《冲虚至德真经》

Lie Yukou, the author of the Liezi, was a native of the state of Zheng. He lived in Putián, in Zheng, for forty years, and no one knew him. The ruler and high ministers regarded him just as ordinary people did. Later, as Zheng’s power declined, he planned to move to the state of Wei.

A disciple asked, “We do not know when you will return from this journey. We venture to ask: is there anything you would like to teach us?”

Liezi said, “Have you never heard what Huqiu Zilin said?” The disciples replied, “No.” Liezi smiled and said, “What did Huqiu Zilin say? I did not hear him speak with my own ears, but he once told Bohun Wuren, and I was listening nearby. Let me try to tell you now.

“Huqiu Zilin said: There is something that is not itself brought forth by anything else, yet can bring forth all things. There is a kind of change that does not itself change, yet can bring change to all things. Things that have come into being cannot help continuing to grow, and things that have changed cannot help continuing to change. Thus all things are always coming into being and changing. This process never ceases; so too with Yin-Yang waxing and waning and the seasons turning.

“The source that brings all things into being seems to exist independently. The source that brings change to all things works through cycles of coming and going. Its activity has no end, and its underlying principle is profound and inexhaustible.”

The Book of the Yellow Emperor says: “The Valley Spirit—the empty stillness that can give rise to transformation—never perishes. This is called the Mysterious Female, the profound mother. The gate of the Mysterious Female is the source from which all things come into being. It continues without end, seeming almost to exist; people draw on it without exhausting it.” Yin and Yang alternate, and the seasons turn, changing at every moment. Yet the root of these changes is itself neither born nor destroyed. It seems to stand alone, without a counterpart, and its cycles have no end.

The Book of the Yellow Emperor also says: “The Valley Spirit never perishes. This is called the Mysterious Female. The gate of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth. It continues without end, seeming almost to exist; use it, and it is never exhausted. Thus, the source that gives life to and nurtures all things is not itself born as a particular thing, and the source that sets all things changing does not itself change along with them. Things grow and change in their own ways, take on forms and colors, exercise intelligence and strength, and each waxes and wanes, comes to rest, and ceases. It would be wrong to say that these processes are caused by something called ‘life and transformation, form and color, intelligence and strength, waxing and waning.’”

Liezi said: “In ancient times, the sages governed Heaven and Earth in accordance with Yin and Yang. Things with form come from the formless; then from where did Heaven and Earth arise? It is said, therefore, that before Heaven and Earth took shape, there were several stages: the Great Change, the Great Beginning, the Great Commencement, and the Great Concretion. The Great Change was the stage when Qi could not yet be seen. The Great Beginning was when Qi first appeared. The Great Commencement was when form first appeared. The Great Concretion was when material substance first appeared. Qi, form, and substance were all present, but had not yet separated from one another. This is called Hundun: all things were blended together and had not yet divided. It could not be seen, heard, or touched, and so it was called ‘Change.’ Change had no fixed shape; it transformed into One. One transformed into Seven, and Seven transformed into Nine. Nine represents change reaching its limit, after which it returns to One. One is the beginning of transformation in form. Clear, light Qi rose to become Heaven; turbid, heavy Qi sank to become Earth; and Qi, formed by the blending of the clear and the turbid, became human beings. Thus Heaven and Earth gathered Jing, and from this all things were transformed into being.”

Liezi also said: “Heaven and Earth cannot do everything, the sages cannot possess every ability, and each thing has its own use. Heaven’s task is to bring forth and cover all things; Earth’s task is to form and support all things; the sages’ task is to teach and transform; and each thing has a use suited to it. Thus Heaven has things it cannot do, while Earth has what it excels at; the sages, too, have things they cannot accomplish, while each thing has what it can do. Why is this so? Heaven, which brings forth and covers all things, cannot form and support them. Earth, which forms and supports all things, cannot teach and transform them. The sages, who teach and transform, cannot go against the nature suited to each thing. And things with their own allotted roles cannot go beyond their proper place. Therefore, the workings of Heaven and Earth cannot be separated from Yin and Yang, and the sages’ teaching cannot be separated from benevolence and righteousness.”

All things have states suited to their nature. Without a definite form to bear it, instruction cannot be put into practice; and instruction cannot go against the inherent patterns suited to things. Once these patterns are established, things cannot step beyond their respective places. Thus, the workings of Heaven and Earth do not extend beyond the two transformations of Yin and Yang; the Sage’s instruction does not extend beyond the two principles of benevolence and righteousness; and the natures of all things do not extend beyond the two kinds of softness and hardness. In each case, things follow their own patterns and cannot transcend the place they occupy.

Thus, there are lives brought forth by some force, and there is a source that gives rise to life; there are concrete forms, and there is a source that gives rise to forms; there are sounds, and there is a source that gives rise to sound; there are colors, and there is a source that makes color appear; there are flavors, and there is a source that gives rise to flavor. The lives that are brought forth die, but the source that gives rise to life has never come to an end. Forms that have been shaped are real and visible, but the source that gives rise to form has neither shape nor trace. Sounds that have been made can be heard, but the source that gives rise to sound makes no sound. Colors that appear can be seen, but the source that gives rise to color does not show itself. Flavors that can be tasted are perceptible, but the source that gives rise to flavor does not appear. These are all workings of Wuwei (non-action), through which all things arise naturally without deliberate effort.

It can bring forth Yin and Yang, softness and hardness, length and shortness, roundness and squareness, life and death, cold and heat, rising and sinking, and the notes gong and shang among the Five Tones. It can also make things appear or vanish, show them as dark and mysterious or bright yellow, and give them different scents and flavors, such as sweet, bitter, gamey, and fragrant. It has no awareness and performs no concrete acts, yet there is nothing it cannot know or accomplish. These are all workings of Wuwei.

Liezi was traveling to the state of Wei and stopped by the roadside to eat. One of his attendants found a hundred-year-old skeleton. Liezi pushed aside the weeds, pointed to it, then turned to his disciple Baifeng and said, “Only the two of us know that life and death have never truly come to pass.” Was this because he had taken the care of life too far? Or because he had taken joy too far?

Living things undergo many kinds of transformation. For example, a frog can turn into a quail; a certain creature, when it gets into water, can turn into a zhi; at the boundary between water and earth, it can turn into what is called “the garment of the wa and pin.” Growing on uplands and hills, it becomes lingxi; nourished by decayed soil, lingxi becomes wuju. The root of wuju becomes a grub, the larva of a beetle, while its leaves become butterflies. The butterflies in turn transform into a kind of insect that lives beneath the hearth. Resembling something that has fallen away, it is called quduo.

