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Chapter 21 of 33
庄子
Tian Zifang sat beside Marquis Wen of Wei and repeatedly praised Xi Gong.
Marquis Wen asked: "Is Xi Gong your teacher?"
Zifang replied: "No. He is a fellow villager of mine. When he speaks of the Way, he is often quite on target, which is why I praise him."
Marquis Wen asked: "Then do you have no teacher?"
Zifang replied: "I do."
"Who is your teacher?"
"Dongguo Shunzi."
"Then why have you never praised him?"
Zifang said: "His character is authentic (pure, genuine, and unadorned). Though he has human form, his inner heart is as empty and still as Heaven; he accords with external things while preserving his true nature, and being clear and tranquil himself, he can embrace all things. When he encounters someone who is not aligned with the Way, he merely rectifies his own bearing so that the person awakens on their own, letting their delusions dissolve naturally. How could I possibly be worthy to praise him!"
After Zifang left, Marquis Wen felt lost and dejected, and did not speak for an entire day. Later he summoned his close retainers and said: "How profound! A gentleman of complete virtue! Formerly I thought the words of sage-like wisdom and the conduct of benevolence and righteousness were the highest attainment. Having heard of Zifang's teacher, my body feels like it is falling apart and I do not wish to move; my mouth feels clamped shut and I do not wish to speak. Everything I have learned before is as crude as a clod of earth! Wei is truly a burden to me!"
🌱 Wen Bo Xuezi was traveling to Qi and stopped for lodging in Lu. A man of Lu requested an audience with him. Wen Bo Xuezi said: "I will not see him. I have heard that the gentlemen of the Central Kingdoms are clear on matters of ritual and righteousness but do not understand the human heart. I do not wish to see him." On his way back from Qi, he stopped again in Lu, and the man came again requesting an audience. Wen Bo Xuezi said: "He came to see me before, and now he comes again—surely there is something he can enlighten me about." So he went out to receive the guest, and upon returning inside, he sighed. The next day he received the guest again, and upon returning inside, he sighed again. A servant asked: "Every time you see this guest, you return sighing—why?"
Wen Bo Xuezi said: "I already told you before: The people of the Central Kingdoms are clear on matters of ritual and righteousness but do not understand the human heart. The one who came to see me just now—his advancing and retreating were fully in accord with the rules, leisurely and grand like a dragon or a tiger in his bearing. When admonishing me, he was as respectful as a son; when instructing me, he was as solemn as a father. That is why I sigh."
When Confucius saw Wen Bo Xuezi, he did not say a single word. Zi Lu asked: "You have long wished to see Wen Bo Xuezi. Now that you have seen him, why do you not speak?"
Confucius said: "For a person like this, the moment one's eyes meet him, one knows the Way resides in him—there is simply no need to express it through words."
🌊 Yan Hui asked Confucius: "When you walk slowly, I walk slowly; when you walk quickly, I walk quickly; when you run, I run; but when you race ahead leaving even the dust behind, all I can do is stand behind with eyes wide open, staring!"
Confucius asked: "Hui, what do you mean by this?"
Yan Hui said: "When you walk slowly, I walk slowly—this means whatever you say, I also say. When you walk quickly, I walk quickly—this means when you argue, I also argue. When you run, I run—this means when you expound the Way, I also expound the Way. But when you race ahead leaving even the dust behind and all I can do is stand behind with eyes wide open—this means that without speaking you are trusted, without comparison you are drawn close to, and without authority the people gather before you—yet I do not understand how this comes to be."
