to be glad?” The commentary explains: A ruler has long since grown tired of empty talk from pedantic scholars and earnest remonstrance from worthy officials, so the Marquis of Wei remained silent. But the comparison with dogs and horses was a novel insight: used to judge people, it can help one find worthy men; used to cultivate the heart, it can help one find the heart. The words of a True Person are like the sound of footsteps in an empty valley. How could they fail to bring delight and laughter?
Xu Wugui went to see Marquis Wu. The Marquis said, “Sir, you have lived in the mountains and forests for a long time, eating acorns and chestnuts and savoring scallions and garlic chives. You have stayed with me for quite a while now. Are you old and hoping for the taste of wine and meat? Or is my state blessed with good fortune?”
The commentary explains: If the gentleman is willing to come and be cared for, I should provide wine and meat; if he has my interests at heart, we can work together for the good of the state.
Xu Wugui said, “I was born poor and lowly, and have never dared to drink your wine or eat your meat. I have come to console you.”
The Marquis asked, “Why? Why do you need to console me?”
Xu Wugui said, “To console your spirit and body.”
Marquis Wu asked, “What do you mean by that?”
Xu Wugui said, “Heaven and Earth nourish all things alike, without distinguishing between noble and lowly. Holding a high position does not make one ‘longer,’ and occupying a low position does not make one ‘shorter.’ The nourishment given to the noble and the lowly is the same, just as high and low cannot be compared in length. Yet you alone are lord of a state with ten thousand chariots, and you make its people suffer to satisfy your eyes, ears, nose, and mouth. But the Shen (spirit)—here, a person’s inner spirit and true nature—cannot approve of this on its own.
“Shen delights in stillness and harmony, and detests indulgence and disturbance. Nourishing Shen is not the same as nourishing the eyes, ears, nose, and mouth: Shen prefers stillness, while the senses crave gratification. A ruler of a state with ten thousand chariots spends all the state’s strength on sights, sounds, and flavors. The coarse soul—the side bound up with physical form, vital energy, and desire—may find this gratifying, but the spirit and soul cannot accept it as right. Shen favors purity and calm; only in such a state can it harmonize with the five senses and bring the whole body under control. To Shen, sights, sounds, smells, and tastes are like alien intruders. It detests them and refuses to be led by them.
“Disturbance by such intruders is illness, so it wears down the spirit and harms the body. But why say that a ruler in particular will fall ill from it? To disrupt the harmony of nature with sights, sounds, smells, and tastes—what else could that be but illness? Living beings cannot entirely avoid these things, and ordinary people may not necessarily become ill from them. Yet rulers alone fall ill. This deserves careful thought.”
Marquis Wu said, “I have wanted to meet you for a long time. I want to care for the people and bring warfare to an end, laying down arms. Can I?”
Xu Wugui said, “You cannot. ‘Caring for the people’ is often where harming them begins; ‘laying down arms for the sake of righteousness’ can itself be the root of taking up arms. Deliberately proclaiming benevolence and deliberately stopping a war can lead to indulgence or slackened defenses. In name, these are love and righteousness; in practice, they harm the people and invite conflict. If you make a deliberate effort to do this from now on, you may fail and bring danger upon yourself. Any deliberate attempt to achieve a fine reputation is like making a ‘vicious weapon’: few gain the reputation or profit they seek, while many suffer harm. Is that not a weapon of ill omen? Even if you practice benevolence and righteousness, it will be close to pretense. One form naturally gives rise to another: if you try to adopt the appearance of laying down arms, you may end up taking on the form of provoking war. Once that form has taken shape, campaigns of conquest follow; when the situation shifts, war beyond your borders will follow.”
Plain-Language Interpretation
I. Do not array troops within your heart, then go to war outside
Some say: If a person damages their own vitality and stirs up turmoil within, then goes outside to wage war, a ruler must never arrange ranks of “cranes” between splendid palace towers, nor station cavalry beside the temples where the altars of soil and grain are worshipped. “Tu” refers to infantry, “ji” to mounted archers, and “zitan” to the place where Heaven and Earth are worshipped.
The human heart is naturally quiet and empty. If a desire to compete and triumph suddenly arises, it is as though crane-like ranks had been arrayed between the palace towers, and infantry and cavalry had filled the precincts of the zitan temple. Though one is shut inside a single room, spears and halberds crowd all around; within the narrow space of the heart, everywhere becomes a battlefield.
II. Do not defeat others through hidden schemes and clever tactics
Do not secretly harbor the wish to gain something, using benevolence as a pretext while actually seeking to make others submit. Do not defeat others through cunning, political schemes, or warfare. If you kill the people of another state and seize their land to feed your own selfish desires, your own spirit will be harmed in the process. In such a “victory,” who has really won? That is the harm victory brings.
If a ruler is willing to stop, they should cultivate sincerity within themselves and respond to the true feelings of Heaven and Earth. They should no longer stir up the people or force others to their deaths. Once the people have been freed from the threat of death, why stage the empty pretense of “laying down arms and cultivating culture”?
III. The Yellow Emperor visits Great Kui: seven sages travel together
The Yellow Emperor went to Mount Juci—the mountain where a thatched hut obstructs one’s vision—to visit Great Kui (“Kui” is pronounced wěi; here it symbolizes the Dao). He did not seek to realize the Dao on a level road, but chose instead to climb the mountain because a thatched hut obstructed his mind. So he ordered seven sages to accompany him, perhaps to keep him from losing his way.
Fangming drove the carriage. One sage was called “Fang,” symbolizing the direction of the Dao; another was called “Ming,” symbolizing the Dao’s radiance. The two drove the carriage, and their task was to discern the way ahead: opening the way like door panels and guarding both sides like wings.
Changyu rode beside him. “Chang” and “Yu” together refer to the cosmos. Why was the third sage called Changyu? Because the sun is about to set when it reaches the west and is just rising when it reaches the east. Having Changyu ride beside him symbolizes enduring day after day and not fearing a long journey.
(Note: Fangming, Changyu, and the other names are allegorical personal names. Commentators differ somewhat in their interpretations; in general, the names evoke images of the directions, brightness, the cosmos, and the sun’s movement as symbols of spiritual cultivation.)
The road stretched on, long and far. Zhang Ruo and Xi Peng drove the carriage at the front. Among the four sages, Zhang Ruo represents “following,” in the sense of conforming to the Dao’s natural course. The “Peng” in Xi Peng’s name points to his familiarity with the principles of waxing and waning, growth and decline. Thus Ruo and Peng were placed in front as guides. Kun Hun and Hua Ji drove behind. Kun Hun, the sixth sage, is associated with keeping the precepts; Hua Ji, the seventh, was a skilled debater whose subtle, apt words might accord with the Dao. So they were assigned to the rear carriage to “carry the Dao”—if the Dao could be carried in a carriage. All seven returned with the Dao in tow.
When they reached the outskirts of Xiangcheng, all seven sages had lost their way. “Xiang” means to remove or bring to an end: after crossing the mountain city, one reaches level ground. To keep one’s gaze on the level way is to follow the Great Dao; to take a crooked path is to enter a heterodox school. The seven sages represent the seven apertures. Their being lost here does not mean they have lost their way geographically, but that they have lost their way on the Great Path to long life. With no one to ask, they happened upon a young horse herder and asked him for directions. “No one to ask for directions” does not mean that there was nobody on the road, but that there was no one who understood the Dao. “Young lad” is another name for one who is wholly authentic, uncarved and unworked. Qian represents the horse and Kun the ox; the text speaks of herding horses rather than oxen to point to one who can observe the Way of Heaven and act in accord with its workings. Asking for directions is not really asking the way, but alluding to the Golden Elixir Great Way: the question is which path one should follow to attain long life. The lad asked, “Do you know Mount Juci?” The Yellow Emperor replied, “I do.” The commentary explains: “He knows how to keep the thatch hut of his heart closed.” The lad asked, “Do you know where Dawei is?” The Yellow Emperor replied, “I do.” The commentary explains: “He knows the first traces of the Great Dao.”
The Yellow Emperor said, “How strange! You, young lad, not only know Mount Juci but also know where Dawei is. May I ask how to govern the world?” The lad replied, “Governing the world is no different from this”—for governing the people and herding horses follow the same principle. “Why make a fuss over it?” When I was young, I roamed freely within the Six Directions. Once I suffered from dizziness, and an elder, a Daoist master, taught me: “If you ride the sun’s chariot and roam the outskirts of Xiangcheng…” Now my illness has eased somewhat. Here, “ride” means to await and guide; the sun’s chariot, or solar disc, symbolizes the circulation of Yang Qi.
Xiangcheng, the place where the Yellow Emperor is said to have sought the Dao, symbolizes the Great Dao itself. How could anyone ride upon the sun’s chariot? The Immortal Master taught me to contemplate the “mouth-chariot”: breath in the mouth turns ceaselessly, day and night, like a wheel. The “river chariot” within the human body—a metaphor in Neidan for the movement of genuine Qi along the Conception and Governing Vessels—should likewise revolve without pause, as the sun’s chariot does. It must pass through the Great Dao, though ordinary people cannot understand this.
(The note’s general meaning: The affliction of dim vision has only just eased. This accords with the Book of Changes: “Heaven’s movement is vigorous; the noble person ceaselessly strives to strengthen himself.” A child uses the words of an elder to expose “my” confusion, and by doing so also exposes the confusion of the Seven Sages. Explanations of scriptures often begin with “Thus have I heard”; this idea has its source here.)
I shall once more travel beyond the Six Directions. Governing the world is no more than this; why should I involve myself in its affairs? The Yellow Emperor said, “Governing the world is indeed not your concern, Master. Even so, I would still ask how it should be governed.”
The child took leave of the Yellow Emperor. The Yellow Emperor then asked him, “How does governing the world differ from tending horses?” The child replied, “It is simply a matter of removing what harms the horses.” (Today’s horse keepers do not understand the harm caused by whipping; those who govern the people do not see that harsh commands breed wrongdoing. They say instead that horses are hard to tame and people hard to govern. Neither view follows the proper Way.)
The Yellow Emperor bowed twice, touched his head to the ground, addressed him as Immortal Master, and withdrew.
The wise are unhappy if their thoughts do not shift; the eloquent are unhappy if their speech has no order; the discerning are unhappy if they have no occasion to browbeat and interrogate others. All are confined by external things. (People enjoy displaying themselves and delight in having something to put to the test. With nothing to test, their abilities have no chance to show, and they are unhappy. They delight only in the particular bent of their own nature, and so are constrained by things.)
Those who court the world make a show of themselves at court and take the whole realm as their own concern. Men of middling ability regard rank and emoluments as honors. Men who pride themselves on strength boast of overcoming those who are hard to overcome and lifting what is hard to lift. The courageous press forward amid danger and cannot be subdued by force. Men devoted to arms take pleasure in battle. Men who wither themselves through rigid observance—those who uphold their integrity—cling to their reputations and stop there. Men of law extend the use of punishments. Men of ritual and music prize outward bearing. Men of benevolence and righteousness exalt the names of benevolence and righteousness.
(Each kind of scholar clings to one particular concern. All are confined by “things”—reputation, rank, strength, warfare, law, ritual, righteousness, and the like—and cannot roam freely beyond the Great Dao.)
A Note on What Each School Values
The School of Law excels at governing the state; scholars who wear formal robes prize their appearance; those devoted to benevolence and righteousness value acting when the time is right. Daoists of different ranks hold different things in their hearts. If farmers do not clear and till the uncultivated land, they cannot be counted among farmers. If merchants do not go about the marketplaces, they cannot be counted among merchants. Common people have regular livelihoods to attend to, and artisans have skill with their tools. Only then does each person stay in their proper place and serve their purpose. The commentary explains: Farmers earn their living through labor, while merchants turn to the marketplace; anyone outside their trade does not belong to that group. Common people have settled occupations and are willing to work from morning until evening. Artisans excel in a particular craft, and their spirit is thereby strengthened. The earlier discussion concerns those who “change with things,” adapting as things change.
When wealth is not amassed, the greedy grieve; when power is not held by a single person, the boastful mourn. Those who crave power and external things enjoy changing their style and altering their appearance to show themselves off. This is worlds apart from emptiness, stillness, serenity, detachment, and Wuwei (non-action). To be useful by acting when the time is right is to be incapable of complete non-action. Such people follow comparison and pursue things amid change, rather than abiding in what does not change. Their outward form and inner nature both rush outward, sinking into the myriad things; they never return for the rest of their lives. How sad.
A Debate About Archery and “What Is Right”
Zhuangzi said, “If an archer shoots without first taking aim and hits the target, we call him a skilled archer. Would that make everyone under Heaven a Hou Yi? Is that reasonable?”
Huizi said, “It is.”
Zhuangzi said, “If there were no commonly recognized standard of what is right under Heaven, and everyone took their own view to be right, would that make everyone a Yao? Is that reasonable?”
Huizi said, “It is.”
Zhuangzi said, “Then among the four schools of Confucians, Mohists, Yang Zhu, and Gongsun Long, together with you, there are five schools. Which one is right? Perhaps someone will have to argue the point.”
The commentary explains: In archery, the target is the goal; only when an archer takes aim and then hits the target does it count as skill. If there is no goal set beforehand, anyone who hits the target can be called Hou Yi. Right and wrong should be judged by a common principle. If there is no shared standard of right and each person takes their own view to be right, then everyone can be called Yao.
Note: This passage comes from a discussion in the Zhuangzi, likely the “Way of Heaven” chapter, and includes commentary. Its central point is to criticize the pursuit of things, the struggle for power, and the love of change, all of which run counter to Daoist emptiness, stillness, and Wuwei. It also uses “hitting without first taking aim” and “each taking their own view to be right” to satirize Huizi, showing that without a shared standard, anyone can proclaim themselves a skilled archer or a Yao or Shun.
Lü Ju said to his disciples, “I have already attained my teacher’s Dao: in winter I can cook by heating a cauldron, and in summer I can wear ice and walk on it.”
Lü Ju replied, “You are merely using Yang to summon Yang and Yin to summon Yin. At the winter solstice, Yang begins to arise, and people naturally welcome warmth; there is nothing remarkable about cooking over a fire then. At the summer solstice, Yin begins to arise, and people naturally welcome coolness; treading on ice and bathing in water then does not feel cold. This is not what I mean by the Dao.”
Lü Ju then demonstrated his Dao to the disciples. He tuned two zithers, placing one in the hall with only one string left usable, and another in the room, likewise with only one string. When he played the note gong on one zither, the gong string on the other began to vibrate; when he played the note jue on one, the jue string on the other vibrated too. This was because the two zithers were tuned alike, so their sounds resonated with each other. That was not yet remarkable.