A creature called “Quque” becomes a bird after a thousand days; the bird is called “Qianyugu.” The saliva of Qianyugu becomes “Simi.” Simi then becomes “Shixiyilu.” Shixiyilu produces “Shixihuangkuang,” which produces “Jiuyou,” which produces “Maorui,” which in turn produces “Fuqian.” Sheep’s liver transforms into “Digao”; horse’s blood becomes flickering phosphorescent fire, and human blood becomes wild fire.

The harrier transforms into a sparrowhawk, and the sparrowhawk into a cuckoo. After a long time, the cuckoo turns back into a harrier. Swallows transform into clams, field mice into quail, decayed claws into fish, old Chinese chives into amaranth, and old ewes into apes. Fish eggs transform into gu-worms.

The beasts of Mount Danyuan can mate and reproduce on their own; their offspring are called “Lei.” The black birds in river marshes reproduce simply by gazing at one another; their offspring are called “Yi.” The broad-backed creature of Chundizhuo, when purely male, is called “Zhi-feng.” A woman longing for her husband can conceive through sympathetic resonance even without having a husband; a man longing for his wife can, through sympathetic resonance, cause a woman to conceive even without having a wife. Hou Ji was born from the footprint of a giant, and Yi Yin from an empty mulberry tree. Juezhao grows in damp places, and Xiji in wine. When yangxi grows until it no longer puts out shoots, old bamboo gives rise to Qingning. Qingning gives rise to Cheng, Cheng to horses, and horses to humans. When humans live long enough, they return to “Ji.” All things come forth from “Ji,” and in the end all return to “Ji.”

The Yellow Emperor’s Book says: When a form moves, it does not produce another form but a shadow; when a sound vibrates, it does not produce another sound but an echo. The transformations of the formless give rise to things with form. The pivot on which forms depend as they transform ultimately returns to “Ji.”

The Huangdi Book says: When a body moves, it does not directly produce another body; it produces a shadow. When a sound is made, it does not reproduce the sound itself; it produces an echo. When “nonbeing” changes, it does not give rise to another “nonbeing”; it gives rise to “being.” Everything that has form must eventually perish.

Will Heaven and Earth come to an end? Will they end along with me? Will things continue to develop after that end? There is no way to know. Ultimately, the Dao’s beginning and end have no beginning to start with; its continuation has no fixed limit. What is alive will eventually return to lifelessness, and what has form will eventually return to formlessness. “Lifelessness” does not mean that something never existed in the first place; “formlessness” does not mean that it was originally entirely without form. By the natural course of things, life must move toward its end. Since ending is inevitable, so too is the arising of life. To wish for life never to disappear and death never to arrive is to be misled by the pattern of change.

A person’s spirit belongs to Heaven, while their bones belong to Earth. What belongs to Heaven is light and dispersed; what belongs to Earth is heavy and gathered. When the spirit leaves the body, each returns to its true nature, and this is why it is called a “ghost.” A ghost is one who has returned, going back to its original dwelling. The Yellow Emperor said: “When the spirit returns to where it belongs and the bones return to their source, what remains of me?”

From birth to death, a person undergoes four great changes: infancy, youth and adulthood, old age and decline, and death. In infancy, the breath is unified, the mind is pure, and body and mind are perfectly harmonized. Nothing external can harm the child, and no virtue surpasses the virtue of this state. In youth and adulthood, the vital energy is abundant and restless; desires and thoughts grow ever more numerous, making one vulnerable to disturbances from external things. As a result, one’s original virtue wanes. In old age and decline, desires and thoughts gradually settle, and the body approaches its rest. One is no longer drawn by external things as in adulthood. Though one is not as whole and pure as an infant, one has moved closer to that state than in adulthood. At death, the breath of life ceases, and one returns to its ultimate destination.

When Confucius was traveling on Mount Tai, he saw Rong Qiqi walking in the countryside of Cheng. He wore a deerskin coat tied at the waist with a cord, and as he played the zither, he sang. Confucius asked, “Sir, why are you so happy?” Rong Qiqi replied, “I have many reasons to be happy. Heaven gives life to all things, and human beings are the most precious. I am fortunate to have been born human: that is my first reason for joy. Among human beings, there are men and women; men are considered noble and women lowly. I am fortunate to have been born a man: that is my second reason for joy.”

Some people do not live long enough to see the sun and moon; they die before they have even outgrown their swaddling clothes. I, by contrast, have lived to the age of ninety. This is my third joy. Poverty is a common lot for scholars; death is the final destination of everyone. If I am at ease with my ordinary circumstances and follow nature to the end of my life, what is there to worry about? Confucius said, “Well said! He truly knows how to console himself.”

Lin Lei was nearly a hundred years old. In late spring, wearing a fur coat, he gathered the ears of grain left behind in an old field, walking along as he sang. Confucius was on his way to the state of Wei when he saw him in the fields from a distance. Turning to his disciples, he said, “That old man should be someone we can talk with. Try asking him.” Zigong volunteered. He walked to the end of the field ridge, caught up with Lin Lei, and addressed him: “Sir, do you have no regrets? You sing as you gather the leftover ears of grain.” Lin Lei did not stop walking, nor did his song break off. Only after Zigong had pressed him repeatedly did he look up and reply, “What would I have to regret?”

Zigong said, “When you were young, you did not work diligently; as you grew older, you did not seize your opportunities. Now, in old age, you have neither wife nor children, and death is close at hand. What joy can there be in this, that you gather leftover grain and sing all the way?” Lin Lei smiled and said, “The reasons I find joy are things everyone can have, yet people instead take them as causes for worry. I did not work diligently when I was young, and did not chase after opportunities as I grew older; that is why I have lived so long. I have no wife or children in old age, and death is coming; that is why I can be so joyful.”

Zigong said, “Long life is what people wish for, and death is what they dislike. You, however, regard death as a joy. Why?” Lin Lei said, “Death and life are simply changes of coming and going. Since I die here, how do I know I will not be born somewhere else? I know that death and life are not the same, but how can I know that busily striving to stay alive is not a kind of delusion? And how can I know that my death now will not be better than the life I had before?”

Zigong heard this but could not understand what he meant. He returned and told Confucius. Confucius said, “I knew he was someone we could talk with. Just as I thought.”

That man had attained this truth—how do I know that my death now is not better than my former life? When Zigong heard it, he did not grasp its meaning and went back to tell Confucius. Confucius said, “I knew he could discuss these matters with us; so it is. He has grasped something of them, but he has not fully understood.”