Confucius said: "Alas! This must be carefully examined! The greatest grief is the death of the heart; the death of the body is of secondary importance. The sun rises from the east and sets at the western extreme, and all things without exception follow its course. Those with eyes and feet all rely on it to accomplish their tasks. When the sun comes out, they exist; when the sun goes down, they perish. All things are likewise: they die in dependence on something, and are born in dependence on something. Once I receive this physical form, I do not forcefully alter it, but await the natural end. Moving with things, day and night without interruption, yet not knowing when it will cease. Naturally and spontaneously this form has come to be, and I know that fate cannot be planned beforehand. Therefore I advance daily. I have spent my whole life with you, yet it is as if we passed each other by—you have not been able to grasp me. Is this not sorrowful? You have only seen the traces I have revealed. Those traces have already vanished, yet you still search for them, thinking they remain—this is like going to an empty horse market to look for a horse. I forget you, quickly; and you forget me, quickly. Even so, why should you worry! Even if you forget the me of the past, there remains in me something that cannot be forgotten."
🍃 Confucius went to see Lao Dan, who had just washed his hair and was letting it dry, spread loose, sitting motionless as if he were not a living being. Confucius withdrew to wait at the side. After a while, they met.
Confucius said: "Was my eyesight playing tricks on me? Or was it truly as it seemed? Just now, your body was like withered wood, as if you had departed from all things and all people, standing utterly alone."
Lao Dan said: "I was letting my mind roam in the beginning of things (causing my mind to wander through the origin of all things)."
Confucius asked: "What does this mean?"
Lao Dan said: "The mind is confounded and cannot know; the mouth is open but cannot speak. Let me try to give you its rough outline: The ultimate yin is chilly and cold; the ultimate yang is scorching and hot. The chilly issues from Heaven; the scorching arises from Earth. When the two blend and intermingle, all things are produced; there is something that maintains them from behind, yet its form cannot be seen. Waxing and waning, fullness and emptiness, now dark, now bright—changing with the sun and shifting with the moon, accomplishing something every day yet its merit never seen. Birth has a place where it sprouts; death has a place where it returns; beginning and end circle without end, and none knows where they culminate. Apart from this, who could be the ancestor of all things!"
Confucius asked: "May I ask how to let the mind roam in this?"
Lao Dan said: "This is a state of utmost beauty and utmost joy. To appreciate utmost beauty and roam in utmost joy is called the Utmost Person."
Confucius said: "I wish to hear the specific method."
Lao Dan said: "Creatures that feed on grass do not mind changing their pasture; worms that live in water do not mind changing their pool. Small changes do not cause the loss of the great constancy, and joy, anger, sorrow, and delight do not enter the breast. All under Heaven is the common abode of all things. If one recognizes this commonality, then the four limbs and hundred bones are as insignificant as dust and grime, and death and life, beginning and end, are as natural as the alternation of day and night—nothing can disturb you, still less such trifles as gain and loss, fortune and misfortune! To cast aside external things is like discarding mud, for one knows that the self is more precious than externals. What is precious resides in oneself and is not lost through change. Moreover, the transformations of the myriad things are inexhaustible—what is there worth troubling the heart over! Those who have already attained the Way understand this."
Confucius said: "Your virtue matches Heaven and Earth, yet you still rely on these ultimate words to cultivate the heart. Among the gentlemen of old, who could be exempt from cultivation?"
Lao Dan said: "Not so. Water in its flowing—non-action (not deliberately striving) yet its nature naturally manifests; the Utmost Person in virtue—without deliberate cultivation, yet the myriad things naturally cannot leave him. Just as Heaven is naturally high, Earth naturally thick, sun and moon naturally bright—what need is there for cultivation!"
Confucius came out and told Yan Hui: "In respect to the Way, I am as ignorant and small as a gnat in a vinegar jar! If the Master had not lifted the lid, I would never have known the completeness of Heaven and Earth."
⛰ Zhuangzi went to see Duke Ai of Lu.
Duke Ai said: "Lu has many Classicists, but few who study this kind of teaching of yours."
Zhuangzi said: "Lu has very few Classicists."
Duke Ai said: "The whole state of Lu wears Confucian robes—how can you say there are few?"