More remarkably, if he retuned one string by itself so that it matched none of the Five Tones, then plucked it, all twenty-five strings would vibrate together without producing any additional sound. That one string had become the “ruler” of all the tones. Could this be what it means to attain the Dao?
Huizi said, “The Confucians, Mohists, Yangists, and Bings are all trying to challenge me with arguments, overwhelm me with words, and bear down on me with their force of voice. Yet none of them has ever proved me wrong. So what do you make of my skill in argument?”
Zhuangzi said: Huizi did not understand that not contending is prized; mutual opposition and attempts to overpower one another are not the Dao. Zhuangzi did not spell this out directly, but instead offered three examples, with a touch of mockery.
A man from Qi left his son in the state of Song and had him serve as a gatekeeper, but would not let him keep his body whole. In ancient times, men with severed feet often guarded gates; to become a gatekeeper, one might have to mutilate one’s own foot, so the man did not seek to keep his son “whole.”
Another person sought a pair of han earrings, but… The text and its commentaries may be incomplete here. The general sense is that Zhuangzi gives several absurd examples of actions that run counter to their aims, mocking Huizi for taking pride in winning arguments.
Notes for reading the commentaries:
Lü Ju is a figure presented in the commentaries as a teacher of the Dao. His demonstration with the zithers—“resonance between strings tuned alike” and “one string as ruler”—shows that the true Dao is not merely the superficial summoning of Yin and Yang in response to the seasons.
“Leaving one unused in the hall and one unused in the room” does not mean discarding the zithers. At each location, only one string was left available for tuning, while the others were set aside and not used, allowing the demonstration of resonance and of a “ruler of the tones.”
Huizi prided himself on winning through argument. Zhuangzi did not debate him directly; through the examples of the man from Qi and the person seeking han earrings, he suggests that “using words to overpower one another” is still not an understanding of the Dao.
A Metaphor About “Restraint”
Someone may not want things to be perfect, yet when he sets out to cast a bell, he ties everything up tight and insists on making it flawless. This is a mockery of Huishi: he is lenient with himself but demands perfection from things.
He goes looking for “Tangzi” (a person lost far from home), yet refuses to step beyond his own boundaries. As a result, he still loses what belongs to his own kind. If his son has wandered far away, he ought to search for him in distant places; instead, he circles only within his own territory, and in the end still loses him. This is a mockery of Huishi: he refuses to probe deeply into essential meanings or search far through the classics, clinging instead to petty arguments until he is bound to lose.
In the state of Chu, a man whose foot had been cut off was staying as a gatekeeper. One night, he took a boat home and, before his foot had even reached shore, started fighting with the boatman. He had forgotten the favor of being ferried across the river and only made an enemy. Can this be called right? This is a mockery of Huishi: having lost the “true home” to which he should return, he stubbornly argues with others over right and wrong, victory and defeat. It does no good; it only puts him at odds with things.
Zhuangzi Passes Huizi’s Tomb
As Zhuangzi was attending a funeral, he passed Huishi’s tomb. Turning to his attendants, he said:
There was a man from Ying who had a tiny spot of white chalk on the tip of his nose, thin as a fly’s wing. He asked Craftsman Shi to scrape it off with an axe. Craftsman Shi swung the axe like the wind, shut his eyes, and let it fly. With a single sharp crack, he scraped off all the chalk without so much as nicking the man’s nose. The man stood there, his expression unchanged.
When Duke Yuan of Song heard of this, he summoned Craftsman Shi and said, “Try it on me, too.” Craftsman Shi replied, “I once truly had that skill. But my ‘substance’—the partner who worked with me, like the plain silk needed for a painting—has long been dead. Since Master Hui passed away, I have had no ‘substance’ left, and no one with whom I can discuss the art of wielding the axe.”
(Note: Without that steady partner, Craftsman Shi could not display his extraordinary skill. After Huishi’s death, Zhuangzi felt there was no one in the world worthy of debating the Dao with him; the remarkable words in his heart had nowhere to emerge. That is the feeling behind his lament as he passed the tomb.)
Duke Huan of Qi asked Guan Zhong, "Father Zhong, your illness is very grave. If you should pass away unexpectedly, to whom should I entrust the state?" Guan Zhong countered, "Whom do you have in mind?" The duke said, "Bao Shuya." Guan Zhong replied, "No. Bao Shuya is incorruptible and upright, a good and gentle scholar. But he will not draw close to those who fail to meet his own standards, and if he hears of another's fault even once, he never forgets it for the rest of his life. If he were to govern the state, he would bind the ruler above in pursuit of fame, and below he would force the people to do what they cannot do. He would soon offend the ruler and would be unable to last long."
The duke asked, "Then who would be suitable?" Guan Zhong said, "Xi Peng would be. Above, he does not rely on power and position; below, he holds no grudges against others, looking only to examine himself. He aids others with virtue (De), and this is called 'sagacity'; he aids others with wealth, and this is called 'worthiness.' To subdue others with one's talents has never won the hearts of the people, but to treat others with humility and yield one's talents has never failed to win their hearts. In governing the state he does not seek to make a display, and in managing his household he does not deliberately reveal himself. He does not use petty scrutiny to show his cleverness. This is Xi Peng's style of conduct."
The story then turns to the King of Wu. The king sailed on the river and climbed Mount Cu, where a troop of monkeys saw him and fled in alarm into the dense undergrowth. One monkey, lazily swinging from a serpentine branch, displayed its nimble skill, deliberately showing off its agility before the king. The king nocked an arrow and shot at it, but the monkey swiftly caught the arrow with composure. The king then ordered his attendants to shoot together, and the monkey was finally killed. Turning back, the king said to his companion Yan Buyi, "This monkey boasted of its skill, relied on its nimbleness, and treated me with contempt, which is why it came to this end. You should take warning! Do not use your countenance to look down on people with pride."
After returning home, Yan Buyi became a disciple of Dong Wu and studied his cultivation of Dao (the Way) and De. He shed the proud look from his face, gave up pleasures, and declined prominent positions. After three years, the people of the state all praised him.
Someone was sitting beside a small table, head tilted back as he sighed toward the sky. Yan Chengzi came in and said, “Sir, you were once the most outstanding person in the world. Can your body really wither like a corpse, and your heart truly sink into silence like dead ashes?”
He replied, “I once lived in a mountain cave. At that time, Tian He, ruler of Qi, looked at me just once, and the people of Qi celebrated three times, as though the state had gained a worthy man. They must have known about me because I had first made myself visible to the world; they must have treated me like something to buy and sell because I had first shown myself off and marketed myself. Alas, I grieve for those who trade what is real for empty fame. I grieve for those who lament that others have lost the Dao, yet fail to see that they themselves have lost it too. And I grieve for those who lament the people lamenting others: each layer carries us farther outward, farther from our original nature. (If the Dao advanced day by day and one were not burdened by things, how could the body wither, or the heart turn to ashes?)”
When Confucius went to Chu, the king of Chu poured wine. Sun Shuao stood holding a wine cup, and Shi’nan Yiliao took it and made an offering, saying, “The ancients spoke words of goodness on such occasions.” Confucius said, “I have heard of teaching without words, though I have never spoken of it to anyone. Today, here, I will speak of it. Shi’nan Yiliao once dispelled a conflict between two families by juggling balls; Sun Shuao rested peacefully, holding a feather fan, and the people of Ying, Chu’s capital, laid down their weapons. (One account says that during a war between Chu and Song, Yiliao bared his chest and juggled balls before the armies, bringing the fighting to a halt; Sun Shuao cultivated virtue in tranquil repose in the ancestral hall, and enemy states dared not invade. The two may have appeared before and after Confucius; this is the style of an allegorical tale.) May there be a bird with a three-foot beak: what those two did may be called “the Dao that is not the Dao,” and what Confucius says of himself may be called “disputation without words.” Thus De gathers and takes form; De is brought together and made complete.
Plain-Language Interpretation
As for the unity of the Dao (once you recognize this One, all things become clear), the most complete state is to rest content with “knowing what cannot be known.” Great wisdom shows itself by not claiming knowledge without cause, so “knowing what one does not know” is the highest attainment. The Dao is undivided and wholly One, but De (Virtue/Power) cannot be made entirely identical with it. The utmost Dao has no names or forms that can be distinguished, whereas De has distinctions such as benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and wisdom. Thus it is said, “What is one in the Dao cannot be made the same in De.”
Where the intellect cannot reach, eloquence cannot supply an example. Even forceful argument cannot make the unknowable knowable. Someone who bears the name of a Confucian but is not one in substance is a harmful Confucian; someone who bears the name of a Mohist but is not one in substance is a harmful Mohist. When name and reality contradict each other, it is fair to call such a person harmful. The ocean does not turn away waters flowing in from the east: this is greatness at its utmost. The sage embraces Heaven and Earth and extends kindness throughout the world, yet claims no credit for it. Thus, someone who has no rank in life and no posthumous title in death, who does not accumulate real virtue or deliberately establish a reputation, is called a Great Person.
A dog is not good simply because it can bark, and a person is not worthy simply because they can speak—how much less by claiming to be “great”? Thinking oneself great is already insufficient to make one truly great; how much less can one manufacture “De”? (Great De has no name or form. If one deliberately sets out to “practice De,” one does not even count as great, let alone as possessing De. Here, “De” refers mainly to benevolence, righteousness, sageliness, and wisdom; “great” refers to the Dao. De is a named and formed expression that arises when the Dao descends. Can inferior De, or clinging to De, truly be called De?)
Nothing is more complete than Heaven and Earth; what could Heaven and Earth still seek? They are already complete. Those who understand this completeness seek nothing outside themselves, lose nothing, and abandon nothing (as Mencius put it, “all things are complete within me”: nothing needs to be sought outside, nothing can be lost, and nothing needs to be given up). They do not let external things alter their original mind. By turning inward and seeking within themselves, they draw on an inexhaustible source; by following the ancient Dao, they are not constrained by the customs of the age. This is the Great Person’s “sincerity” (sincerity here means the underlying reality, as Buddhists call it).
Ziqi had eight sons. He lined them up and called Jiufang Yin (pronounced “Yin”) to examine them and see which had an auspicious sign. Jiufang Yin said, “Kun has an auspicious sign.” Ziqi was delighted and surprised. “What do you mean?” he asked. Jiufang Yin replied, “Kun will one day share a meal with a ruler and live out his natural span of years.” But Ziqi grew sorrowful and wept: “How could my son come to this?” Jiufang Yin said, “Sharing a meal with a ruler brings blessings to three generations, let alone to one’s parents. You hear this and weep instead—are you afraid of good fortune?” (He is not hoping for good fortune but fearing it: a person of the Dao relates to fortune differently.)
(Note: The final phrase, “not hoping for fortune, but having the Dao,” is the commentator’s way of clarifying that Ziqi weeps not out of greed for blessings. Rather, a person of the Dao understands auspiciousness differently, in opposition to Jiufang Yin’s worldly view of wealth and rank as auspicious.)
Only those who understand the Way can grasp why Ziqi is so troubled. For his son, the signs are auspicious; for his father, they are ominous.
Ziqi said to Yin, “How can you tell that the signs surrounding my son Kun are auspicious? Your mouth and nose are simply stuffed with wine and meat. How could you know where these signs come from? I have never raised sheep, yet a ewe appeared in the southwest corner of my house. I have never hunted, yet a quail appeared in the northwest corner. If these are not strange occurrences, what are they?
“My son Kun keeps company with me as one who communes with Heaven and Earth, not one who goes along with worldly conventions. With him, I seek delight in Heaven and sustenance on Earth. We do not compete for fame, scheme and calculate, or dabble in strange practices. We follow the natural course of Heaven and Earth, allowing no external thing to disturb our hearts. At ease and free, we adapt to every circumstance without forcing ourselves to conform to what the world esteems.
“Yet now we have received what the world calls ‘recompense’: when you do good for others, they repay you. That is the usual way. But I have achieved nothing, devised no schemes, and done nothing strange. I have only followed the natural course of Heaven and Earth, contended with nothing, and moved with the turns of circumstance. There is nothing I have done to court the world’s favor, yet worldly good fortune has come to me in return. This may well be a sign of something strange.
“When strange signs appear, strange deeds often lie behind them. Worldly good fortune itself is an ominous sign. Perhaps my son and I are not entirely to blame; perhaps this is Heaven’s arrangement. That is why I weep.”
Before long, someone took Kun to the state of Yan. Bandits seized him on the road. They thought his whole body would be hard to sell, but that he would fetch a better price without his feet, so they cut them off and sold him in the state of Qi. By chance, he was hired to work at the gate of Lord Qu’s residence, where he spent the rest of his life eating meat. The strange prophecy from earlier—that he would “sell himself as a gatekeeper and eat meat for the rest of his life”—had indeed come true. The talk of strange omens was no idle fancy. Lord Qu oversaw slaughtering, and his residence stood on a busy street, so meat was always plentiful.
Nie Que met Xu You and asked, “Where are you planning to go?” Xu You replied, “…” (The original text continues below.)
“What do you mean by this?” Jiang Taotao asked.
“Yao’s prattling on and on, putting on the appearance of benevolence—I fear he will be laughed at by all under Heaven. People in later ages, I fear, will eat one another!”
(Note: If a ruler honors Wuwei (non-action) but remains inwardly attached to things, he cannot help resorting to clever schemes. Cleverness only nourishes hypocrisy and harms life.)
The people are not hard to gather: cherish them, and they will draw near; give them benefits, and they will come to you; praise them, and they will work hard; make them feel revulsion, and they will scatter. (Know these four principles, and you can gather the people.)
But “cherishing” and “benefiting” people often come in the name of benevolence and righteousness. Few abandon benevolence and righteousness; many use them to seek gain. Once benevolence and righteousness become widespread, sincerity is hard to find. Most who practice them are putting on an act to satisfy their own greed.
It is like a hunter using nets and traps: he does even greater harm to living things. So when someone wields knives and axes to cut up the myriad things in order to “benefit all under Heaven,” it is like making a cut: the life in them has already been severed. (What has been cut cannot be joined back into “one whole piece of wood.” This is a metaphor for how benevolence and righteousness cannot return people to simple, uncontrived virtue.)
Yao knew only that worthy people could “benefit all under Heaven,” but did not know that they could also harm it. Only those who do not take their reputation for worthiness seriously truly understand this. (When worthiness is not displayed to the world, it does not become false. This is the meaning of “cut off sagehood and abandon wisdom.”)