Zigong grew weary of learning and said to Confucius, “I hope to rest for a while.” Confucius said, “In life there is no time when one may rest.” Zigong asked, “Then is there no place where I, Ci, may rest?” Confucius said, “There is. Look at the grave: the tomb is broad and deep, the mound rises high, the burial chamber is hidden deep in the earth—then you will know where rest is.” Zigong said, “How great death is! The noble person rests there; the petty person lies hidden there.” Confucius said, “Ci, you understand it. People all know the joy of living, but they do not know the hardship of living; they know the weariness of old age, but they do not know that old age also has its ease; they know that death is dreadful, but they do not know that death is also a kind of rest.”

Yanzi said, “Well said. The ancients had death. The benevolent rest there; the unbenevolent lie hidden there. Death is the time when virtue is fully manifested. The ancients called the dead ‘people who have returned home,’ because death means rest.” If the dead are called people who have returned home, then the living are travelers. To travel abroad and not know how to return home is to become one who has lost his home. When one person leaves home and does not return, the whole world criticizes him; when all under Heaven have lost their place of return, no one thinks anything is wrong.

Suppose someone leaves his native place and kin, abandons his household, wanders in all directions, and does not return—what kind of person is he? The world will surely call him a dissolute and unrestrained man. Suppose another person occupies a prominent place in the world, relies on his intelligence and abilities, cultivates reputation, boasts before the world, and yet does not know his true self—what kind of person is he? The world will surely regard him as a man of wisdom and strategy. These two kinds of people are both lost. Yet the world approves one and disapproves the other; only the sage knows whom to approve and whom to reject.

Someone asked Liezi, “Why do you value emptiness—the state of stillness and clear openness?” Liezi said, “Emptiness itself is not something to be valued.” Liezi also said, “Rather than cling to names, it is better to return to stillness; nothing is better than stillness.”

Someone asked Liezi, “Why do you value emptiness?” Liezi replied, “There is nothing especially valuable about emptiness.” He went on: “Rather than call it ‘emptiness,’ it would be better to call it stillness—or emptiness. Still and empty, this is the original abode of things. To take or to give is to lose their original state. Once things have been damaged, even if people later champion benevolence and righteousness, they cannot restore them to what they were.”

Zhou Xiong, an ancient figure, said: “The movement of all things never ceases, and Heaven and Earth change quietly. Who can perceive it? Where something diminishes, something else increases; what takes shape here suffers a loss there. Diminishing and increasing, taking shape and losing form, follow the changes of worldly affairs and the passing of life. Things come and go, alternating at intervals too brief to perceive. Who can detect them? Qi does not suddenly increase, and a body does not suddenly diminish. People notice neither its gradual formation nor its gradual decline. From birth to old age, a person’s appearance, complexion, intelligence, and bearing change every day, yet people often fail to notice. Skin, nails, and hair keep falling away over the years; they did not remain unchanged since infancy. The changes are too subtle to perceive, and only later do we realize they have occurred.”

In the state of Qi, a man feared that Heaven and Earth might collapse, leaving him nowhere to live. The worry kept him from sleeping and eating. Another man, concerned about the same thing, went to reassure him: “Heaven is simply accumulated Qi, and there is nowhere that is not Qi. We bend and stretch our bodies, breathe, and move; all day long we live within Heaven. Why worry that it will collapse?”

The man asked, “If Heaven is accumulated Qi, won’t the sun, moon, and stars fall down?” His comforter replied, “The sun, moon, and stars are also things that shine within the accumulated Qi. Even if they fell, they would not harm anyone.”

The man then asked, “What if the Earth collapses?” His comforter replied, “The Earth is simply piled-up clods of soil, filling the four directions; there is nowhere that is not clods of soil. We take steps and walk, moving about on the Earth all day long. Why worry that it will collapse?”

Hearing this, the man was at once relieved and very happy. The man who had reassured him was just as relieved and happy.

Changluzi heard this and said with a laugh, “Rainbows, clouds and mist, wind and rain, and the changing of the seasons are all Qi gathering in the sky. Mountains and peaks, rivers and seas, metals and stones, water and fire are all forms gathering on the earth. Since we know they are formed from gathered Qi and forms, how can we say they will never be destroyed?

“Heaven and earth are only small things within the vast emptiness, yet among all things they are the greatest. It is inevitable that their limits are hard to reach and their depths hard to fathom; they truly are difficult to measure and know. To worry that heaven and earth will be destroyed is to think too far ahead, but to declare that they will never be destroyed is also mistaken. In the end, they cannot escape destruction; sooner or later, they will come to ruin. If we happen to be here when that time comes, how could we not be worried?”

Liezi heard this and said with a laugh, “It is wrong to say that heaven and earth will be destroyed, but it is also wrong to say they will never be destroyed. I cannot know whether heaven and earth will be destroyed. Even so, heaven and earth and the myriad things, this moment and that moment, are originally one. Thus, the living do not know death, and the dead do not know life; those who come do not know those who go, and those who go do not know those who come. Whether heaven and earth will be destroyed or not, why should I give it any thought?”

Shun asked Zheng, “Can the Dao be possessed by a person?”

Zheng replied, “Even your own body does not belong to you. How, then, can you possess the Dao?”

Shun asked, “If my body does not belong to me, then to whom does it belong?”

Zheng replied, “It is a form that heaven and earth have temporarily entrusted to you. Life is not yours; it is the harmonious Qi that heaven and earth have temporarily entrusted to you. Your nature and life are not yours; they are the transformations that follow their proper course, temporarily entrusted to you by heaven and earth. Your children and grandchildren are not yours either; they are things that heaven and earth have temporarily entrusted to you through transformation. Thus, when you act, you do not know where you are going; when you remain still, you do not know what sustains you; and when you eat, you do not know why food comes to you. The ceaseless force at work between heaven and earth is nothing but Qi. How, then, could you claim it as your own?”

The Guo family of Qi was very wealthy, while Xiang of Song was extremely poor. Xiang traveled from Song to Qi and asked the Guo family for advice on how to become rich. The head of the Guo family told him, “I am skilled at stealing. When I first began, I could provide for my daily needs within a year. By the second year, I had a surplus, and by the third, I had made a great fortune. From then on…”

At first I worked as a thief and could provide for my household within a year. By the second year, I had a surplus; by the third, I had made a great deal. After that, I even shared what I gained with the people of my village. Xiang was delighted when he heard this. He understood only what Guo had said about being a thief, and failed to grasp the principle of “theft” that Guo meant. So he climbed over walls and broke into houses, taking everything his eyes could see and his hands could reach. Before long, he was caught with stolen goods, and the wealth he had accumulated earlier was confiscated.