Zhuangzi said: "I have heard that Classicists wear round caps to signify their understanding of heavenly seasons, square shoes to signify their understanding of earthly forms, and jade pendants to signify their ability to make decisions. But a gentleman who possesses the Way does not necessarily wear such garments; and one who wears such garments does not necessarily possess the Way. If you think what I say is wrong, why not issue an order throughout the state: 'Anyone who does not possess this Way yet wears these garments shall be put to death!'"
So Duke Ai issued the order, and within five days no one in Lu dared to wear Confucian robes anymore. Only one man, wearing still his Confucian robes, stood before the palace gate. Duke Ai summoned him and questioned him on state affairs—through a thousand changes and ten thousand variations, he answered without ever being exhausted.
Zhuangzi said: "In the whole of Lu, there is but one true Classicist—can that be called many?"
Baili Xi did not take rank and emolument to heart, so the oxen he tended grew fat and sleek, causing Duke Mu of Qin to forget his lowly station and entrust him with governance. Lord Yu did not take death and life to heart, and therefore could move people's hearts.
Lord Yuan of Song wanted a painting made. All the painters came, bowed and then stood at attention, licking their brushes and mixing their ink—and outside there were still many more waiting. One painter arrived late, strolling in without haste, and after bowing did not stand at attention but went directly back to his quarters. Lord Yuan sent someone to look at him—there he was, clothes undone, sitting cross-legged, his body bared.
Lord Yuan of Song said: "That will do—this one is a true painter."
King Wen was inspecting the region of Zang, when he saw an old man fishing, yet his fishing was not really fishing. He was not holding the rod to fish, but was fishing beyond fishing. King Wen wished to employ him and entrust him with governance, but feared that his ministers and the noble clans would be unsettled. He wished to let the matter go, yet could not bear for the people to have no one to rely on.
So the next morning he assembled his grand officers and said: "Last night I dreamed of a worthy man—dark of complexion with a beard, riding a piebald horse whose hooves were red on one side—who commanded me: 'Entrust your governance to the old man of Zang, and the people may perhaps be saved!'"
The grand officers said in astonishment: "This is the late former King!"
King Wen said: "If so, then let us divine about it."
The grand officers said: "It is the former King's command—you need have no doubt, Your Majesty. Why divine?" So they welcomed the old man of Zang and entrusted him with governance. The statutes and laws were not altered, nor was there any perverse policy. After three years, King Wen surveyed the state and saw that the knights had dissolved their cliques, officials no longer showcased their personal merits, and various measuring instruments dared not enter the four borders. That the knights dissolved their cliques meant advocating unity; that officials did not display their merits meant devoting themselves collectively to governance; that measuring instruments dared not enter the borders meant the feudal lords had no duplicity.
King Wen thereupon honored him as Grand Tutor, and facing north asked: "Can this governance be extended to all under Heaven?" The old man of Zang answered with silence, and took his leave with an air of indifference. What was decreed in the morning was rescinded by evening, and of his own fate no word ever came again.
Yan Hui asked Confucius: "Was King Wen not capable enough? Why did he have to resort to a dream as a pretext?"
Confucius said: "Hush—say no more! King Wen did already perfectly well. What more is there to criticize! He was merely going along with the circumstances of his time."
Lie Yukou demonstrated archery for Bohun Wuren. He drew the bow to full extension, balanced a cup of water on his elbow, and loosed the arrow—one arrow had just been released and the second was already on the string, and the third already in position. Throughout it all, he was as steady as a wooden effigy.
Bohun Wuren said: "What you have is an archery of intention—conscious archery, not the archery of no-mind. Now come with me to climb a high mountain, stand on a precarious rock, and face an abyss of a hundred fathoms—can you shoot then?"
Thereupon Bohun Wuren climbed the high mountain, stepped onto the precarious rock, faced the abyss of a hundred fathoms, then walked backward toward the edge until two inches of his feet hung over the void. He invited Lie Yukou to come forward. Lie Yukou lay flat on the ground, cold sweat streaming down to his heels.
Bohun Wuren said: "The Utmost Person—above, he can peer at the blue heavens; below, he can dive to the Yellow Springs; he roams across all the eight farthest reaches, and his spirit never changes. But now you are so frightened your eyes are dazzled—you are still far from the mark!"