There is a kind of person called nuanshu (self-satisfied and gentle), and another called ruxu (soft, dependent, and accommodating).
The nuanshu person learns the words of one teacher, then feels all warm and content, pleased with himself and thinking he has learned enough. He does not know that between Heaven and Earth there is the vast realm of “nothing.” This is what is called nuanshu.
(A person who is self-satisfied and ingratiating first pleases himself, then pleases others. He takes “warmth” to be enough and “charm” to be beauty, unaware that the world holds what is supremely sufficient and beautiful: in the Great Void, nothing is clung to. They have never glimpsed it.)
The ruxu person is like a louse on a pig—(living off the pig by clinging to it. The scripture will explain this further below.)
A person who is content to dwell in a lowly, filthy place and does not realize that danger is approaching is compared to a pig louse. Pig lice choose the sparse hairs on a pig’s body and imagine they live in a spacious palace garden. They regard the bend of the pig’s hoof, the space between its teats, and the roots of its legs as the safest and most convenient places to live. Yet they do not know that once the butcher swings his arm, spreads straw, and sets it alight, they will be burned along with the pig. This is a metaphor for people who stake their family and livelihood on political power: when that power collapses, they suffer the same calamity, just as pig lice depend on the pig’s body.
Those who advance by this path share in its blessings; those who withdraw by the same path must also share in its calamities. This is what is meant by people of the “Ru Xu” type.
“Juan Lou” refers to Shun. The name describes someone who brings hardship upon himself. It speaks of a person who cultivates De: everyone gathers around him, yet he himself labors and suffers. Mutton does not envy ants; it is the ants that envy mutton, because mutton has a strong, rank smell. Shun had a similar “fragrant conduct”—a power of attraction—and the people were pleased with him. So when Shun moved three times, the people followed each time; at the ruins of Deng, there were eventually a hundred thousand households. When Yao heard that Shun was worthy, he raised him up from Tongtu, a barren mountain where no plants grew, hoping Shun would bring nourishment to the people. Shun was appointed in Tongtu, and as he grew older, his intelligence waned, yet he still could not rest. This is what “Juan Lou” means: meat must have a strong smell before ants gather around it; Shun’s De likewise had a power of attraction, so Yao appointed him. Yao had hoped to protect his descendants and the common people, but Shun was busy every day with countless affairs and could not rest. This was truly a source of suffering for him.
For this reason, the spirit-like person dislikes “the thronging of the people”—their gathering around him. When people gather, their intentions are not of one mind; when they are divided, things do not go well. So one should neither draw especially close to anyone nor keep especially far from anyone, but embrace De, nourish harmony, and accord with all under Heaven. This is what it means to be a True Person. The True Person, with regard to ants, abandons knowledge; with regard to fish, finds a way; with regard to sheep, abandons intention. Ants are tiny creatures, yet they know to seek out a strong smell, showing that they cannot forget their feelings for things. Sheep are foolish, yet their strong smell still draws ants, showing that they cannot be without intention toward Qi. Only fish, forgetting one another in rivers and lakes, attain freedom. These three comparisons are extraordinarily striking: they express the True Person’s freedom from attachment. The passage then continues with seeing through the eyes and hearing through the ears … (perhaps going on to discuss how each sense keeps to its proper function and does not seek outside itself).
Brief notes for first-time readers
“Pig louse” refers to lice on a pig and serves as a metaphor for those who depend on political power without recognizing the danger.
“Ru Xu” means being immersed in and dependent on something. It refers to those who depend on political power and whose advances and retreats follow its rise and fall.
“Juan Lou” means bringing hardship upon oneself and laboring without rest; here it refers to Shun’s toil in governing the world.
“Fragrant conduct” is a metaphor for the way Shun’s De attracted the people, as the smell of mutton attracts ants.
“Tongtu” means barren soil where no plants grow.
The “True Person” is Zhuangzi’s ideal human type: one who is free from attachment, embraces De, and is neither intimate nor distant.
Plain-Language Interpretation
Returning the mind to itself
A person who “returns the mind to itself” is, in ordinary circumstances, as level as a taut rope: they do not dwell on grievances about differences in people and affairs. When circumstances change, they are like a cycle turning and returning, and they do not store up resentment.
When looking, let the mind return only to what the eyes should see. When listening, let the mind return only to what the ears should hear. This is called returning the mind to itself.
The True Person: treating people by the standard of Heaven
The True Person of ancient teachings treats people and things by the standard of Heaven, rather than forcing a way through Heaven’s course by human cleverness. They follow Wuwei (non-action) and spontaneity, without imposing their own intentions on the Way of Heaven.
Gaining life and losing death; gaining death and losing life
What the True Person attains is the Way beyond birth and death.
For ordinary people, when the mind becomes active, the spirit grows clouded. This is called “gaining life and losing death.”
For the True Person, only when the mind becomes still does the spirit grow clear. This is called “gaining death and losing life.”
The ruler and ministers among medicines
All are medicines, but their innate properties differ. When it is the turn of aconite, platycodon, gorgon fruit, polyporus, or another herb to serve as the chief medicine, that herb is the “emperor.” Those not serving as chief medicine take supporting roles. When an herb is useful, it rules; when it is not useful, it loses its place. The medicines are by no means limited to the few named above.
King Goujian and Wen Zhong
King Goujian of Yue was trapped at Kuaiji with three thousand soldiers bearing armor and shields. Wen Zhong knew how a state might survive or fall, but did not know how he himself might live or die. To know the fate of a state but not one’s own fate—is that not a case of a ruler’s foot measuring short?
The owl’s eyes and the crane’s legs
The owl’s eyes each have their proper use: at night it can catch fleas, but by day it cannot see Mount Tai. The crane’s legs each have their proper measure: it grieves if its long legs are forcibly cut short. Each has its own strengths, and these should not be forcibly changed.
Wind, sun, and river
When wind passes over a river, or sunlight shines upon it, the river is diminished. This does not mean that wind and sun cling stubbornly to the river; rather, they depend on its source as they act. Under wind and sun, water readily dries up, and the river is harmed as a result.
Main idea: Cultivating the mind means returning the mind to itself; the True Person treats people by the standard of Heaven. In viewing life and death, the mind must die so the spirit may live. Human affairs are like medicines serving as ruler and ministers, or like the owl and crane, each suited to its own purpose. Forcing things is like wind and sun passing over a river: when the source is exhausted, harm follows.
Wind and sunlight remain beside the river and never leave it, yet the river is not harmed in the end. This is because water has a source, and so can endure in this way. Water stays with earth, a shadow stays with a person, and things stay with their own kind: each bond is steadfast and unchanging. Water arises from earth and does not leave it; a shadow arises from a person’s body and does not leave it. “Examining” here means settling something firmly. All things remain with one another according to their kind of Qi: a lodestone attracts iron, a wildcat watches for mice, a yangsui mirror (a bronze mirror that gathers sunlight to make fire) draws fire, and a fangzhu vessel (a bronze implement that gathers water from moonlight) draws water. Each does so unfailingly. Understand this steadfastness and hold to it, and there will be no instability under Heaven.
Eyes that crave brightness are harmed (“The five colors make the eyes blind”); ears that crave sharpness are harmed (“The five tones make the ears deaf”); and the mind that craves external things is harmed. When things interact with one another, they draw the mind along—hence the saying, “The human mind is perilous.” Anything that puts its capacities to work in the mind’s storehouse will cause harm. The spiritual chamber should be clear and empty; as soon as it exercises some capacity, it is enough to damage the storehouse. In Buddhist thought, “knower” and “known” are obstacles. Are obstacles not perilous? Once peril takes hold, it is too late to correct; calamity accumulates day by day. Yet how could things themselves harm people? People pursue them greedily and take that pursuit for a skill, losing their original mind without realizing it, like a dog chasing an elephant. Peril does not arise in a single day or night. People of the world sink into desires for sound, beauty, feelings, and thoughts, yet treasure them, grow comfortable with danger, and profit from calamity. Is this not deeply tragic?
Thus, kingdoms perish and people are slain without end when vital essence is exhausted and no one knows when to stop. The kingdom must fall, and the person’s life with it, yet no one asks, “Is this right?” No one attends to the matter, and no one comes to the rescue. A person walking on the ground steps on only a small patch, yet must rely on the open space beyond each step to travel well over a long distance. If the ground beyond the space needed for a foot were deemed useless and cut away, how could one walk well at all?
(Does a person step forward in order to reap broad and abundant merit?) Human knowledge is limited. Though limited, it must rely on what one does not know in order truly to understand the Way of Heaven. To understand the Way of Heaven means this: human knowledge comes only from what we hear and see, and what we hear and see is limited; yet we must rely on the state of “not knowing” in order to know everything. Virtue is inherent in everyone. Rather than relying on what I hear and see, I rely on the mind’s intuitive understanding within “not knowing”—the source of Virtue—and in this way I can understand the Way of Heaven.
Knowing the Great One: “The One” is the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate). When chaos first divided, the primordial Qi began to arise.
Knowing the Great Yin: This is the Wuji (Without Limit). Before chaos divided, there was a mass of pure Yin—what is called “Yin containing Yang.” This became the Great Yin, the chaotic world. As soon as Yang Qi arose, Yin separated from it and became the Taiji; Heaven and Earth were formed.
Knowing the Great Pattern: The One gives birth to Two, Two to Three, and Three to the myriad things; each thing then has its own name and form. Each of the myriad things has its own Taiji.
Knowing the Great Balance: Among the flying, swimming, moving, and growing things between Heaven and Earth, not one is without Yin and Yang. This is the Great Balance: all things, taken together, are one Taiji.
Knowing the Great Regions: The winds and airs of the eight directions differ. Shi Kuang judged the abundance or scarcity of the seasonal Qi by examining the tones of bells; by singing of the southern breeze, he knew at once that Chu could not prevail in battle. Such is the meaning.
Knowing the Great Trust: Understanding the principles of fullness and decline, growth and ebb, and the ways of advance and retreat, preservation and destruction.
Knowing the Great Stability: In the workings of creation, some changes proceed in secret, while others remain fixed and unchanging, as with the unfailing seasons and the cycles of order and disorder.
That is the utmost: If a person can understand these seven things, then nothing is beyond their knowledge, and nothing can be added to it.
The Great One unifies all things: The Great One is the Dao; through the One, all things are joined.
The Great Yin explains them: Between Heaven and Earth, Yang is bright and Yin is dark. Yet when brightness is hidden within darkness, that is true Yang; when darkness is hidden within brightness, that is true Yin. Thus fire is bright on the outside and dark within, while water is dark on the outside and bright within. The Śūraṅgama Sūtra says that in a bright place one cannot see anything in the darkness, while in a dark place one can see the myriad forms in the light. This is the basis for the teaching.
The Great Pattern sees them: How much can the two eyes see? The Supreme One (Laozi) said, “Without going out the door, know the world; without peering through the window, see the Way of Heaven.” This is the Great Pattern.
The Great Balance connects them: “Connection” means cause. In Buddhism, when two people meet, they are said to have a karmic connection. How small a view! It fails to understand that this is not the way of one person, but the Way of all under Heaven.
Plain-Language Interpretation
Shared purpose and a shared path: the bond of “Great Equality”
All those who share the same aspirations and follow the same path are connected by affinity. This bond of Great Equality includes not only people alive in the world today, but also those of ancient times.
“Great Vastness” takes me as its body
Great Vastness has no edges or corners; it blends completely with me as one. Heaven and Earth have no fixed form of their own and take the Great Void as their body. If my mind can embrace the Void, then the Void has no body of its own and takes me as its body.
“Great Trust” can be verified
Small trust may rest on spoken agreements or be checked against commands. Great Trust, by contrast, means that one’s whole being connects with the workings of creation. For the practitioner of the Dao, one part of cultivation brings one part of efficacy; ten parts of cultivation bring ten parts. Each can be verified.
“Great Stillness” as steadfastness
Confucians understand stillness as knowing where to stop; Buddhists first observe precepts and then enter stillness. Here, Great Stillness means refining Qi in quiet places, taking stillness as stillness, and refining Shen in busy places, taking the absence of stillness as stillness. Is this not holding fast through Great Stillness?
“Exhausting what is within to reach Heaven”
For one who studies the Dao, as long as Yin remains unexhausted, Heaven remains apart. Only when Yin is exhausted and Yang becomes pure does the Mandate of Heaven cease to be outside Heaven and come to reside within me.
“Following what illuminates”
Sincerity brings clarity. Confucians take sincerity as illumination; Buddhists take stillness, among the precepts, stillness, and wisdom, as illumination. The illumination spoken of by Zhuangzi and Laozi comes after “exhausting what is within to reach Heaven”: one follows the Heavenly Shen and its clarity, and naturally knows good and ill fortune without divining.
“The pivot lies in the unseen”: only then is there “what lies beyond”
The pivot is what governs the transformations of creation. “What lies beyond” means that beyond manifest clarity there are still distinct orders of things, as the Zhuangzi, in “Knowledge Roams North,” says: “Order arises from the formless.”
To seem not to understand, yet understand; to seem not to know, yet know
People often rely on talent and learning to understand and know the myriad things. The Dao does not need to depend on these. Thus one must understand through “not understanding”—only then is it true understanding; one must know through “not knowing”—only then is it true knowledge.
Question: what has bounds, and what is boundless?
Here another expedient path is offered to beginners: questions provide an entry from the outside, far removed from “understanding without understanding” and “knowing without knowing.” Yet those of dull capacity who are just beginning their studies have no way in if they do not ask.
The principles of creation, when unfolded, fill the Six Directions and cannot be exhausted.
A Plain-Language Interpretation
On creation and the “great weighing and deliberation”
What has boundaries can be folded up and hidden deep within, yet it cannot be without boundaries. Jie (rising and falling, moving up and down) and hua (flowing and turning) seem not to exist, yet they do. This is the subtle wonder of creation in motion. It has never changed from ancient times to the present, yet its use is inexhaustible—how could it be diminished? Surely this may be called great weighing and deliberation. Why not ask directly about the principle of creation? Why be confused? Use freedom from confusion to resolve the world’s confusions, then return to freedom from confusion: perhaps this is how one reaches a state of “great freedom from confusion.”