Xiang thought Guo had deceived him, so he went to confront him. Guo asked, “How did you go about being a thief?” Xiang described what he had done. Guo sighed. “Alas, how far you have strayed from the principle of being a thief! Let me explain. I have heard that Heaven has its seasons of movement, and Earth has the conditions for nourishing all things. I make use of Heaven’s seasons and Earth’s advantages: I rely on clouds and rain to moisten things, and on mountains and marshes to nurture them. I grow grain and raise crops, then use earth and timber to build walls and houses. On land I take birds and beasts; in the water I take fish and turtles. All these things are simply drawn from what Heaven and Earth produce. Crops, timber, birds and beasts, fish and turtles—all are born of Heaven. Are they really my personal possessions? I take what Heaven and Earth produce, and this brings no calamity upon me. But gold, jade, treasures, grain, cloth, and other wealth are all gathered together by people. Were they bestowed on you by Heaven? If you steal these things and are punished, whom can you blame?”

After hearing this, Xiang was deeply confused. He thought Guo was once again deceiving him in every possible way, so he went to ask Master Dongguo. Master Dongguo said, “Isn’t your own body a kind of ‘theft’? You came to life by drawing on the harmonizing Qi of Heaven and Earth and Yin-Yang, and your body took shape from it. How much more so the things beyond your body: which of them did not come from taking and using what is available? Indeed, all things under Heaven are linked to one another. To insist that some thing belongs exclusively to oneself is delusion. The ‘theft’ Guo describes takes and uses things according to what is fair, and so brings no calamity. Your theft sprang from selfish intent, and so you were punished. To distinguish public from private may also be called ‘theft’; to make no distinction between public and private may also be called ‘theft.’ Conducting public affairs according to what is just and private affairs according to personal feeling is the constant principle of Heaven and Earth. Those who understand this principle of Heaven and Earth—can they still say who is a thief and who is not?”

The Yellow Emperor, Chapter Two

Fifteen years after the Yellow Emperor ascended the throne, he rejoiced that the people of the realm supported him. He indulged his eyes, ears, nose, and mouth in pleasure, becoming absorbed in music, sensual delights, and fine food. As a result, his mind and spirit grew confused, and his senses became disoriented. Another fifteen years passed. He began to worry that the realm was poorly governed, so he exhausted his intelligence and did everything in his power to manage the people’s affairs. The result was the same: his mind and spirit grew restless, and his senses became confused.

The Yellow Emperor sighed, “I have gone too far! Looking after myself alone has brought me this distress, and governing all things has brought me distress as well.” He set aside the affairs of state, left his bedchamber, dismissed his attendants, removed the bells and chime stones, and reduced his meals. He withdrew to the Hall of the Great Court, fasted, quieted his mind, and gathered in his body. For three months, he took no part in governing.

One day, while asleep in the daytime, he dreamed that he traveled through the land of the Huaxu clan. This land lay west of Yanzhou and north of Taizhou, an unknowable tens of millions of li from the state of Qi. It could not be reached by boat, carriage, or on foot; only a journey of the spirit could take one there.

There, no ruler governed, and everything followed its own nature. The people had no desires and likewise followed their own nature. They did not know attachment to life or aversion to death, so none died young. They neither favored themselves nor kept their distance from other things, so they knew neither love nor hatred. They neither resisted nor deliberately sought to please, so there were no conflicts of benefit and harm. They had nothing they especially cherished, nothing they feared or craved; everything followed its own nature.

They could enter water without drowning and walk into fire without feeling heat. Blows from blades or whips neither wounded them nor caused pain. Touching their bodies with a finger did not make them itch. They walked through the air as if on solid ground and slept in empty space as if lying on a bed. Clouds and mist could not block their sight, thunder could not disturb their hearing, beauty and ugliness could not unsettle their minds, and mountains and valleys could not hinder their steps. All this was because they could journey in spirit through the natural world.

After the Yellow Emperor awoke, he felt refreshed and deeply satisfied. He summoned Tian Lao, Li Mu, and Taishan Ji and said to them, “I lived in quiet seclusion for three months, fasting, calming my mind, and restraining my body. I hoped to find a way to nurture myself and govern all things, but I found none. Later, exhausted, I fell asleep and experienced those events in a dream. Now I understand that the utmost Dao cannot be sought through human will. I understand it and have attained it, yet I cannot explain it to you.”

Twenty-eight years later, the realm was governed so well that it was almost as peaceful as the land of the Hua Xu clan. After the Yellow Emperor died, the people mourned him for more than two hundred years.

Mount Lieguye lies in the midst of the Hehai Isles, and a spirit being lives there. He breathes the wind and drinks dew, eating no grain. His mind is as still as a deep spring, and his form as delicate as a young woman’s. He shows no personal affection or favoritism, yet immortals and sages willingly serve him as subjects. He knows neither fear nor anger, yet the loyal and honest willingly follow his commands. He bestows no favors, yet all things are each fully provided for. He hoards and gathers nothing, yet commits no fault himself. Yin-Yang remains in harmony, the sun and moon shine constantly, and the four seasons proceed in order. Wind and rain are evenly distributed, and all things are nourished at the proper time, bringing abundant harvests year after year. No pestilence afflicts the land; people neither die young nor suffer calamity. All things are free of illness, and spirits and demons do not appear to cause trouble.

Liezi studied under Lao Shangshi and befriended Bogaozi. Having grasped the arts of the Dao from both masters, he rode the wind on his way home. Yin Sheng heard of this and went to live with Liezi, staying for months without leaving his dwelling. He then asked Liezi to teach him the art of riding the wind. He made his request ten times, but Liezi did not teach him. Displeased, Yin Sheng asked to take his leave, and Liezi did not try to keep him. After Yin Sheng left, a few months passed, but he still could not put the matter out of his mind, so he returned to follow Liezi.

Liezi asked, “Why do you keep coming and going so often?” Yin Sheng replied, “Before, I asked you to teach me, but you did not. I resented you for it. Now I have let go of that resentment, so I have returned.”

Liezi said, “I once thought you were perceptive. I never imagined you would become so shallow. Yin Sheng, I will tell you what I learned from the Master.

“After serving the Master and spending time with Ruoren, a friend mentioned in this account, I no longer dared to weigh right and wrong in my mind or speak of gain and loss. Only then did the Master look at me. After five years, I began thinking about right and wrong again and speaking of gain and loss again. Only then did the Master relax his brow and smile at me for the first time. After seven years, I followed my thoughts without distinguishing right from wrong, and followed my words without calculating gain and loss. Only then did the Master invite me to sit beside him for the first time.