Jian Wu asked Sun Shu'ao: "Three times you became Prime Minister without showing elation, and three times you were dismissed without a trace of worry. At first I doubted you, but now I see your even breathing and easy bearing—what is the secret of your mind?"
Sun Shu'ao said: "What do I have that is extraordinary! I merely considered that when things come, they cannot be refused, and when they go, they cannot be stopped. I thought that gain and loss did not reside with me, and so I had no worried countenance. What is extraordinary in that! Moreover, I do not know whether they reside in the other party or in me. If they reside in the other, they have nothing to do with me; if they reside in me, they have nothing to do with the other. Just as I am lost in a daze, looking all around—how would I have leisure to concern myself with others' honor or disgrace!"
When Confucius heard of this he said: "The True Persons of antiquity—the wise could not persuade them, the beautiful could not move them, bandits could not rob them, nor Fu Xi nor Huangdi could make friends with them. Death and life count as great matters, yet they could not alter them, still less rank and emolument! A person like this—his spirit passes through great mountains with no obstruction, descends into deep springs without being drenched, dwells in the lowly without being wearied, fills all Heaven and Earth, and the more he gives to others, the richer he becomes."
The King of Chu was sitting with the Lord of Fan. Before long, those around the King of Chu repeatedly said, "The state of Fan is destroyed."
The Lord of Fan said: "The destruction of Fan is not enough to cost me what I possess. If the destruction of Fan is not enough to cost me what I possess, then the continued existence of Chu is not enough to preserve what Chu possesses. Seen from this angle, Fan never had perished, and Chu never had existed."
This chapter, Tian Zifang, unfolds through eleven scenes, progressively advancing a central thesis: true cultivation lies not in external traces, but in the inner quality of "authenticity" and "forgetting."
First, the dialogue between Tian Zifang and Marquis Wen of Wei reveals the levels of "authenticity." Xi Gong, who "speaks of the Way with frequent accuracy," is already quite good; but Dongguo Shunzi, who is "human in appearance yet empty as Heaven, according with things while preserving his true nature," no longer has need to "speak of the Way"—he himself is the embodiment of the Way. Marquis Wen's reaction after hearing the description is deeply symbolic: "His body dissolved and he did not wish to move; his mouth was clamped and he did not wish to speak." This shows that one who truly embodies the Way conquers others not through words, but through the sheer state of his being, causing others' delusions to dissolve naturally. The Marquis's remark "Wei is truly a burden to me!" hits the key point: external power and position are often the fetters of the mind.
The story of Wen Bo Xuezi further contrasts the "shell" of ritual righteousness with the "core" of human understanding. The Lu man moved "one pace forward, with perfect discipline; one pace back, with perfect regulation," impeccable in form, yet "dull at understanding the human heart." Confucius's "knowing the Way dwells in him at a glance" reveals a mode of perception that transcends language—true Way needs no verbal mediation; the eye meets and immediately perceives. This echoes Yan Hui's confusion: Yan Hui could keep pace with Confucius's words, debates, and lectures, but could not keep pace with the realm of "being trusted without speaking, being drawn close to without comparison." Confucius's answer "there is no grief greater than the death of the heart" makes plain: even death of the body is less lamentable than a petrified mind. To chase after external "traces" that have already departed is like seaking a horse at the empty market square—searching where nothing remains.
Lao Dan's discourse on "roaming in the origin of things" is the philosophical summit of this chapter. "The origin of all things" is the wellspring of all beings, the space where "ultimate yin with chill penetrating, ultimate yang with scorching brilliance" blend in harmony. Here a cosmology transcends individual life and death: birth and death, beginning and end are but alternations like day and night; "nothing can disrupt them," still less trifles like gain, loss, fortune, or misfortune. Lao Dan concludes with the metaphor of water: "Water in its flowing—non-action, and its natural capacity manifests indeed"—that flowing of water needs no deliberate "cultivation," and the virtue of the Utmost Person needs no deliberate "cultivation" either. "It's natural as Heaven's being high, Earth's being thick, the sun and moon's brightness—what need is there to cultivate!" This paradox of "cultivating by not cultivating" forms the highest point of Daoist self-cultivation theory.