Fu Gui says:
Those who live in the court find the court comfortable and the mountains and forests hard going. That is why Marquis Wu of Wei felt burdened by Xu Wugui. Yet he did not understand that the mountains and forests are not necessarily hard going, while the court may be more burdensome still. If a ruler indulges his desires, his eyes and ears are gratified, but his nature and life are harmed. If he puts those desires aside, his nature and life are preserved, but his eyes and ears suffer. Marquis Wu was too dull to discuss nature and life with, so Xu Wugui did not answer him directly. Instead, he spoke of judging dogs and horses: dogs have three grades—low, middle, and high—and horses are distinguished as horses fit for a state and horses fit for the whole realm. The same distinction applies to worthy men, but Marquis Wu did not understand it, and neither did Nü Shang. Xu Wugui said that one could not speak to their ruler through poetry, history, painting, ritual, or music, nor through the Golden Tablets and Six Secret Teachings, so he had kept silent and laughed. In the end, he laughed at the talk of dogs and horses instead.
Xu Wugui said: “The longer people from Yue are away from their homeland, the more joy they feel when they see someone, even a stranger. It is not that they like strangers; the longer they have been separated from others, the deeper their longing for people becomes. Someone who has fled to an empty place, where no human voice can be heard along the mountain path, is glad even to hear footsteps. How much more so when brothers and relatives are nearby, clearing their throats and speaking! For a long time, the ministers in Marquis Wu’s court had all been ordinary men. Wei had no true men, and his nature and life had been lost. That is why he felt this way too.”
Note: Fu Gui comments on the episode in the Zhuangzi involving Marquis Wu of Wei, Xu Wugui, and Nü Shang. The Golden Tablets and Six Secret Teachings is the title of an ancient military text. “Horses fit for a state” and “horses fit for the whole realm” are metaphors for talent suited to governing a state and talent suited to governing the world.
Someone said, “Without someone who can speak like a Perfected Person, a ruler cannot set out on the right path, and the learning of nature and life cannot be passed on. When Marquis Wu of Wei wanted to provide worthy men with food and drink as a blessing for the state, did that mean he knew how to nourish them?”
Xu Wugui said, “Most people think it is a pleasure to sit as ruler in the ancestral hall. I see the ruler as one whose spirit is overworked and body worn out. People differ in rank, but the provision of nourishment makes no such distinction. It is like climbing a height: no one can remain at the summit forever, just as no one below can crouch there forever. Why? The body is turbid, while the spirit is clear. The ruler marshals the resources of an entire state to nourish the body. This gives the body only a passing pleasure, while violating the spirit’s natural purity. In time, the spirit grows depleted and the body grows weary. So it is not the ruler who wears me out; I am the one wearing out the ruler.”
Marquis Wu pressed him for an explanation but got no answer. He then asked, “Would it be acceptable to call loving the people benevolence and laying down arms righteousness?”
Xu Wugui said, “No. Loving the people is often the beginning of harming them; it is indulgence. Laying down arms is often the source of future warfare; it is letting down one’s guard and inviting danger. These two things do not amount to benevolence and righteousness. Even if one tries to pass them off as noble names, few benefit while many suffer harm. Do we not detest weapons? Benevolence and righteousness are especially averse to pretense. If a ruler wants to lay down arms and makes a show of it, there has never been one who did not invite attack, upheaval, or war with other states. Yet weapons must not be taken up lightly, nor should they be casually laid aside. Do not raise battle formations around the beautiful watchtower, nor arrange cavalry and archery in the palace gardens at Zitan. Weapons are instruments of ill fortune and acts against the natural order. They are tools of cunning schemes and deception, the turning point between victory and defeat. How can a ruler rely on them to win? In the world, people are killed and land seized and annexed only through war. If a ruler fights and loses, the disaster is beyond telling; even if he wins, his body and spirit are already worn down. So instead of deciding victory and defeat in the fields, it is better to settle them within the heart. Let desires fade, let affairs and principles blend without division, and respond with sincerity in accordance with Heaven and the people. Then the people will have no road to death. Why cling to laying down arms?”
The Yellow Emperor went to Mount Juci to meet Daku, but the Seven Sages who accompanied him lost their way. The parable says that even a person with seven apertures and sage-like intelligence can lose the way; this shows that the Great Dao cannot be known through knowledge. Later they met a child. The child knew nothing, and only one who knows nothing can know the Dao. This is the point of the Yellow Emperor’s parable.
A Plain-Language Reading of the Commentary and Subcommentary to the True Classic of Southern Florescence
The Yellow Emperor then asked the young boy about the principles of governing the world. The boy replied, “When I was young, I suffered from confusion and dullness. An elder taught me: ride in the sun’s chariot, and you will not grow tired; wander through the outskirts of Xiangcheng, and you will not lose your way. He told me that governing the world is like herding horses: simply remove whatever harms them.” From the lesson of horse herding, the Yellow Emperor understood the lesson of governing the people: it was enough to remove whatever harmed them.
People’s dispositions can be biased, and this can bring harm. Scholars who understand principles enjoy reform; scholars skilled in debate enjoy laying out arguments; scholars with keen discernment enjoy disputing right and wrong. All of these like to show off their strengths. Then there are scholars who involve themselves in worldly affairs and hope to make a name through service at court. They are no different from those middling scholars who take pride in holding office. Those who boast of feats requiring physical strength that others find difficult are no different from the brave who fear no hardship: all enjoy dangerous undertakings. Scholars who delight in warfare take pleasure in arms. Those who cherish empty fame and illusion include scholars who wither away in stillness and wish to live in seclusion. Those who think the people are difficult to govern include scholars fond of laws, who want to impose policies far and wide. Those who attend to their appearance and conduct must be fond of ritual and music; those who hope to seize the moment and accomplish something must be self-confident in their benevolence and righteousness. These types come close to encompassing every kind of scholar.
Farmers are confined to the countryside, so the people they compare themselves with are also from the countryside. Merchants are confined to the marketplace, so they compare themselves with others from the marketplace. Commoners settle into life when they have a steady occupation; artisans thrive through their refined skills. The greedy pursue wealth, the boastful envy power, and those who follow the crowd enjoy change. They bustle about, running back and forth between inner and outer concerns, without thinking to preserve the natural condition of their lives. How lamentable!
Zhuangzi said to Huizi, “If archery did not require hitting the target, everyone could become Hou Yi. If one did not need to uphold justice and fairness, everyone could become Yao. If that is so, which of the five schools—the Confucians, Mohists, followers of Yang Zhu, and followers of Gongsun Bing, together with Confucius—has it right? Or is the answer like Lu Ju’s? He taught his disciples that one could make a cauldron burn in winter and make ice in summer, saying that Yang calls forth Yang and Yin calls forth Yin. He said this was not the right way. It is like placing a zither in each of two rooms: play the gong note on one, and the gong string in the other vibrates; play the jue note on one, and the jue string in the other vibrates. Yet their tones remain different. Or it is like changing the tuning of one string, and all twenty-five strings respond, because a note of Huangzhong is sovereign over all the notes. Are the teachings of the different schools like this?”
Huizi still did not understand his own error and wanted to contend with the Confucians, Mohists, followers of Yang Zhu, and followers of Gongsun Bing. Could that work? It was as absurd as a man from Qi finding a doorkeeper for his son: he did not care whether his son remained whole, but wanted the bell to remain intact.
A Plain-Language Interpretation of the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
Huizi’s contentious argument (continued)
Huizi refused to step beyond the narrow bounds of his own thinking, yet went looking for flaws in other people’s words. This was like the man who once crossed a river at a checkpoint in the state of Chu: he forgot the boatman’s life-saving kindness and instead became his enemy. Huizi argued this way far too strenuously.
Zhuangzi passes Huizi’s tomb
Later, Zhuangzi passed Huizi’s tomb and turned to his attendants:
“In Ying, there was a man with a small spot of white plaster on the tip of his nose, thin as a fly’s wing. He asked a stonemason to chip it off with an axe. The stonemason swung the axe as swiftly as the wind and removed the plaster without so much as nicking the man’s nose. The man never changed expression. When Duke Yuan of Song heard about it, he wanted the stonemason to perform the feat again.
“The stonemason said, ‘I could swing the axe and chip away the plaster only because that man from Ying served as my target. If he hadn’t stood steady and kept his expression unchanged, I couldn’t have shown my skill.’
“Now that Huizi is dead, I have no one left to talk with. There is nowhere for my skill in argument to be put to use.”
Guan Zhong recommends a worthy man
When Guan Zhong was gravely ill, Duke Huan asked him, “I want to entrust the affairs of state to Bao Shuya. What do you think?”
Guan Zhong said, “He is honest and upright, a good man, but he cannot tolerate those who are better than he is, and he cannot forget the faults of those who have done wrong. I fear he would let down his lord above and be harsh with the people below. If you entrust him with the affairs of state, trouble may follow. If you must appoint someone else, Xi Peng would be more suitable. As a superior, he can forget his own worth; as a subordinate, he can forget other people’s faults. He laments that his lord falls short of the Yellow Emperor, and pities people for being unable to restrain themselves. Sharing one’s De with others is called sagehood; sharing one’s wealth with others is called worthiness. People use their worth to put themselves above others, but Xi Peng uses his worth to place himself below them. The difference between gain and loss is immense. A ruler need not hear everything that happens; this is for the people’s sake. He need not see every household; this is out of concern for the state.”
The King of Wu and the mountain of monkeys
The King of Wu climbed a mountain full of monkeys. They all fled, except for one that showed off its agility to the king. As a result, it was captured. Alas, even a monkey can be killed for showing off its skill. How much more dangerous it is for a person to flaunt their beauty before others!
Yan Buyi took this to heart. He went home and studied with Dong Wu to rid his face of its haughty expression.
Nanbo Ziqi
Nanbo Ziqi was leaning against a table when Yancheng Ziyou came in and said, “Sir, you are truly outstanding among living things. Can your body become withered like dead wood, and your mind become still like dead ashes?”
Nanbo Ziqi said, “I once lived in a mountain cave, thinking no one knew about me. When the ruler of Qi saw me, the people of Qi all came to congratulate me. I don’t blame them for finding out about me; I blame myself for revealing myself first. I don’t blame them for treating me like something to be traded; I blame myself for putting myself up for sale. Otherwise, how could they have known? How could they have traded me?”
The passages above come from commentaries on related chapters of the Zhuangzi. They bring together such stories as “The Man from Ying Chips Away the Plaster,” “Guan Zhong and Xi Peng,” “The Mountain of Monkeys,” “Yan Buyi,” and “Nanbo Ziqi.” Their central themes include criticizing contentious argument, arrogance, and self-promotion, while praising forgetting one’s own worth, forgiving others’ faults, and keeping silent.
Ah, once fame becomes conspicuous, the truth is often lost. I grieve for those who have lost the truth, then for those who grieve for them, and then for those who grieve without even knowing their own sorrow. Such people are farther still from the Dao.
When Confucius went to Chu, the king of Chu offered him wine. Sun Shuao held up the cup, and Yinan of the Southern Market poured a libation, saying that the ancients had once used this occasion to offer counsel. Confucius said, “I have heard of words that speak without relying on speech. Yinan juggled pellets, and the crisis between the two houses was settled; Sun Shuao rested with a feather in his hand, and the people of Ying laid down their weapons. Neither man said much. I may have a three-foot beak, but how could I possibly say so much? Those two practiced the Way that is not the Way. This is called ‘debate without words.’”
Though the Dao disperses into the myriad things, it returns, in the end, to the single word De. What we know is limited, so we should rest content with what we do not know; there lies the boundless. The Dao ends at the One, while De cannot help but branch into different paths. When knowledge stops at what cannot be known, debate cannot flaunt its skill amid the indistinct and elusive. I fear that the Confucians will split into factions and learning will be divided. Only when a sage appears and moves with the transformations of creation does great beauty arise without any claim to merit. The Dao is great, and so the person who follows it is great as well. A dog is not considered good because it barks well; a person is not considered worthy because they speak well. Thus we see that the sage does not exalt himself, and thereby becomes all the greater. Greatness is complete: the sage’s heart embraces the myriad things. The world does not seem too much for him, nor does he feel himself lacking. He can belong to the present or to the ages past, and the sincerity of the great person endures without decay.
Ziqi asked Jiufang Yin to determine which of his eight sons was destined for good fortune. Jiufang Yin said, “Kun is fortunate; he will share food with the ruler.” Ziqi wept. Jiufang Yin thought Ziqi feared the blessing. Ziqi said, “Yin, do you know where the food and drink will come from? I have never raised sheep, yet a ewe was born in the corner of my house. I have never hunted, yet a quail appeared in a nook. Can we call these things strange, or can we not? A person who performs deeds valued by the world should receive rewards valued by the world. But has Kun done anything? Has he made plans or exercised judgment? He joins others without joining them and acts for them without acting. He has earned no merit, yet will receive its reward. This is surely an ominous sign. My son and I have never done anything strange, and that is why I weep.”
Before long, Kun was captured by bandits. They cut off his foot, sold him in Qi to serve as a gatekeeper, and he spent the rest of his life there.
Plain-language interpretation
First section: Jiufang Yin and Xu You
Someone eats the flesh of a beast and, in the end, meets a fate like Jiufang Yin, who was flayed. Though physiognomy proved true in this case, the claim that strange signs foretell events is indeed no empty tale.
In the time of Yao, Xu You was intent on fleeing the world. He said, “Yao conceals benevolence and righteousness in his heart to win people over. I fear that he will instead open the way for the unbenevolent acts of later ages. Those who gather people around them today do nothing more than show love, bestow benefits, and confer praise, while removing what people dislike. Yet they do all this under the banner of benevolence and righteousness. These can be practiced openly to display fairness, or secretly appropriated to serve private interests. It is like lending a net to someone who hunts greedy birds: does that not make the harm even worse? Or consider someone who first took up a blade to fashion tools for the benefit of all under Heaven, unaware that the moment the blade cut, the uncarved simplicity was divided into implements—and that the ingenuity of ‘benefiting people’ already concealed a means of ‘harming people.’ Unless we ‘cut off sageliness and abandon wisdom, and do not esteem the worthy,’ who can understand this?”
Second section: Three kinds of people who have lost their nature, as Zhuangzi sees them
Zhuangzi and Laozi viewed the people of the world as falling into different types, such as nuanshu, ruxu, and juanlou. Yet as regards losing their inborn nature and damaging their lives, they are all the same.
The nuanshu type learns the words of a teacher, pleasing themselves and others, but does not understand “having no image of self and no image of others.” Why put on this soft, ingratiating, affected manner?