“After nine years, my thoughts and words were no longer constrained. I no longer knew whether my own actions and words were right or wrong, or whether they brought gain or loss. Nor did I know whether the other person’s actions and words were right or wrong, or brought gain or loss. I no longer saw the Master as my teacher or Ruoren as my friend. The distinction between inner self and outer world gradually dissolved.

“After that, my eyes seemed able to hear, my ears seemed able to smell, and my nose seemed able to speak. The senses no longer differed from one another. My mind and spirit grew still; my body seemed to dissolve, and my flesh and bones seemed to melt away. I no longer felt that my body leaned on anything or that my feet stood on anything. Carried east and west by the wind, I was like a withered leaf or a dry husk. I could no longer tell whether the wind carried me or I carried the wind.

“Now you have spent less than a short time under the Master’s guidance, yet you have already complained and shown resentment again and again. Your body cannot even contain Qi, and your own being cannot be borne by the earth. How could you possibly walk on emptiness and ride the wind?”

Yin Sheng was deeply ashamed. He held his breath and remained silent for a long time, not daring to speak again.

Liezi asked Guan Yin, “The perfected person can enter water without drowning, walk through fire without feeling heat, and move among all things without fear. How can one reach such a state?”

Guan Yin replied, “It comes from holding steadfastly to pure Qi. It is not a state attained through cleverness, skill, or daring. Yin Sheng, let me tell you: everything that has form, image, sound, or color is a thing. How great a difference can there be between one thing and another? How could you use these things to transcend all things? They are only forms and colors. If you rely only on cleverness, skill, courage, and resolve, you will remain within the realm of ordinary things. Yin Sheng, let me tell you more…”

Anything that has form or appearance, sound or color belongs to the realm of things. How great, really, is the difference between one thing and another? And how could these outward forms ever reach the source? They are only shapes and colors. All things arise from the formless and, in the end, return to a state beyond change. If one can understand and investigate this principle, how could one be swayed by external things? Such a person dwells in a realm of boundless depth, concealing himself within a movement with no beginning or end, and moving among the transformations through which all things come to life and pass away. He makes his nature whole and undivided, nurtures his original Qi (vital energy, the root of life), and keeps his De (Virtue/Power) within, thereby reaching the source from which all things arise. His inborn nature remains complete and unharmed, and his spirit suffers no loss. How could external things intrude upon him?

A drunk person who falls from a cart may be badly hurt and yet not die. His bones and joints are like anyone else’s, but the outcome of an injury is different. This is because, while drunk, his spirit knows no fear and remains whole. He does not know that he climbed onto the cart, nor that he fell from it. Life and death, alarm and fear, have not entered his mind, so he does not fear contact with external things. If drunkenness can make a person like this for a time, how much more can following nature and preserving one’s inborn nature do so? The sage entrusts himself to the Way of Heaven, and so no external thing can harm him.

Lie Yukou once shot arrows for Bohun Wuren. He drew the bow to its full span, balanced a cup of water on his elbow, and then released his arrows, one after another, each following close behind the last. At that moment, Lie Yukou looked like a wooden puppet. Bohun Wuren said, “This is archery that depends on skill, not archery that forgets skill and lets things happen naturally. Let me take you up a mountain. We’ll stand on a perilous rock at the edge of a hundred-fathom precipice, and then we’ll see whether you can still shoot.”

Bohun Wuren climbed the mountain and stood on a precarious rock at the edge of the precipice. With his back to the drop, he slowly stepped backward until two-thirds of his feet hung over the edge. Then he bowed to Lie Yukou and invited him forward. Lie Yukou threw himself to the ground, and sweat ran all the way to his heels. Bohun Wuren said, “One who has truly reached the highest state can remain above in the blue heavens, plunge below into the Yellow Springs, and roam freely in all directions without his spirit or breath being disturbed. But now you are terrified and unsettled, your gaze wandering in confusion. Your inner self is already in danger.”

The Fan family had a son named Zihua who was skilled at cultivating his reputation. Everyone throughout the state admired and deferred to him. He enjoyed the favor of the ruler of Jin, and although he had never taken office, his standing surpassed that of the Three Ministers. If he took a liking to someone, Jin granted that person a noble rank; if he disliked someone, Jin stripped that person of office. Visitors who came to play in his courtyard were as numerous as the ministers gathered at court. Zihua had his retainers pit their wits against one another, with the strong bullying the weak. Even when someone was injured on the spot, no one took it to heart. They treated this as a game day and night, until it had almost become the custom throughout the state.

Hesheng and Zibo were senior retainers of the Fan family. On one journey, they passed beyond the city and asked to spend the night at the home of Tian Geng Shangqiu. In the middle of the night, Hesheng and Zibo began talking about Zihua’s reputation and power. They said he could turn the living into the dead and bring the dead back to life; he could make the rich poor and the poor rich. Shangqiu Kai, who had long suffered from hunger and cold, hid north of the window and listened in secret. He then borrowed some grain, strapped a basket to his back, and set off for Zihua’s home.

Zihua’s retainers were all scions of aristocratic families. They wore white robes, rode in grand carriages, walked with an easy stride, and looked at others with haughty eyes. Seeing Shangqiu Kai’s advanced age, frailty, dark complexion, and untidy clothes, they looked down on him. They took turns mocking, deceiving, and obstructing him, trying every trick they could. Shangqiu Kai never showed any anger, and the retainers soon ran out of tricks and grew tired of teasing and laughing at him.

Then they climbed a high platform with Shangqiu Kai and casually announced in front of everyone, “Whoever dares to jump from here will receive a hundred gold pieces.” Everyone eagerly agreed to do it. Shangqiu Kai, however, took their words as true and jumped down ahead of them. His body was as light as a bird in flight, and he landed unharmed. The Fan retainers thought it was merely a coincidence and were not particularly surprised.

They then pointed to the deep part of a river bend and said, “There’s a pearl down there. Whoever can dive down and retrieve it may have it.” Shangqiu Kai believed them again and followed them into the water.

After Shangqiu Kai left the Fan household, he did indeed receive the pearls. The Fan retainers were all astonished. Zihua arranged for him to be treated like an honored guest, with meat to eat and silk to wear. Before long, a storehouse in the Fan household caught fire. Zihua said, “Whoever can go into the fire and bring out the brocade will be rewarded according to how much they retrieve.”