The remaining stories confirm this theme from various angles: one who is a true Classicist does not depend upon the robes of Classicists (Zhuangzi with Duke Ai); one who is a genuine painter does not cling to painterly protocol (Lord Yuan of Song with the bared painter); one who is a thoroughgoing fisherman is not fixated upon fishing itself (King Wen and the old man of Zang); one who is a consummate archer is not caught up within shooting (Lie Yukou and Bohun Wuren); one who is truly Prime Minister receives indeed not fettered by prospective power and emolument (Sun Shu'ai). Finally, the story of the Lord of Fan attains utmost adroitness: the state of Fan never perished and Chu never existed—all external existences and endings are Relative only. One's true "existence" is not lost through changes taken in outer circumstances.
The more immediately applicable inspiration Wang Anshi extricates from this chapter for readers today resides in its reflection upon embracing what amorphously is ceremonial manner-of-living instead of living. If Wen Bo Xuezi's verdict of "clear on ritual righteousness been spent
without probing comprehension that heart resides amid people" is herein drafted, text reads especially once toward modern lingua. Through a currently devised linguistic fabric, contextual significance may mirror facts: Exacting mastery about social etiquette is a counterpart merely of incompetence about verifiable empathy, dexterity at desk-born task follows failure within honest interlocution when personal rehearsed-faculties outplay frank question about what questioners actually need of oneanother. A modern' anxieties are largely sourced through indeed similar repeated rehearsals; we — constantly engaged planning this phase and cultivating next— become what they author everywhere likely ironically unwriting potentials within still, near-modern condition with practiced perfection first-principles human craft persists missing earlier-natural simplicity. Every aspect people deliberately build includes those profiles ready-living intended external persons together rehearsed skill; temperament crafted to never return again to its inherited instinct itself whatever began nowhere outer might naturally ever persisted to cause outward flourish never seeded for mere constructed — yet way itself one creates possibly all forms hollow except finding back unconditioned authentic situation that Daoism timeless cultivation ideally.
"The statement 'There is no greater sorrow than the death of the heart' resonates especially powerfully in today's mental health context. Depression, burnout, and feelings of emptiness are essentially manifestations of 'heart-death'—one still responds to external stimuli, but the inner vitality of life has already withered. Yan Hui's predicament is profoundly modern: he strives to imitate all of Confucius's outward expressions, yet finds he can never keep up, because he is chasing after traces of what has 'already expired' rather than discovering his own authentic state. This is precisely what we now call 'imitation anxiety'—blindly pursuing others' models of success, ways of expression, and lifestyles while drifting further from one's own inner self.
The story of Sun Shu'ao offers another possibility: gain and loss do not enter the heart. He served three times as prime minister without feeling honored, and was dismissed three times without feeling distressed—not because of numbness, but because he 'did not know whether it lay in that position or in himself'—he avoided excessive self-attribution. Modern people tend to make precisely the opposite mistake: internalizing all external evaluations as self-worth, turning every career rise and fall into a judgment of the self. Sun Shu'ao's 'hesitant glance around' is a kind of composure, a freedom that does not bind the self to external outcomes.
'Non-action, and the natural talent unfolds naturally'—its significance for modern people lies in this: true ability does not need deliberate proof. Water does not need to 'strive' to flow; its flowing is itself its talent. We have been shaped too deeply by a culture of 'deliberateness,' 'effort,' and 'competition' to remember that creativity in its natural state is often more enduring and powerful. Wen Boxuezi's refusal to see the people of Lu was not arrogance, but a reluctance to participate in a social performance where 'form outweighs content'—which today is a precious sense of social boundaries.