The ruxu type is like lice on a pig. They settle in places such as the sparse bristles or the inner thigh, thinking themselves safe. They do not know that when the butcher raises his arm and takes up the fire, the lice and the pig will be burned together. So why do those who attach themselves to powerful households, share their good fortune when things go well and their misfortune when things go badly, and linger in watchful hesitation, adopt this ruxu manner?
The juanlou type is like Shun. Sheep do not long for ants, but ants are drawn to the sheep’s mutton smell. Shun’s conduct had this enticing quality, so people flocked to him and Yao chose him for office. Yet, as he grew old, his body became worn and his mind exhausted, with no chance to rest. Why toil anxiously and make himself suffer by adopting this juanlou manner?
Third section: Spirit-like beings and True Persons
Thus, spirit-like beings can neither be approached too closely nor kept too far away. Abandon the ants’ understanding and the sheep’s intent: it is the same principle as the fish forgetting one another. Let the eyes turn inward and look, the ears turn inward and listen, and the mind hold things within. Its standard is straight as a taut cord; its transformations follow one another like a turning ring. It is pure, like the natural movement of Heaven, with no human intention mixed into it.
The True Persons of antiquity knew that when the mind arises, Shen dies; what is gained is not the true, while what is lost is the true. They would rather let the mind die so Shen might live. To gain is to become one; once gained, it is never lost, and what is lost is not the true. Indeed, there is…
Note: The final phrase, “Indeed, there is…,” appears incomplete in the original, or may be a fragment quoted from another text. It is translated literally here. The passage is a commentary on sections of the Nanhua Zhenjing Zhushu concerning Xu You, Yao and Shun, and the three types of people, combining the Daoist teaching “cut off sageliness and abandon wisdom” with the principles of cultivation for a True Person.
To lose something is like the rules governing how medicines are combined: the chief, deputy, assistant, and envoy ingredients each have their proper uses and prohibitions, and at times the chief ingredient can serve as the envoy. How much more is this true of people? The minister Wen Zhong of Yue understood how Yue could make “survival” out of “ruin,” but he did not understand that the destruction of the enemy state and the death of its strategist would become the source of his own grief. Thus it is said: an owl’s eyes may be keen, yet it cannot see by day; a crane’s shins may be long, yet they cannot be used to block the wind. The sun may diminish a river, yet it cannot dry up a spring with a source. Everyone knows that water is sustained by earth and a shadow by its form. But as for things sustaining things—for instance, a lodestone attracting iron—this is the ordering of a single Qi (vital energy). Who but one who understands could dare speak of it?
That people’s eyes may be exhausted by brightness and their ears by sharp sounds is a small matter. When the mind is exhausted by chasing after external things, however, nothing fails to burden the inner spirit. People watch external enticements attack them, yet do not regard them as enemies; instead, they treat them as treasures. They see their essence spent and their bodies destroyed, but do not seek the Way of cultivating nature and life. How sorrowful!
Only after knowing that there is ground one need not tread can one strengthen people’s steps; only after knowing that there is knowledge beyond what people can know can one be called knowledgeable. The Way of Heaven originates in the Great One (Taiyi), the source of the Dao; the Dao is contained in Yin, and the Great Yin, the utmost Yin, is the Dao’s mother; the Dao opens through brightness, and the Great Eye, the utmost eye, is the Dao’s spirit; the Dao is unified in sameness, and the Great Equality, the utmost equality, is the Dao’s diffusion; the Dao is dispersed through directions, and the Great Square, the utmost square, is the Dao’s distinctness; the Dao responds through time, and Great Trust, the utmost trust, is the Dao’s sign; the Dao is governed through accord, and Great Stability, the utmost stability, is where the Dao comes to rest.
Thus, to know the Great One is to know all these things. Things that are connected must also have what is not connected, but the Great One has neither connection nor anything unconnected. Things that can be understood must also have what cannot be understood, but the Great Yin has neither understanding nor anything that cannot be understood. Seeing that reaches somewhere must also fail to reach somewhere, but the Great Eye neither sees nor leaves anything unseen. Whatever follows a course may encounter some things and fail to encounter others, but the Great Equality neither encounters nor fails to encounter anything. Things may have a form or lack one, but the Great Square takes the Great Void as its form: it has no form, yet there is nothing it does not contain. What can be verified in matters of trust must also have what cannot be verified, but Great Trust has nothing to verify and nothing that cannot be verified. Stability may be maintained or impossible to maintain, but Great Stability does not leave the center; it responds to the boundless. It is maintained by nothing, yet nothing is beyond its keeping. This is what is meant by a person fulfilling Heaven: after pure stability comes illumination. In darkness there is a governing principle; from it, clarity brings order and kind. It seems understood, yet remains not understood.
A Discussion of Knowing and Not Knowing
To know yet pretend not to know is to find that seeking with the finite yields no result, and seeking with the infinite yields no result either. Above and below, looking up and looking down, everything is a manifest expression of the transformations of nature. Yet as we move through past and present, we cannot see nature’s successes and failures, gains and losses. Suspecting that it is “nonbeing” leaves us bewildered by “being”; suspecting that it is “being” leaves us bewildered by “nonbeing.” Only when we cling to neither being nor nonbeing, and are no longer confused by either, can we reach great clarity.
Miscellaneous Chapters: Zeyang, Chapter 25
This chapter uses the example of someone seeking wealth and rank to show that one should make one’s home in Dao and De, take the sage as one’s teacher, and see one’s original nature. It is better to remain obscure among ordinary people and sink quietly into the world than to abandon one’s nature and feelings and lose one’s spirit. Better to be someone who flows naturally from Dao, empty and unattached, than someone forcibly shaped from outside, attached to things and without an inner master. Between Heaven and Earth there is only Yin and Yang: they are not opposed, but govern and replace one another, giving life and taking life in turn. The point is not that things are done because “no one makes them happen,” but that they are done “as though someone were making them happen.” The first way of speaking leans toward emptiness, the second toward substance. The ultimate Dao is to know that it is neither empty nor substantial, neither silence nor speech.
Zeyang, a man of the early Zhou, whose surname was Peng, given name Yang, and courtesy name Zeyang, traveled to the state of Chu. Yijie, a Chu official, recommended him to the king, but the king did not receive him. After Yijie returned, Peng Yang went to see Wangguo, a worthy man of Chu, and asked, “Why did you not recommend me to the king?” Wangguo replied, “I am not as worthy as Gong Yuexiu.”
Peng Yang asked, “What does Gong Yuexiu do?”
Wangguo said, “In winter he catches softshell turtles in Jiangxia; in summer he rests at Shanfan. When passersby ask him about it, he says, ‘This is where I live.’ Yijie cannot even do that, so how could I? I am not as worthy as Yijie, either. Yijie has no virtue of quiet withdrawal, but he does have the cleverness to seek advancement. He does not claim distinction for his integrity; instead, he forms inward bonds with those in power. He is already sunk in the realm of wealth and rank. Such people help one another, but not through virtue: they help one another by wearing each other down. A person freezing without clothes borrows clothing from spring, while someone suffering heatstroke asks for winter’s cold wind.” The meaning is that someone freezing without clothes seeks warmth from spring, while someone laid low by summer heat asks instead for winter’s cold wind. What they seek runs counter to what they need and only makes their suffering worse.
A cloak worn in a cold wind still leaves one feeling cold. In dealing with one another, people must use what is abundant to make up for what is lacking. Yang energy is inclined to press forward and contend, so it must be counseled through calmness and retreat.
The King of Chu was noble in appearance and severe in manner. He punished without mercy, fierce as a tiger. Who could make him yield and soften unless they were both skilled in flattering speech and able to uphold upright De (Virtue/Power)? The King of Chu held himself aloof and treated others harshly; without eloquence and upright De, no one could move him. In those days, flattery was taken for worthiness; combined with upright De, however, it could make a person truly useful. Only an upright person can temper a ruler’s flattery, and only a flatterer can temper a ruler’s uprightness. “Nao” means to yield or soften.
Thus, when sages are destitute, they can make their families forget their poverty; when they attain prominence, they can make princes and nobles forget their rank and emoluments, turning dignity into humility. Sages advance and withdraw, conceal themselves and appear, as circumstances require. By forgetting rank and emoluments and lowering themselves to serve worthy people, they can turn a high position into a humble one.
They rejoice alongside the myriad things. With people, they delight in communicating with them while keeping themselves whole. Thus, sometimes without saying a word, they can make others feel as harmonious and refreshed as if they had drunk mellow wine. Among things, they gather with them without suspicion; among people, they delight in fellowship without losing themselves. Their harmonious presence suffuses those around them, and people become intoxicated without drinking.
Standing shoulder to shoulder with others, they can move people so deeply that fathers and sons each fulfill what is proper to them. When they return home and settle there, what they give extends only as far as the walls of their household. At home, fathers and sons act rightly, and bonds of kindness and duty grow strong. What they give is limited to their own household, without confusing it with private acts of charity.
Such was the distance between their breadth of mind and that of ordinary people. So, if one is to deal with the King of Chu, one must wait for someone like Gong Yuexiu. With such a person accompanying one to meet the King of Chu, he could surely influence the ruler above and support his companions below. How could I hope to equal him?
Sages understand “binding and mending”—the work of winding and patching—and become whole throughout, yet do not know that this comes from their own nature. They return to their mandate and their root, moving and transforming while taking Heaven as their teacher; people then follow them and give them a name. Those of wisdom and learning who grasp this principle merely exert themselves to mend the gaps in their families and states and rescue them from danger. Sages who grasp it know that even the slightest lack in Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), or Shen (spirit) means the body is not yet whole. They must refine Jing and return it to Qi, then refine Qi and return it to Shen; only then is the whole truly complete.
The Completion of Cycles and the Sage
When a cycle is complete, even the Sage does not know why things have turned out this way: it is simply the innate nature of things. Only one who truly understands their nature can fulfill their life’s destiny, return to the root, and restore their original life. In every movement and action, they take Heaven as their teacher, observe the Way of Heaven, and abide by its course. Before the cycle is complete, each thought and deed of their own moves in harmony with the celestial body; once the cycle is complete, their Jing, Qi, and Shen must become as empty as the celestial body. This is what is called “refining the spirit and returning to emptiness.” When they reach a state of emptiness beyond all measure, people call them a Sage. Yet when has a Sage ever called themself a Sage?
Worry and Taking Heaven as Teacher
(Continuing from the previous passage.) The Sage takes Heaven as a teacher, while ordinary people take their own minds as teachers. They fret over matters a thousand years away with lives that last a hundred years, without knowing how much they can accomplish in those hundred years. Just as I am about to act, my life comes to an end. What can I do? Better to take Heaven as my teacher and respond in accord with it; that is the proper course.
Beauty and the Mirror
Someone born beautiful may not know how beautiful they seem to others unless someone gives them a mirror and tells them. They know and yet do not know; they hear and yet do not hear. Their delightful beauty never ceases, nor does the affection others feel for them. This is simply their nature. (The analogy suggests that the Sage is unaware of their own abilities and the love they inspire.)
The Sage’s Love
The Sage loves people, and the world gives them a name. If no one tells them, they do not know that they love people. They know and yet do not know; they hear and yet do not hear. Their love never ceases, nor does the peace others find through them. This, too, is simply their nature. (That the Sage is unaware of their own love can be understood from the analogy of the mirror.)
The Old Country and the Old Capital
Returning to one’s old country and old capital, a single glance brings a sense of ease. Even if hills, trees, and other things fill nine tenths of one’s view, the feeling remains; how much more so when one sees what one is able to see and hears what one is able to hear? (This is illustrated by a ten-ren-high platform raised among the people.) After a long journey, one returns to the old capital. Of all that comes into view, one forgets nine tenths, yet the heart is still at ease. How much more so for someone who has entered the Dao, seeing what they have always been able to see and hearing what they have always been able to hear—things already present within the heart. How could they not feel ease and joy? One’s original true self is the old capital.
A metaphor expresses the joy of awakening to one’s nature and recovering what is original, along with the emotion and sorrow that arise from it.
It also compares one who has realized their nature to someone who hangs all kinds of musical instruments on a tower ten ren high and plays them from time to time. Their sounds and forms spread in every direction, refreshing the ears and eyes. One can imagine how exhilarating this would be.
Ranxiang Shi, having grasped the center of the circle, follows things as they come to completion. He lives among the myriad things without end or beginning, without being bound by any particular span of time or season. Day after day he changes along with things, yet there is one thing that does not change.
Why not let it go?
Commentary: Ranxiang Shi was a sage of ancient times who attained the Dao. The “center of the circle” is no empty phrase; it is the Mysterious Female, the hidden gateway through which the Dao gives birth to and nourishes the myriad things. The saying that there are thirty-six above and thirty-six below refers to this aperture: whoever knows it can “break open the house of the Yellow Matron,” a metaphor for opening the pivot that connects body and mind, spirit and Qi. With this aperture, one can follow the Dao and bring things to completion, living as long as Heaven itself. What room is there for an end or a beginning? “Without being bound by any particular span of time” means that time is not prolonged. Jing transforms into Qi, and Qi into Shen; one changes along with things. Yet one thing remains unchanged: the illusory body. Why not let go of this illusory body and ascend to the clouds of Heaven?
One who takes Heaven as a teacher has no fixed intention and responds in accord with it; one who is carried away by things acts from attachment and partiality. If one is carried away by things, one cannot be said to take Heaven as a teacher.
How, then, should one act with such a state of mind?
The sage has never fixed in the mind the existence of Heaven, of humanity, of beginnings, or of things. Heaven is Wuwei (non-action), while human activity is action. The sage not only has no thought of action, but no thought even of nonexistence. How, then, could there be Heaven, humanity, beginnings, or things?
The sage moves together with the world without growing weary, and responds fully to all that arises without becoming entangled. What can be said of such a natural accord with the Dao? Commentary: Those who move alongside other people often cannot keep it up for long; those overwhelmed by dealings with the world are liable to lose their footing. Here, however, one moves with the world without fatigue and responds fully to affairs without becoming entangled. This is what it means to accord naturally with the Way of Heaven.
Tang obtained a position overseeing the realm. Yin Dengheng (also written “Wei”) served as his teacher. Yi Yin acted as his tutor without being confined by rules; wherever he was, he brought things to completion. What he accomplished was simply to oversee the name. A name is a guest of what is real: only where there is substance can there be a name.
The name “Ying.”
(The final character, “Ying,” may be a copying or punctuation error in this passage. It should be read together with “oversee the name” in the preceding text, rather than treated as a separate proper name.)