Without the slightest hesitation, Shangqiu Kai walked into the flames and carried things out again and again. Not a speck of ash touched him, and his skin was not burned. The Fan retainers assumed he possessed Daoist arts, so they all apologized to him, saying, “We did not know you possessed Daoist arts, so we deceived you; we did not know you were a spiritual being, so we insulted you. You must have taken us for fools, deaf people, and blind people. May we ask what Daoist arts you have mastered?”

Shangqiu Kai replied, “I have no Daoist arts at all, and I do not know the reason for what happened. But there is one thing I can try to tell you. Long ago, when two of your guests stayed at my home, I heard them praise the power of the Fan household. They said the Fan family could make the living die and the dead return to life, and turn the rich poor and the poor rich. I believed them without a doubt, so I came here from a thousand miles away. When I arrived, I thought everything your retainers said was true. I feared only that my faith was not firm enough or my actions not complete enough. My heart was set on becoming rich, and I gave no thought to where I might put my body or what dangers I might face.

“I believed those claims with all my heart, and had no other thoughts. That must be what happened. Now I know your retainers were deceiving me, and suspicion has entered my heart. My eyes and ears have begun to take notice of what is around me. When I think that in the past I was lucky not to have been burned or drowned, I cannot help but grow hot inside and tremble with fear. How could water and fire come near me now?”

From then on, whenever the Fan retainers met beggars or veterinarians on the road, they no longer dared to insult them. They would always get down from their carriages and bow. When Zai Wo heard about this, he told Confucius.

Confucius said, “Do you not understand? Those who are utterly sincere can move all things, shake Heaven and Earth, and communicate with spirits and ghosts. They can travel unhindered through every direction between Heaven and Earth. How could they merely endure danger or enter water and fire? Shangqiu Kai sincerely believed in things that were false, and still encountered no obstruction. How much more so when what one believes and practices is true! Remember this.”

A servant in the service of the animal keeper under King Xuan of Zhou was named Liang Yang. He was skilled at raising wild birds and fierce beasts. He fed them in the garden courtyard, and even animals such as tigers, wolves, eagles, and ospreys became tame and gentle. All kinds of birds and beasts mated and reproduced in his presence, living together in groups; even those of different kinds did not fight or devour one another. King Xuan feared that Liang Yang’s skill in raising animals would be lost when he died, so he sent Mao Qiuyuan to learn from him.

Liang Yang said, “I am only a lowly servant. What could I possibly tell you that is worth hearing? I fear the king might think I am withholding something from you, so I will say a little about how I raise tigers. When you go along with a living creature’s nature, it is pleased; when you go against its nature, it becomes angry. This is common to all creatures with blood and vital energy. Yet pleasure and anger do not arise without cause: they always come from being opposed or offended.

“Those who feed tigers do not dare give them live prey, because then the tiger kills it and becomes angry. Nor do they dare give them food whole, because then the tiger tears it apart and becomes angry. One must know when the tiger is hungry or full, and understand what makes it angry. Though tigers and people are not of the same kind, tigers grow attached to those who feed them because their keepers go along with their nature. If they are made to feel opposed, they will harm people. How, then, could I dare go against them and make them angry? But I also do not deliberately indulge them and make them excessively pleased. After pleasure, anger often follows; after anger, pleasure often returns. Neither is appropriate. I keep my mind free of distinctions between indulging and opposing them. The birds and beasts see me as one of their own kind. So they roam in my garden without longing for the tall forests and open marshlands, and rest in my courtyard without missing the secluded valleys and deep mountains. This is simply how things work.”

Yan Hui asked Confucius for guidance: “I once crossed the deep Shang River, where the boatman handled his boat so skillfully that it seemed he had divine help. I asked him, ‘Can boat handling be learned?’ He replied, ‘Yes. Someone who can swim can teach it; someone who swims well can master it after a few tries. As for someone who can dive, even if they have never seen a boat, they can handle one.’”

I once asked him, but he did not answer. What does this mean? Confucius said, “You and I have been pondering these words for a long time, yet we still do not understand their true meaning. How could I explain them to you rashly? A skilled swimmer can teach swimming because he is not afraid of the water. A still more skilled swimmer can grasp its secrets because he has forgotten the water. As for those who have never seen a boat yet can handle one with skill, they look upon a deep abyss as they would a hill, and see a boat capsizing as they would a cart rolling backward. Though all manner of capsizing and shifting lie before their eyes, none of it enters their hearts. Where could such people go and not feel at ease?

“Someone who wagers a tile acts with agility; someone who wagers a belt buckle becomes anxious; someone who wagers gold grows confused. Their skill is the same, but when they become attached to what they might lose, their attention turns to external things. Whoever prizes external things has a heart weighed down by them.”

Confucius was watching a waterfall at Lüliang. The water plunged from a height of thirty ren, and its spray stretched for thirty li; turtles, alligators, fish, and soft-shelled turtles could not swim across it. Suddenly, he saw a man moving through the water. Thinking the man had met with disaster and meant to end his life, he sent his disciples downstream to help him. After swimming several hundred paces, the man came out of the water, let his hair hang loose, and sang as he walked along Tangxing.

Confucius caught up with him and asked, “The waterfall at Lüliang is thirty ren high, and its spray stretches for thirty li. Even turtles, alligators, fish, and soft-shelled turtles cannot swim across it. Just now I saw you swimming with the current and thought you had met with disaster and meant to end your life, so I sent my disciples downstream to help you. When you emerged with your hair hanging loose and singing, I thought you were a ghost. Looking closely, I saw that you were a person. May I ask whether there is a secret to swimming?”

The man replied, “No, I have no secret. I begin from what is familiar, grow along with my nature, and in the end settle into my fate. I enter the water in my natural state and come out with the current. I follow the water’s own patterns without forcing them to change through my own will. That is why I can swim.”

Confucius asked, “What do you mean by beginning from what is familiar, growing along with your nature, and in the end settling into your fate?”

The man said, “I was born among hills, so life among hills became familiar to me. That is familiarity. I grew up by the water, so life in the water became natural to me. That is nature. I do not know why I can do this; I simply do it, naturally. That is fate.”

Confucius was on his way to the state of Chu. As he passed through a wood, he saw a hunchback catching cicadas with sticky poles, moving as skillfully as if he were picking them up from the ground.

Confucius said, “Your skill is remarkable! Is there a principle behind it?” The man replied, “I have my own method. After practicing for five or six months, I could stack cicada shells layer upon layer without their falling. When I missed, I was off by only the width of a grove of trees.”

Later, Confucius saw a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas. His movements were so deft that he seemed to be picking things up from the ground. Confucius asked him, “Your skill is remarkable! Is there a principle behind it?”