First, 'compose one's countenance to awaken others'—influence through presence, not words. When Dongguo Shunzi encountered people who did not align with the Way, he did not preach, argue, or correct—he 'composed his countenance to awaken them,' leading others to realize for themselves through his own rectitude. This offers us an important insight: The most powerful influence is not persuasion, but presence itself. In family, workplace, and social settings, rather than rushing to change others, let your own state of being become a mirror.
Second, 'undergo minor changes without losing the great constancy'—hold fast to what is fundamental amid change. Grass-eating animals still graze after moving to a new pasture; water-dwelling creatures still swim in a new body of water. Modern life changes rapidly—changing jobs, moving, losing relationships, adapting to new environments—these are all 'minor changes.' The key is not to lose the 'great constancy' amid these changes: your core values, the place where your inner self finds peace, your relationship with yourself. With the 'great constancy,' minor changes will not escalate into inner crises.
Third, 'discard attachments as if discarding mud'—distinguish what deserves to be taken to heart. Fame, status, money, and others' evaluations—these are, in Laozi's view, 'attachments'—accessories. Know that 'what is precious in you lies in yourself and is not lost amid change,' and when those accessories are lost, it is like dropping a clod of mud. This does not mean rejecting material life, but rather not letting accessories define your core worth.
Fourth, 'what comes cannot be stopped, and what goes cannot be retained'—accept the flow of life. Sun Shu'ao's wisdom lies in acknowledging that some things cannot be blocked when they arrive, nor retained when they leave. This is not passive resignation, but recognizing what lies within your control and what lies beyond it. Modern psychology calls this the identification of the 'locus of control'—direct energy toward what you can control, and let go of what you cannot.
Fifth, 'remove your robes and sprawl freely'—find your authentic state of being. A true painter does not stand on ceremony, because he does not need formalities to prove he is a painter. Find your moment of 'removing your robes and sprawling freely'—a state of complete relaxation, complete naturalness, where no performance is required—that is when you are closest to what is 'true.' Things done in such a state are often the best.
The deepest philosophical tension in this chapter lies in the paradox of 'cultivation' versus 'non-cultivation'. Laozi says: 'The perfected person in relation to virtue does not cultivate it, yet nothing can separate them from it. Just as heaven is naturally high, earth naturally thick, and sun and moon naturally bright—what cultivation is needed!' Yet Confucius's previous journey of practice—from 'step by step' to 'fleeing beyond all trace'—seems to suggest that prolonged cultivation is needed to reach the state of 'non-cultivation.' The resolution of this paradox may lie in this: the purpose of 'cultivation' is to dissolve the very need for cultivation itself. Like learning to ride a bicycle, at first deliberate practice is required, but ultimately one rides without thinking. Cultivation of the Way is not accumulation, but subtraction—removing the deliberateness, attachment, and self-consciousness that obstruct the natural state.
The contrast between 'death of the heart' and 'roaming the heart' is also worth deep examination. Confucius says 'there is no greater sorrow than the death of the heart,' while Laozi speaks of 'roaming the heart at the origin of all things.' Heart-death is the stiffening, closing off, and loss of vitality of the spirit; roaming the heart is its liveliness, openness, and free movement through the origins of all things. The difference between the two lies not in the external environment (the people of Lu, Yan Hui, and Lie Yukou all found themselves in favorable circumstances), but in whether the inner self can transcend attachment to forms, to 'traces,' and to the self.
'Fan has never perished and Chu has never existed' reveals the ultimate limit of Daoist ontology: true 'existence' is not physical presence, but a state of unity with the Way. The government of the state of Fan could be destroyed, yet the 'truth' held in the heart of its ruler would not thereby be lost; the government of Chu could exist, but if the King of Chu did not hold that 'truth,' that existence would be empty. This transcends the usual binary of existence/non-existence, pointing toward an ontological grounding that does not depend on external circumstances.
This content is based on classical texts of the Daoist tradition, provided for traditional cultural study and life reference only, and does not constitute religious, medical, or investment advice."