The passage can be understood in the following way:
Someone says: Those who skillfully argue for attacking Qi are unsettling people’s minds; those who skillfully argue against attacking it are unsettling people’s minds too. Anyone who makes “whether to attack” the focus of debate and leaves people in turmoil is also unsettling their minds.
The ruler hears this and asks: If that is so, what should be done?
The reply is: You would do better to entrust the world to its natural state. Anyone who governs the world but does not understand how to entrust it to its natural state cannot be said to truly understand the Dao.
The “Qiu” mentioned here does not refer to Confucius. It means a mound or hill. To interpret “Qiu” as Confucius is a mistake.
Thus, there are people who display benevolence and virtue on the outside while harboring the intent to steal within—people like Robber Zhi.
Name and reality are relative to one another: only when there is a name do people investigate the reality that is supposed to correspond to it; without a name, there is no reality to speak of. So anyone attached to names remains caught up in calculations about reality and has not yet returned to the natural state.
King Hui of Wei (Wei Ying) and Hui Shi (Master Hui) discussed affairs of state. Hui Shi had proposed to the king the idea of the “royal foundation”—a plan for strengthening the basis of kingship—and the idea of “royal seed,” concerning the roots from which kingship might be passed on and cultivated. He used the principle of seeds as a metaphor for the continuation of kingship.
Hui Shi said to the King of Wei: If Your Majesty entrusts all affairs of state to the natural state, the world will be at peace. If you cannot entrust them to it, the world will fall into disorder. To entrust things to the natural state is to govern through Wuwei (non-action); to fail to do so is to govern through deliberate action. Deliberate action brings disorder, while Wuwei brings peace.
The King of Wei asked: How can I entrust things to the natural state?
Hui Shi replied: Your Majesty need only refrain from imposing your private intentions on the world, manipulating the people through clever schemes, coercing everyone with punishments, or enticing people with fame and profit. Then the world will naturally settle into peace. The people will each be content with their place and tend to their own work; they will not intrude upon one another or fight over what belongs to others. This is what it means to entrust things to the natural state.
The King of Wei asked again: What should be done about someone who appears righteous and benevolent but is deceitful within?
Hui Shi said: That is precisely a mismatch between name and reality. Such a person bears the name of “benevolence and righteousness” outwardly but lacks their substance within, like Robber Zhi, who steals under the guise of benevolence and righteousness. If a ruler can discern names and realities and is not misled by empty reputations, he can see through deceit and guide the world back to what is genuine.
Taken as a whole, the passage presents a Zhuangzian political philosophy in the manner of a commentary: reduce private interference, follow what is natural, and distinguish names from realities. It opposes disturbing the world with disputes such as whether to attack Qi, and warns against using the name of benevolence and righteousness to pursue private desires.
All a ruler should pursue is the Great Dao. What most readily confuses people is seeing some particular thing as a benefit worth pursuing. Those who advocate attacking Qi see the profit an attack might bring; those who oppose attacking it see the goodwill that restraint would represent. Both views can lead people astray. Even the judgment that attacking and refraining from attack will both disturb people’s minds can become a source of confusion if one clings to it. Only by pursuing the Great Dao can one avoid becoming fixed on either side, and so allow turmoil to subside.
After hearing these words, Hui Zi (Hui Shi) introduced Dai Jinren, a worthy man from Liang whom Hui Zi had recommended to the King of Liang. Dai Jinren said to the king, “Let me tell you a parable. Do you know the snail?” The king replied, “I do.”
“On the left horn of a snail there is a kingdom called Chu; on its right horn there is another kingdom called Man. The two countries often go to war over territory. Tens of thousands are killed or wounded, and the defeated army is pursued for fifteen days before it returns.” A snail is already tiny, and Chu and Man are merely insignificant places on its horns. Recognizing how little the two countries are fighting over may help people let go of their conflicts.
The king said, “Surely this is made up?” Dai Jinren replied, “Allow me to show you with facts. Do you think the four directions above and below that the human mind can conceive have any limit?” The king answered, “They have no limit.” Here he meant the boundless expanse of the Great Void.
Dai Jinren continued, “If you set your mind and spirit in that infinite space, then look back at the places people can reach—the region within the Four Seas—would it seem as though it both exists and does not exist?” The king said, “Yes.”
“Within the Four Seas is the state of Wei; within Wei is Liang; and within Liang are you.” Seen from the whole world, Wei is already small. Liang is only part of Wei, and smaller still. Look at the land within Liang’s capital, and then at a single person in it: the King of Liang appears smaller yet.
“Then, compared with Man on a snail’s horn, are you any different?” The king replied, “No.” In the Great Void, the world is like a snail; compared with Chu and Man, the King of Liang is no different.
After Dai Jinren left, the king sat in a daze, feeling as if he had lost something. He began to understand that what he was fighting over might not be worth fighting for. When the guest had gone, Hui Zi saw the king and said, “That guest is truly remarkable. Even the sages could not surpass him.”
On “Making a Sound” and “Making No Sound”
Blow a pipe, even casually, and if it has holes, like a xiao or flute, it will make a “hoo-hoo” sound. Blow on the ring at the pommel of a sword, by contrast, and at most it gives a brief “xiu”—almost no sound at all.
People often praise Yao and Shun. But to hold them up as examples before a “great person”—someone who has attained the Dao and reached an exceptionally high state—is like blowing once on a sword ring. A sage does not rely on reputation to establish himself; speak of sages before a great person, and their aura as sages fades. What sound could there be? Yao and Shun themselves can hardly be said to have made a sound; how much less can the petty states and their people, such as Man and Chu, make one? (The commentary cites a person from the Great Jin, who restricts the reference to small states.)
Confucius in Chu: the “Sage’s Servants” beside the Ant Mound and the Wine Seller
When Confucius went to the state of Chu, he stayed near the home of someone who sold fermented drink in the Ant Mound area. At a neighboring house, a husband and wife were working on the roof with their servants and concubines (ascending to the roof to make repairs). Seeing their disheveled hair and untidy clothes, Zilu asked, “What are those scruffy people doing?”
Confucius said, “They are the servants of a sage. The sage buries himself among the common people and conceals himself at the edge of the fields; outwardly, he does not display his Virtue. Though he has words in his mouth, his voice is as if it had been worn away; his aspirations, however, are boundless. His mouth speaks, but his heart may not truly be speaking. He is at odds with the ways of the world and inwardly disdains to go along with it. This is called ‘sinking into the land’: as though buried beneath the ground, his sage Virtue moves among people, yet they do not know it.”
Could It Have Been Yiliang of Shinan?
Zilu asked, “Could it be Yiliang of Shinan? Shall I go and call him over?”
Confucius said, “Let it be. He knows that the name Kong Qiu has now fallen to me, and he also knows that I am going to Chu. He must think the king of Chu will summon me—and will therefore regard me as a clever talker who knows how to ingratiate himself. People like Yiliang of Shinan are ashamed even to hear the words of a sycophant, let alone see him in person. Why would he be willing to stay and meet us?” (The implication is that he must already have left.)
General Meaning of the Passage
When Zilu went to visit, the house was already empty. The man had left with his wife and children, severed all contact with other people, and withdrawn from the world.
The border guard at Changwu said to Zilao, “When you govern affairs, do not be ‘careless and rough’—like plowing a hard, weed-choked field without care. When you govern the people, do not be ‘slapdash’—like neglecting cracked, dry fields and farming them carelessly.”
The guard continued: “In the past, I farmed carelessly, and the harvest repaid me with carelessness. I weeded in a slapdash way, and the harvest repaid me in kind. The following year, I changed my methods. I made the rows orderly, plowed deeply, and carefully loosened the soil and cleared away the weeds. The seedlings grew thick and vigorous, and I had enough to eat all year. The border guard’s account of farming is a metaphor for governing. Zhuangzi also uses it as a metaphor for learning and self-cultivation.
“Zhuangzi heard this and said: ‘Nowadays, many people who cultivate their bodies and regulate their minds are just like the border guard described. They turn away from the natural “Heaven” and depart from their innate “nature.” They suppress the emotions that should be allowed to follow their course, and lose the spirit of discernment in their thoughts. There are many such people. To carelessly damage one’s own nature is the work of desires and evils, these “afflictions.” Like weeds—reeds and rushes—that have only just begun to sprout, they use the supposed “support” they receive from our bodies to gradually disrupt our nature.’ (The words “begin” and “gradually” echo one another in the passage.)
“As a result, Jing and Qi scatter and escape, bursting out above and leaking away below, with no knowing where they will escape. Internal sores, scabies, and abscesses—the conditions called ‘bursting’—as well as internal heat, urinary incontinence, and milky urine—the conditions called ‘leaking’—all belong to this category. This is the constant principle of caring for the body: when nature is nurtured, body and spirit alike attain their subtle perfection; when it is neglected, both body and spirit become ill. These are the consequences of careless cultivation.”
Lü Zhifu says: “The Dao is cultivated by daily reduction until one reaches Wuwei; this is how one governs the body and orders the mind. But to turn away from Heaven, abandon one’s nature, destroy the spirit, and extinguish one’s emotions—and for many people to do so without knowing when to stop—is carelessness at its extreme. Desires and evils within are the reeds; the rushes without prop up the body and gradually uproot its nature. The principles of Heaven are then lost. When that happens, can one still hope to set things right? Everything from ‘bursting and leaking’ onward is the result of desires and evils acting as afflictions and robbing people of their original truth.”
A Plain-Language Reading of the Annotations to the True Scripture of Southern Florescence
Bai Ju, a man of the Dao, went to study with Lao Dan (Laozi) and said, “Please let me travel around the world.” Lao Dan replied, “Never mind. The world is still as it has always been.” Bai Ju pressed him again, and Lao Dan asked, “Where do you plan to begin?” He answered, “In the state of Qi.”
When he arrived in Qi, he saw a man being punished. He pushed through the crowd, moved people aside, took off his court robe, and covered the man with it. Then he raised his face to the sky and cried bitterly: “Oh, you! Oh, you! A great calamity has fallen upon the world, and you were the first to suffer from it.”
(When Bai Ju saw the condemned man in Qi, he felt compassion for him. He covered the man with his robe and wept for him.)
He asked, “Was it because of theft? Was it because of murder?” (“Could it be theft? Could it be murder?” The question suggests that such a terrible fate must have had some cause.) Once honor and disgrace are established, people see what counts as a “plague.” Once wealth and goods are amassed, people see what gives rise to “strife.” Now people establish what troubles them—honor and disgrace—and gather what they fight over—wealth and goods. They drive people into hardship and exhaustion, leaving them no room to breathe. Can anyone expect people not to end up in this predicament?
(In the age of ancient simplicity, people did not exalt the worthy or prize rare goods. Today, when fame is exalted, honor and disgrace are established; when profit is exalted, rivalry arises. Nothing troubles people more than humiliation and poverty; nothing do they fight over more than glory and wealth. Once the sages set up this system for distinguishing high from low, the world came to have rich and poor. What brings “plague” and “strife” grew worse by the day, and people were driven into hardship without end. How could anyone expect them not to steal or kill?)
In ancient times, rulers attributed what was “gained” to the people and what was “lost” to themselves; they attributed “justice” to the people and “wrong” to themselves. So if someone’s body was injured or their form impaired, the ruler withdrew and blamed himself.
(Ancient rulers: gains and justice did not truly lie with the people, yet they thought of them as the people’s; loss and wrong did not truly lie with themselves, yet they thought of them as their own. If anything failed to meet its proper measure, they would say, “If even an ordinary person fails to obtain what is due, I alone am to blame.” They took responsibility upon themselves—that was all.)
Today, however, things are different. People conceal things so others cannot recognize them; they make tasks difficult, then blame people for not daring to undertake them. They increase people’s burdens, then punish them for being unable to bear them. They set the road far away, then execute people for “not arriving.”
(These four measures are all harsh policies of the degenerate age.) When the people know their strength is exhausted, they resort to falsehood. If those above produce many new deceptions each day, how can those below avoid learning to be deceitful? When strength is inadequate, people fake it; when knowledge is inadequate, they cheat; when resources are inadequate, they plunder.
(The passage continues with “When strength is inadequate, people resort to falsehood…” and related lines. Its general meaning is that when strength, knowledge, and resources are all insufficient, falsehood, deception, and plunder follow in turn. Those above and below provoke one another, and the state of the world grows worse by the day.)
Plain-Language Interpretation
Then whom should we blame for theft, fraud, and such things? (Hypocrisy, deceit, and stealing often arise from deprivation. Why are the people deprived, and who is responsible?)
Qu Boyu lived to the age of sixty. Over those sixty years, his views changed year after year: at the start of each matter he thought he was right, but by the end he felt he had been wrong. (Ordinary people only realize afterward that they were mistaken from the beginning.) Perhaps he did not understand that what he considered “right” today might be precisely what he had considered “wrong” at the age of fifty-nine. (Boyu only realized at fifty that the first forty-nine years had been mistaken; he had not yet undergone transformation. When he finally changed at sixty, how could he know that the “transformation” of his sixtieth year was not itself the “mistake” of his fifty-ninth?) Things come into being, yet we do not see their root; they emerge, yet we do not see their gate. People rely only on what they “know” and refuse to depend on what they “do not know.” Can this still be called a “great doubt”? (Things do not come into being without root or gate; it is simply that people, in the midst of emptiness and stillness, are unaware of them. What is “known” consists of things with names and forms; what is “not known” is the “maker of things,” without name or form. The root and gate lie there.) Enough, enough! Who can escape this? (Who can claim to be clever on their own? The Scripture on the Hidden Talisman says: “People know the spirit’s spirit, but do not know that what is not spirit is the source of spirit.” The meaning is close to this.) This is what is meant by asking: when right meets right, how can we know which is truly right? (Moving from self-doubt to self-determination is the meaning of “wrong” and “declaring it wrong.”)
Confucius asked the Grand Historians Daotiao and Bochang Qian, and Xiwei: “Duke Ling of Wei was fond of wine and pleasure, neglected the affairs of state, hunted and shot birds, and failed to respond to the feudal lords. Why, then, was his posthumous title still ‘Ling’?” Daotiao replied: “Because the people of the state all agreed on that title at the time.” Bochang Qian replied: “Duke Ling had three consorts bathing with him in the same pool. When Shi Qiu was summoned to meet him, the duke personally took hold of the ceremonial gifts and supported him, preventing Shi Qiu from completing the ritual. He treated his wives and concubines with such disregard, yet showed such respect when meeting a worthy man. That is why he was called ‘Respectful toward the Worthy.’” (He summoned Qiu because he regarded him as worthy, then exerted himself to support him so that Qiu could not complete the ritual; hence the posthumous title “Respectful toward the Worthy.”)