The old man said, “I have my own method. After practicing for five or six months, I could stack cicada shells without their falling, and when I missed, I was off by very little. When I could stack three without their falling, my chances of missing dropped to one in ten. When I could stack five without their falling, catching a cicada became as easy as picking something up. I stand as steady as a tree stump, and hold out my arm as motionless as a dead branch. Though Heaven and Earth are vast and the myriad things are many, my mind is fixed only on the cicada’s wings. I do not turn my head or twist my body, and I let nothing else distract me from those wings. How could I fail to catch the cicada?”

Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “When your attention is undivided, your skill can reach a wondrous level.” But the hunchbacked old man said, “You wear wide-sleeved robes, yet you are only a scholar. What do you know of asking such questions? First cultivate your own skill, then come and discuss principles.”

By the seaside lived a man who loved gulls. Every morning he went to the shore to play with them. More than a hundred gulls would come close to him, never shying away. His father heard of this and said, “I’ve heard the gulls play with you. Catch a few and bring them back for me to admire.” The next day, when the man went to the shore, the gulls only wheeled overhead and refused to land.

Thus it is said: the highest words go beyond speech, and the highest actions seem to be Wuwei (non-action). The understanding that “equalizing knowledge” can reach is still very shallow.

Zhao Xiangzi led a hundred thousand soldiers on a hunt in Zhongshan. They set the forest ablaze, and the fierce flames sent waves of heat a hundred miles around. A man emerged from a stone cliff, moving up and down through smoke and sparks. Everyone thought he was a ghost. When the fire had passed, he walked out slowly, as though nothing had happened.

Amazed, Zhao Xiangzi kept him there and examined him closely. His appearance and seven orifices were like those of a human; his breathing and voice were human too. Zhao Xiangzi asked, “What ability lets you live inside stone and pass through flames?” The man replied, “What do you call stone? What do you call fire?” Zhao Xiangzi said, “The place you just came out of is stone, and the place you just walked through is fire.” The man answered, “I don’t know.”

When Marquis Wen of Wei heard Zixia’s words, he asked him, “What sort of person is that man?” Zixia replied, “From what I, Shang, have heard the Master say, a person whose mind is at peace and who is one with all things cannot be harmed by anything. He can walk on metal and stone, or cross through water and fire.”

The Marquis asked, “Why don’t you do that?” Zixia replied, “I have not yet managed to empty my mind and cast aside cleverness. But if I have some free time, I can try to speak about it.” The Marquis then asked, “Why doesn’t the Master do it?” Zixia said, “The Master can cross through water and fire, but though he has the ability, he does not do so.” The Marquis was delighted to hear this.

A spirit medium from Qi came to Zheng. His name was Jixian. He could foretell a person’s death or survival, good or ill fortune, and the length of their life. He could even specify the year, month, ten-day period, and day when his predictions would come true. His powers were so marvelous that he seemed divine. When the people of Zheng saw him, they all fled. After Liezi met him, he was deeply impressed. He returned and told Huqiouzi, “I thought your Dao had reached the highest point. I never imagined there could be something higher.”

Huqiouzi said, “What I taught you was only the outward expression of the Dao. I have not yet led you to grasp its substance, and already you think you have attained the Dao? A flock of female birds with no male—how could they lay eggs? When you use the Dao to set yourself against the world, others can naturally see through you. No wonder Jixian can see through you. Bring him here so I can meet him.”

The next day, Liezi brought Jixian to meet Huqiouzi. After leaving, Jixian said to Liezi, “Alas, your teacher is close to death. He cannot be saved and may not live ten days. I saw strange signs on him, like damp ashes.”

Liezi went inside. Weeping until his tears soaked his lapels, he told Huqiouzi what Jixian had said. Huqiouzi replied, “Just now, what I showed him was ‘the pattern of Earth,’ a state as still as the earth. I let life stir, but did not let it continue to surge. He probably saw signs that I was concealing my De.” He added, “Bring him again.”

The next day, Liezi brought Jixian to meet Huqiouzi once more. After leaving, Jixian said to Liezi, “I saw your teacher showing the pattern of Earth: life stirred, but did not continue to surge. He was probably concealing his De.” He then asked Liezi to bring him back another day.

The man from Zheng left the house and said to Liezi, “How fortunate! Your teacher has met me, and his illness must be getting better. Before, he was lifeless as ashes; now he shows signs of life again. I saw a state in which his vital energy was sealed away and its transformations left no trace.”

Liezi went inside and told this to Hupozi. Hupozi said, “Just now I showed him the natural state of Heaven and Earth, into which neither reputation nor outward form can enter, while the subtle breath of life stirs from the heels. That is what he called ‘concealing the source of change.’ It seems he saw my capacity for transformation. Invite him to come again.”

The next day, the man from Zheng went with Liezi to see Hupozi again. After they came out, he said to Liezi, “Your teacher sat there, but his spirit was not settled in purification and stillness. I couldn’t read his complexion. Have him fast first, and then I’ll come to observe him again.”

Liezi went in and told Hupozi. Hupozi said, “Just now I showed him a state of utter emptiness and stillness, without any signs. He probably caught a glimpse of the beginnings of my harmonizing the breath. In the depths of water there are many different forms: where swirling currents converge, a deep pool forms; where still water gathers, a deep pool forms; where flowing water gathers, a deep pool forms; where floodwaters collect, a deep pool forms; where a waterfall pours down, a deep pool forms; where profound waters gather, a deep pool forms; where blocked waters collect, a deep pool forms; where the Qian River gathers, a deep pool forms; where the Fei River gathers, a deep pool forms. These are the nine deep pools. Invite him to come again.”

On the third day, the man from Zheng went with Liezi to see Hupozi again. Before they had even come to a stop, the man from Zheng panicked and fled. Hupozi said, “Quick, catch up with him.” Liezi pursued him far, but could not catch him. He returned and reported to Hupozi, “He has disappeared. I couldn’t catch him.”

Hupozi said, “Just now I showed him a state that has never departed from its source. I became empty with him and shifted along with the circumstances, so that he could not tell what I was. I was like plants and trees bending with the wind, or like water flowing with the terrain. That is why he fled.”

From then on, Liezi felt that he had never truly learned anything before. He went home and stayed there for three years, never going out. He cooked over the fire for his wife and prepared meals; he fed pigs as though serving guests, showing no favoritism. He no longer clung to worldly affairs. He cast off ornament and returned to simplicity, living calmly and independently. Outwardly he was plain and steady; inwardly he remained centered, and he kept to the same course throughout his life.