Note: This passage is an argument from the Outer Chapters of the Zhuangzi. Drawing on commentarial interpretations, including Guo Xiang’s, it discusses how judgments of right and wrong shift over time, what is “not known,” and the posthumous title of Duke Ling of Wei. It belongs to the same thread of thought as the Inner Chapters’ “Making All Things Equal” and “Nourishing Life,” emphasizing the loosening of rigid attachments and the value of doubt rather than specific cultivation rituals.
Xiwei said, “After Duke Ling of Wei died, divination was used to choose his burial site. It was decided that he should be buried in the old tomb, but the result was inauspicious. They divined again and chose the dunes, and this time the result was auspicious. They dug several zhang deep and found a stone coffin. After washing it clean, they saw an inscription carved on it: ‘Do not rely on your sons. Duke Ling will take your tomb and bury you inside it.’” The commentaries explain that these words mean descendants cannot be relied upon: in the end, Duke Ling would have his tomb taken by those who came after him and would be buried there. This shows that a person’s fate is determined even before birth. Xiwei lamented, “Duke Ling had been Duke Ling for a very long time! How could those two men have known him?” The commentary cites Lü Jifu’s view: Da Yu and Bo Changqian spoke of this from the human point of view, while Xiwei saw it from the perspective of the Dao of Heaven. From Heaven’s perspective, a person’s name and posthumous title are never things human effort can determine.
Shao Zhi asked Taigong Diao, “What is meant by ‘the words of the xili’?” Taigong Diao replied, “The ‘words of the xili’ bring together ten kinds of surnames and a hundred kinds of names to form shared customs.” In other words, people and things may differ, while their customs can be the same. To view different things as one is to gather different names into a single category; to divide what is the same into distinct things is to break the words of the xili in a single category apart into their separate names. This is unlike the teachings of a single school, which can speak only of difference or sameness, without taking account of both bringing things together and distinguishing them.
It is like pointing to the hundred parts of a horse’s body: no single part, taken by itself, can be called a horse. Only when the parts are brought together can they be called a horse. This means that if we see only scattered differences, we cannot see the whole; only when we understand how to bring the parts together do we begin to know the whole thing. A low hill gradually accumulates into a high mountain; rivers gather waters from many sources to become a great river; and a person of great virtue brings together the views of many people to achieve impartiality. The hill, the river, and the great person all embody the same principle: one who can rightly bring together the opinions of people in the villages can also bring together the principles governing all things under Heaven. The key is impartiality.
Thus, when opinions come from outside, listeners may form their own judgments, but should not cling stubbornly to them. When words arise from within, speakers may have grounds for what they say, but should not reject the views of others. “Coming from outside” means listening to what others say; “arising from within” means setting forth teachings of one’s own. The energies of the four seasons are each different, yet Heaven favors none of them.
A Vernacular Interpretation of the Commentary and Subcommentary on the True Scripture of Southern Florescence
Heaven turns through the four seasons without favoring any one direction, and all things are thereby able to grow and flourish. In the court, the five offices each fulfill their proper duties; the ruler does not favor anyone out of personal interest, and the state can thus remain at peace.
As for the great person complete in both civil and military abilities, their Virtue and talent are not perfected through rewards from others. All things each follow their own principles and may seem entirely different. Yet the Dao treats all things impartially, without favor, and so is called “nameless.” Precisely because it is nameless, it has no partial aims and practices Wuwei (non-action). It may seem to do nothing, yet there is nothing it cannot accomplish.
Why is this so? Time has beginnings and endings; the world has periods of flourishing and decline; misfortune and good fortune arrive one after another, like flowing water. Sometimes a misfortune or blessing arrives when it should not. This is called “being thwarted.” At other times, misfortune or good fortune falls upon someone just as it should. This is called “being fitting.” People’s appearances differ in countless ways, as do the proper outcomes they receive and the mistakes they make. Someone of complete Virtue may not immediately receive good fortune; they may simply have encountered a time of being thwarted. Nor should someone without Virtue seek good fortune in the hope that Heaven will “miscalculate.”
Consider the great marsh: different kinds of timber are measured in different ways, yet each can find its own measure within the same marsh. Seen from afar, a great mountain’s trees and stones seem jumbled together, but in fact, what is alike contains differences, and what differs ultimately belongs to what is alike. This kind of saying is called “the words of the village,” which even ordinary people can understand. Shao Zhi said, “If that is so, then the Dao is enough, isn’t it?”
Tai Gongtiao replied, “No. In number, things are far more than ten thousand. We speak of ‘the ten thousand things’ only as a general term, using the largest whole number to refer to them all.”
Things are not limited to the number “ten thousand”; that number is simply used as a general term, speaking approximately.
Thus, Heaven and Earth are the greatest of forms, and Yin-Yang are the greatest of Qi. The Dao is the common name for them: it is acceptable to call and understand them this way because of their vastness. (Forms and Qi are not limited to Heaven and Earth or Yin-Yang; these are simply the greatest examples. The Dao itself has no name. It is reluctantly called “the public,” and then reluctantly called “the Great Man”; people therefore give it a name on account of its greatness.)
Once these names have been given, how can they be compared with what is nameless? To distinguish the Dao by means of such names is like comparing the size of a dog and a horse: the two are far apart. (The Dao is nameless, yet we call it by names; once “the named” is present, how can it be compared with what is nameless? To discuss the Dao through distinctions of this kind is like comparing the size of dogs and horses: they are far from comparable.)
Shao Zhi said: Within the four directions and the Six Directions, where all things come into being, from where does “aversion” arise?
Tai Gong Diao said: Yin and Yang reflect one another, contain one another, and regulate one another. The four seasons succeed one another, generate one another, and bring one another to an end. (Beginning with “arising”: once Taiji divides, Yin and Yang are distinguished. The hanging images shine forth as “reflection”; Yin and Yang each contain the other within its domain as “covering”; Yang expands and Yin contracts as “regulation.” The Qi of the four seasons alternates, generating and overcoming in an endless cycle.)
From this, desire, aversion, withdrawal, and approach suddenly arise; (“suddenly arise” means to spring up.) Male and female unite, and only then does life come to be. (All things transform through the movement of Qi. Where there is life, there are feelings; desire and aversion, taking and rejecting, spring up suddenly, while male and female divide and unite, and movement and stillness follow their regular patterns.)
Safety and danger transform into one another; misfortune and good fortune give rise to one another; urgency and ease rub against one another; and gathering and dispersal come about. Their names and realities can be recorded, and their subtleties can be noted. (Once feelings and desires arise, events cannot help but follow. Thus safety and danger, misfortune and good fortune, urgency and ease, gathering and dispersal all arise with them, each with names, realities, and subtleties that can be recorded and noted.)
The sequence in which what comes before and what comes after follow one another is ordered by their mutual relations and does not fall into disorder; (“ordered by their mutual relations” means that what comes before and after follow in sequence, arranged through their relations without disorder.) They turn and move like a bridge, making use of one another. (“Bridge-like movement” means riding upon something to proceed; “making use of one another” means relying on it to get through. Rising and descending, bending and extending appear as though directed by some agency.) When things reach their limit, they turn back; when they end, they begin again. This is the common pattern of all things. (When things reach their limit, they turn back toward openness; when they end, they must begin again. This is how transformation works, and so it is with the principles governing things.)
What words can fully express and wisdom can reach extends no further than this.
In the end, when speech reaches its limit and knowledge reaches its utmost, all that remains is the word “things.” This is why it is called “the utmost of things.”
One who has truly awakened to the Dao does not follow things toward the point where they are discarded, nor pursue where they first arose. At this point, the debate should stop. (Explaining the Dao with words and recognizing it through intellectual knowledge are not true awakening. Only one who has awakened to the Dao does not follow things to their end or trace them back to their beginning, but returns to nothingness, where debate ceases. To reach the level of “before there was ever a beginning” is to reach the ultimate.)
Shao Zhi said, “Between Ji Zhen’s idea of ‘nothing makes it happen’ and Jie Zi’s idea that ‘something makes it happen,’ which is closer to the truth, and which departs from reason?” (The idea of “nothing makes it happen” holds that no ruler is needed and things simply unfold on their own; the idea that “something makes it happen” suggests that something governs them. The question is which view is right.)
Taigong Tiao said, “Everyone knows the crow of a rooster and the bark of a dog.” (The mysteries of creation are not so easy to explain as a rooster’s crow or a dog’s bark.) Even the greatest wisdom cannot use words to exhaust the process by which things transform and nurture themselves, or guess through the mind what they are about to become. (One can neither convey their self-transformation in words nor speculate about what they will do.)
If one analyzes the principle down to the finest detail, where nothing can be compared in its smallness, or expands it until nothing can contain it, both “something makes it happen” and “nothing makes it happen” are still discussions about things. In the end, they cannot escape the realm of things, and their words ultimately fail. (These two views discuss things, not the Dao. To discuss things is to remain trapped within them, so one is bound to speak wrongly.)
“Something makes it happen” leans toward what is substantial, while “nothing makes it happen” leans toward what is empty. Where name and substance are present, things dwell; where neither name nor substance is present, things are empty. This can be spoken of and conceived, but the more one says, the further away one gets. (To say “something makes it happen” makes it sound as though there truly is a ruler, making the claim too substantial. To say “nothing makes it happen” attributes life and death entirely to chance and circumstance, making the claim too empty. To speak of existence is to have both name and substance and become caught in things of the acquired realm; to speak of nonexistence is to have neither name nor substance and fall into the emptiness of things, on the primordial side.)
Heaven, by and large, can be spoken of: whether something has form or is formless, words can convey it and the mind can try to grasp it. Yet to seek the Dao (the Way) in this manner only takes one farther from it. We need not fear what has not yet happened, nor can we prevent what has already died. Life and death are not far apart: their manifestations can be witnessed, but the principle behind them cannot be seen. In the obscurity, it seems that some force is driving things, and yet it also seems that no force is acting. In the end, all things are provisional unions of causes and conditions.
I observe the source of the Dao: it extends onward without limit. I pursue its end: it comes on without pause. To say it is without limit and without end is to speak of the Dao’s formlessness and absence of image, a principle shared by all things.
I observe the source of the Dao: it extends onward without limit, and, facing it, I cannot see its beginning. I pursue its end: it comes on without pause, and, following it, I cannot see what lies behind. This is the principle of all things, not their outward forms.
“Something makes it happen” and “nothing makes it happen” are the foundations of these claims. One must always see the Dao in all things; in the end, it cannot be separated from them, and so it cannot be attained.
The Dao cannot be said to exist, for that would cling to visible forms. Nor can it be said not to exist, for that would fall into an extreme view. “Dao” is a name imposed out of necessity; whatever is named is only a provisional name.
“Something makes it happen” and “nothing makes it happen” each confine themselves to one side of the myriad things. How could either speak of the Great Dao?
The same words, spoken with true insight, can fully convey the Dao, even though they are words. This is what is meant by “rare speech accords with Nature.” Without true insight, words cannot fully convey the Dao; they can only describe the myriad things. With too many words, the Dao is exhausted.
Viewed from the standpoint of things, the Dao has no form; viewed from the standpoint of the Dao, nothing is not the Dao. Words cannot carry the Dao, and silence cannot carry it either. Yet beyond speech and silence lies the ultimate meaning.
Fugui said: How vast the difference between people of the present and those of old! People today often contend for fame and chase profit, forever rushing about. People of old were often calm and yielding, at ease with themselves. As for Zeyang, whether one calls him a man of old or of the present, it makes little difference. He first asked Yijie to seek an audience with the King of Chu, but failed; then he asked Wang Guo to try. Wang Guo said, “I am not the equal of Gong Yuexiu. He is the kind of person who finds contentment among mountains and streams. I admire that way of life, but cannot attain it.”
Yijie was not like this. He lived among the wealthy and powerful, not in the cultivation of Virtue. His insight and bearing might suffice to help someone seek wealth and status, but not to help someone delight in the Dao and cultivate De. It is like a freezing person insisting on borrowing a thick coat: however thick the coat, it cannot compare with the warmth of spring, when the ice melts away on its own. Or like someone suffering from heatstroke longing for a breeze: however cool the wind, it cannot compare with the heat receding of its own accord once the winter solstice has passed. Those who long to climb higher always rely on the influence of the powerful. However illustrious their connections, they cannot compare with the inner dignity of those who are calm and yielding.
The King of Chu was powerful and fierce. If someone lacked the knack for ingratiating himself and possessed no real Virtue, how could he turn the king from his crooked ways back toward what was right? Thus, a sage can transform a whole family when poor, and transform princes and ministers when successful. In company, he delights in the Dao and keeps silent; others, as though they had drunk in his harmonious influence, become quietly content. How much more, then, when standing beside him: could father and son fail to fulfill their proper roles? When sharing a hall with him, could any action be out of place? The King of Chu’s power was no less than the cold of deep winter or the heat of high summer. Hence the advice: “Wait for Gong Yuexiu, and go with him to meet the King of Chu.” He can support the ruler above and benefit his friends below. This was the counsel offered to Zeyang.
People know that the sage regards the myriad things as one, but do not know that the sage simply fulfills his nature: in stillness, he manifests the return to life’s mandate; in movement, he refines the spirit. One may say that the sage takes Heaven as his companion, or that the sage is a true person among humanity.
Yet people do not live a hundred years, but carry a thousand years’ worth of worry. They remain asleep in a great dream; the bell rings and the water clock runs dry, and they can only resign themselves to what cannot be helped. Such people are all too numerous. A person’s beauty is admired by others; the sage’s love for people is praised by others. A mirror or a public notice can reveal someone’s beauty, but if that person neither knows nor hears of it, their beauty is not diminished. Loving beauty is part of human nature; as for the sage, there is neither love nor lack of love.
Those with genuine knowledge and ability will, in the end, leave a name behind. Even the highest benevolence and Virtue may not win everyone’s praise. The sage does not think of himself as “loving others,” yet people find peace through him. Longing for Virtue is also part of human nature. A traveler who has spent years away from home feels joy at returning to his homeland and seeing familiar things. How much greater must that joy be when one looks within, sees one’s original heart, and encounters one’s “true self”?
In ancient times, Ranxiangshi, a legendary ruler, grasped the subtle key of the “center of the circle,” and the Dao thereby came to fruition. Though he lived long and could transform and nourish his Jing and Qi, he could not transform away this illusory body. Why not cast off the illusory body and seek to become an immortal who ascends? To take Heaven as one’s teacher without being led astray by external things—only a sage can do this. He forgets Heaven, forgets humanity, forgets beginnings, and forgets things. He walks straight along the right path without leaning to either side, and branches off from it without being swept along by the current.
Have you not heard that Tang, founder of the Shang dynasty, once served as a charioteer, while Yi Yin held the balance of power and became a teacher to the people? In overthrowing the Xia, they were never bound by ordinary rules and measures. They were simply bringing about King Tang’s success and winning a name for the ages. Yet who can say that a name is anything but an unnecessary burden? A ruler recognizes a minister’s worth by knowing him; a minister chooses a ruler by choosing his lord. The disciples of Confucius still devoted all their thought and effort to becoming teachers for ten thousand generations. This, too, was the sage’s love for others: he did not want the long night of the ages to go on unbroken. Confucius was like the sun. If the world had lacked even one Confucius through all time, it would not have been a world; just as a year’s work cannot be complete if even one day is missing from its more than three hundred days. Only when a worthy teacher stands within can a wise ruler and capable ministers assist from without. Without the followers of Confucius serving as teachers within, how could great scholars and ministers assist a sage ruler from without?
Gongsun Yan wanted to raise an army and avenge the breach of an agreement by the ruler of Qi. Ji Zi, a figure from the line of Hua Zi, in turn regarded Yan’s “shame” as shameful. It was like tearing down a city that had already been built and making convict laborers suffer for nothing. Yan was a man who stirred people’s minds into confusion and should not be heeded. Hua Zi disliked his failure to hear the Great Dao, and said: “A gentleman serving his ruler must never act with a deliberate, contrived intention. Those who advocate attacking Qi are meddlesome and confuse people’s minds; those who oppose the attack neglect their duty and also confuse people’s minds. To say that both attacking and not attacking confuse people’s minds is to offer no firm direction, and that too confuses people’s minds. What, then, should be done? The ruler should seek the Dao. What is the Dao? It is the state described in the Book of Odes: ‘His Virtue is not displayed, yet the lords take him as their model.’”
When Hui Shi heard this, he went to visit Dai Jinren, a legendary man of great insight. Dai Jinren said: “Look around at the vastness of the world: it is no larger than a snail’s shell. Look around at all the states under Heaven: their…”
Note: “The key to the center of the circle” refers to Zhuangzi’s pivotal principle for living and cultivating the Dao by keeping to the center and avoiding both extremes. “Xumi” originally referred to convicts sentenced to labor service. Dai Jinren appears in the “Autumn Floods” chapter of the Zhuangzi; he views the world from a perspective that makes it seem infinitesimal.
The Plain Language Interpretation of the True Classic of Southern Florescence (Nanhua Zhenjing Zhushu)
Liezi said to the ruler of Qi: “Is there anything more absurd in the world than the kingdoms called Chu, on the left horn of a snail, and Man, on its right horn, going to war over a piece of land, killing tens of thousands, and pursuing the defeated for more than ten days?” The ruler asked whether this was empty talk or a true account. In fact, it was both. If you understand that the mind can roam through the boundless realms above and below, in all directions, then look back at this great country, open to every road, and see that it is actually tiny.” The ruler agreed.
Liezi continued: “Within this vast world there is the state of Wei, and Wei itself is small within the world. Within Wei there is Daliang, its capital, and Daliang is smaller still. Within Daliang there is a ruler, and the ruler is smaller yet. If you believe this, is that ruler different from Man on a snail’s horn, or not?” Only then did the ruler feel lost and disheartened, realizing that what he had been fighting over was not worth fighting over.
After the guest had left, Huizi said: “Blowing a flute can make some sound, but blowing on the tip of a sword produces only a ‘whoosh.’ It can hardly be called a real sound. Yao and Shun are sages praised by everyone. Before Dai Jinren, a man said to have attained the Dao and withdrawn from worldly life, speaking of Yao and Shun is like that ‘whoosh.’ What reputation could they still have?”
When Confucius was in the state of Chu, he saw a husband and wife serving as slaves, yet as at ease as if they had climbed to the summit of a mountain. Zilu asked, “This man’s hair is disheveled and his body looks burdened. What does he do?” Confucius replied: “He has the Virtue of a sage, yet hides among servants. He buries himself and conceals his name; his reputation fades while his aspirations remain vast. Though he speaks, it is as if he says nothing. He enters the world as if he were merely playing with it. Is he submerged in the common world, or does he conceal his skill like Shinan Yiliao?”
Zilu went to invite the couple to come out. Confucius said: “What sort of people are they? Without divination, they knew in advance that we were coming, and they dislike hearing what we have to say. How could they agree to meet us face to face?” When Zilu went to look, the house was already empty.
The gatekeeper at Changwu asked Zilao: “Being as careful at the end as at the beginning is the foundation of governing. Comforting the people and laboring for them is what makes someone their ruler. If you sow carelessly, you will harvest carelessly. How much more so when governing the people?” When Zhuangzi heard these words, he understood the principle of governing the body and ordering the mind. Those who go against the Dao of Heaven, abandon their nature, extinguish their true feelings, and lose their spirit are all rashly damaging their own nature. They prop up the body with desires as though with reeds and rushes, unaware that the stronger desire becomes, the more the natural order is extinguished. If things are collapsing above and leaking below, where could they find a stopping point?
Boju studied the Dao with Laozi and asked him to travel through the world. When they arrived in Qi, they saw a man who had been punished. Boju took off his own clothes and gave them to him, then held him and wept: “A great calamity has befallen the world. Why have you had to suffer it first?”
Does this count as theft, or as murder? When great glory exists in the world, people chase after it; when great disgrace exists, they do all they can to avoid it. When wealth accumulates in abundance, people hoard it; when wealth is widely dispersed, people fight over it.
Today’s rulers use what people abhor—punishment—to entice them with what they covet, yet hope they will not steal or kill. This is surely impossible.
In ancient times, rulers credited the people for good deeds and blamed themselves for faults. Whenever something went wrong, they withdrew and reproached themselves. Can we expect people today to act that way?
Hiding something so others do not recognize it is a small test. Making a task exceptionally difficult and then blaming others for not daring to attempt it is to blame them excessively. Entrusting someone with a weighty responsibility and then punishing them for failing to fulfill it is like putting pressure on the thinnest part. When the journey is long, executing those who do not reach their destination means the dead can never return to life.
The cleverness of the many overcomes the foolishness of the many, and the strength of the many overcomes their cleverness. When the people’s wisdom and strength are both exhausted, only deception remains. When deception does not cease, theft arises. Why does one who rules the people not first reproach himself? Unless one is like Qu Boyu, the worthy minister of Wei known for self-examination, who reflected on himself at every age up to sixty, how can we know that what people today call right and wrong is not the reverse of what they considered right and wrong at fifty-nine?
All things come into being, and what comes into being has a root; things emerge, and what emerges has a gate. Those who know understand birth and emergence; those who know what they do not know understand the root and the gate. If there is great knowledge in the world, there is also great doubt. I want to stop—shall I stop? Yet to avoid great doubt by treating ignorance as a kind of special knowledge—how can one fail to see that “knowing what one does not know” is deeper than knowledge?
Duke Ling of Wei was an unrighteous ruler. Why was his posthumous title “Ling,” meaning “numinous”? The Grand Historian Tao said, “This too was a matter of affirming him in accordance with what the people affirmed.” Bo Changqian said, “Though Duke Ling indulged in sensual pleasures, he showed solemn respect toward those he recognized as worthy and capable. He did not let human desire obscure the principles of Heaven; that is why he was called ‘Ling.’” Xiwei said, “After Duke Ling died, they divined where to bury him. They dug up a stone coffin engraved with the words, ‘You cannot rely on your descendants.’ Only Duke Ling seized it and buried it. He had long been ‘Ling’; it was Heaven’s will, not the work of human hands.” How could these two men have been able to understand it?
Shao Zhi asked Taigong Tiao, “What are ‘the sayings of the localities’?” Taigong Tiao replied, “The qi of each region differs, and so its winds differ; where the winds differ, customs differ. This is the natural order of the lands in the five directions.”
A Plain Language Reading of the Annotations and Commentaries on the True Classic of Southern Florescence
Customs and “One Region”
Speaking of customs: the people of a particular region bring together many surnames and households, and together they form the customs of that place. People’s hearts may differ, while local customs are often alike. This does not mean that the character and traditions of every place are exactly the same. Rather, people are shaped by the same surroundings and so come to resemble one another on the surface. Though their habits are alike, each person pursues a different direction, like streams that branch into separate channels.
Consider also the saying about “pointing to a horse”: one part of a horse cannot, by itself, be called a horse. Only when all its parts are joined together is it a horse. As mounds of earth from villages and settlements can pile up until low ground becomes high, and as ice formed across rivers can accumulate until it becomes vast, so too does the great person—the perfected person who understands the Great Dao and is one with Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things—gather the private concerns of people throughout the world and bring them together as perfect impartiality. Yet people do not realize that the great person’s perfect impartiality is also perfect emptiness. When hearing others speak, words enter from outside, but the great person does not cling to a fixed opinion as though saying, “I am the master.” When speaking, words come from within, but the great person does not reject others in order to insist on a personal view.
Heaven has no private preference for any particular Qi (vital energy), and so the myriad things can each take shape. The ruler has no favoritism toward any one person, and so the state can be well governed. The great person does not hoard abilities and so has complete De (Virtue/Power). The Dao belongs exclusively to no single thing, and so it is “nameless.” Being nameless, it can be “without action.” Only through Wuwei (non-action) can all things be accomplished.
Misfortune, Fortune, and the Old Man Who Lost His Horse
Even though things sometimes have beginnings and endings, and the world is subject to change, in the end they fall under just two headings: misfortune and fortune. This is like the story of the old man at the frontier who lost his horse: misfortune—fortune often leans beside it. Thus someone may go against the ordinary course and still arrive at what is fitting. But there are also people who cling to their own opinions, each insisting on one side and believing it to be the correct principle, only to go astray. And again: fortune—misfortune also leans beside it.
It is like the different kinds of timber in a great marsh, gathered together for craftsmen to use: the materials differ, yet their uses can overlap. The wood and stone of a great mountain are scattered for the people of the world to use: their uses are alike, yet their materials differ. If one merges with principle and returns to the Dao, why keep arguing over sameness and difference? Neither sameness nor difference is enough to express the Dao. Just as counting things by the “myriad” does not count every single thing, this is only speaking of things in their general magnitude.
The greatest forms are encompassed by Heaven and Earth; the greatest Qi is encompassed by Yin-Yang. The Dao, in turn, encompasses Heaven and Earth and Yin-Yang. How could its greatness be measured? Yet once the name “Dao” has been given, how can it be equated with what is nameless?
Where Do the Myriad Things Come From?
Shaozhi (or a questioner of the “Shaozhi” type), puzzled by “nothing,” asked: How do the myriad things come into being? Where do they begin?
Taigong Diao began by speaking of their point of origin: the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate) divides into the Two Modes, and the sun and moon then shine upon one another. Yang rises and Yin descends; Yin descends and Yang rises, covering one another in turn. Yang wanes as Yin grows, and Yin wanes as Yang grows, restraining one another. The four seasons alternate, and fullness and decline, growth and diminution, generate and overcome one another, giving life and bringing death. Once the myriad things have come to life, they also die…
Among sentient beings, the first stirrings of desire arise no more fundamentally than in the distinction and union of female and male. Yet behind this separation and union lies innate moral awareness.
Thus, in the world, there are always uneven turns of safety and danger, fortune and misfortune, urgency and ease, gathering and dispersal. Those who do not understand think these can all be recorded through names and realities, and retained in the mind and spirit. Those who understand see them as the successive patterns of things and the driving course of Qi. How can they know that hardship must give way to success, and endings must lead to beginnings, are constant principles of things? What is more, when speech and knowledge reach their limit, they can only exhaust themselves in things. Those who have seen the Dao, however, pursue directly the level at which “things have never yet begun to have a beginning”; only then can debate cease. So the Dao is called “doing nothing,” and it is also said that “something makes things happen.” Both views are one-sided. Who can know that the Dao has no speech, and that whatever is spoken is not the Dao; that the Dao has no intention, and that whatever is intended is not the Dao? Neither small nor great, obscure and dark, within it there is spirit. Can it be said both that “something makes things happen” and that “nothing is done”?
To cling to names and realities is to fall into the realm of things; to cling to what has neither name nor reality is to fall into emptiness. In general, what cannot be spoken or conceived is the essence of the Dao. Once entangled in being and nonbeing, it becomes speakable and conceivable: that is the Dao in its coarse aspect. Nothing exceeds life and death in the matters of being and nonbeing. Before birth, one cannot avoid being born; once dead, one cannot avoid dying. Life and death are a single current of Qi. Death and life can be observed, but their principle cannot. People in the world argue from “something makes things happen” and “nothing is done” mostly out of doubt and conjecture. If one wishes to observe the source of the Dao, the beginning of Heaven and Earth, though it has no beginning, can it truly be observed? If one wishes to observe the end of the Dao, the end of Heaven and Earth, though it has no end, can its end be observed? What has limits and stops is a thing; what has neither limit nor end is principle. Things have beginnings and endings, and speech too has its origin. But the Dao cannot be grasped as “being,” because it has no being; nor can it be grasped as “nonbeing,” because its nonbeing is of itself—it is not that I made it be nothing. The Dao, then, has no name of its own; a name is borrowed only because it cannot be avoided. The two views, “something makes things happen” and “nothing is done,” are both far from the great and all-encompassing Dao.
The same applies to speech: if a single statement can fully convey meaning, then a single statement can also exhaust the Dao—so what of speaking all day? If speech cannot convey meaning, then speaking at length only reaches an impasse and exhausts itself in things; what good is talking all day? Thus, in seeking the utmost of the Dao and of things, speech is not the answer, but neither is silence. I speak, yet have never spoken: that is not speech. I am silent, yet have never been silent: that is not silence.
Silence does not mean always speaking, nor does it mean always keeping silent. This is the highest point that discussion of the Dao can reach; nothing can be added beyond it. So, did Grandfather Tiao truly understand the Dao?
“Discussing the Dao” means debating and expounding the Dao, the fundamental principles of the universe and human life. Grandfather Tiao is a figure in the Zhuangzi who often discusses the Dao with Nanguo Ziqi and others. Here, the question is whether he has fully grasped the level beyond both speech and silence.
Source text: Kanripo 漢籍リポジトリ（KR5i0036）; Licence: CC BY-SA 4.0 · Report an error / feedback