Liezi set out for the state of Qi, but turned back halfway there and met Bohun Wuren. Bohun Wuren asked, “Why have you come back just after setting out?” Liezi said, “I was frightened.” “What frightened you?” Liezi replied, “At ten shops selling fermented drinks, five hurried to serve me food before the others did.”

Bohun Wuren said, “Then it seems you have met Bohun Wuren himself.” (Fleeing into exile)

Bohe Wuren asked, “Why have you come back again?” Liezi replied, “I was frightened.” Bohe Wuren asked, “What frightened you?” Liezi said, “I went to eat at ten shops that sold soup. At five of them, the owners rushed to serve me first.”

Bohe Wuren said, “If that is so, why were you frightened?” Liezi replied, “The truth of my inner self has not yet been understood by others, yet my outward appearance has already begun to shine. It has awed people and made them neglect their elders of high standing, while they spend all day worrying about their own concerns. The soup sellers make their living by selling soup; the more bowls they sell, the more they earn. Their gains are slight, and their influence limited, yet they already treat me this way. How much more likely, then, are rulers who command armies of ten thousand chariots to do so? Their minds and bodies are worn out by affairs of state, and their intelligence is exhausted by government work. They may well hand matters over to me and have me carry them out, then test me by my achievements. That is why I am afraid.”

Bohe Wuren said, “You see the matter clearly. If you stay at home, people will gather around you.” Before long, Liezi’s doorway was crowded with visitors. Bohe Wuren stood facing north, holding his staff against his chin. He paused for a while, then left without saying a word. A guest told Liezi what had happened. Bohe Wuren said, “Liezi, if you stay at home, people will gather around you.” Before long, Liezi’s doorway was crowded with visitors. Bohe Wuren stood facing north, holding his staff against his chin. He paused for a while, then left without saying a word. A guest told Liezi what had happened.

Liezi snatched up his shoes and ran barefoot after him, catching him at the gate. “Since you have come, sir, have you not left me a remedy?” he asked. Bohe Wuren said, “Let it be. I told you long ago that people would gather around you, and now they have. It is not that you can make people gather around you, nor that you can make them stay away. Why worry about it? Worry makes a person appear different from himself. And once the heart is stirred, it shakes the root and harms the self. There is no point in that. None of those who associate with you will offer you counsel; the idle words they speak will poison you. If you neither notice nor wake up to this, how will you be able to tell them apart?”

Yang Zhu traveled south to Pei, while Lao Cong journeyed west through Qin. The two met in the outskirts. Later, in Liang, they encountered Laozi. After walking some distance with them, Laozi looked up to the sky and sighed, “At first I thought you could be taught. Now I see that you can no longer be taught.”

Yang Zhu traveled south to Pei, while Lao Cong journeyed west through Qin. The two met in the outskirts. Later, in Liang, they encountered Laozi. After walking some distance with them, Laozi looked up to the sky and sighed, “At first I thought you could be taught. Now I see that you can no longer be taught.”

Yang Zhu did not answer. When they reached their lodging, he first washed his face and rinsed his mouth, straightened his headcloth and comb, and left his shoes outside the door. Then he knelt and moved forward, saying respectfully, “A moment ago, Master, you sighed toward the sky and said that at first you thought I could be taught, but now you could not teach me. Your disciple wanted to ask why you said this, but there was no suitable opportunity along the way, so I did not dare to speak. Now that you have asked, please allow me to ask what fault I have committed.”

Laozi said, “You glare and raise your eyebrows. Who would want to spend time with you? What is truly white can look as though it has a stain; a person of deep De (Virtue/Power) can look as though something is lacking.”

Yang Zhu composed himself and changed his expression. “I respectfully accept your instruction,” he said.

On his earlier visit to the lodging, the host’s family had welcomed him: the husband personally spread out a mat, his wife brought a towel and comb, and the other guests all stood up and moved aside. Even the person tending the fire left the hearth. By the time Yang Zhu returned, the guests already dared to compete with him for seats.

Yang Zhu was passing through the state of Song, traveling east, when he stopped at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines, one beautiful and one plain. The plain one was treated with respect, while the beautiful one held a lower position. Yang Zhu asked why. A young man at the inn replied, “The beautiful one thinks she is beautiful, but we do not find her beautiful. The plain one thinks she is plain, but we do not find her plain.”

Yang Zhu said, “Your disciple will remember this: if someone acts virtuously yet does not regard himself as virtuous, where will he go without being cherished?”

There is a way of always prevailing in the world, and a way of prevailing that cannot last. The lasting way is called yielding; the way that cannot last is called force. People may know the difference between strength and weakness without understanding the principle behind them. The ancients said, “The strong first overcome those weaker than themselves; the yielding first allow the other person to seem stronger than they are.” If the strong meet someone their equal, they are in danger. The yielding face no such danger. To live by yielding is to seem to contend for nothing; to take on the affairs of the world in this way is to seem to make no deliberate demands. Thus, one appears not to strive for victory, yet prevails naturally; one appears to take on no burden, yet is able to bear it.

Zhouzi said, “If you want to be firm, you must protect yourself through yielding; if you want to be strong, you must preserve yourself through weakness. When yielding accumulates to a certain point, it becomes firmness; when weakness accumulates to a certain point, it becomes strength. By seeing what a person accumulates, you can tell where good fortune or calamity will come from. The strong can overcome only those weaker than themselves; when they meet their equal, their rigidity becomes apparent. The yielding can overcome those stronger than themselves, and their power cannot be measured.”

Lao Dan said: “An army that exalts its strength will be destroyed; a tree that grows too hard is easily broken. Gentleness and weakness are where life finds support; rigidity and strength are signs of a path toward death.

“One need not look like a child to have a child’s innocent mind; nor must one have a child’s mind to appear youthful. The sage values a child’s innocent mind, not a youthful appearance. Ordinary people, however, are drawn to a youthful appearance and turn away from an innocent mind. They feel affection for those whose appearance resembles their own, and keep their distance from, and fear, those who look different.

“A person has a seven-foot body, limbs of varied shapes, hair on the head and teeth in the mouth. If they can stand and walk, they are called human—but that does not mean they lack the heart of a beast. Even if their nature is beastlike, people will draw close to them because their appearance is human. Creatures with wings, horns on their heads, sharp teeth, and distinct claws, able to fly above and run along the ground, are called beasts and birds—but that does not mean they lack human nature. Even if they have human nature, people will shun them because their appearance is different.

“Fuxi, Nüwa, Shennong, and the Xia rulers are said in legend to have had bodies like snakes with human faces, or the heads of oxen and noses like tigers. Their forms did not resemble ordinary people, yet they possessed the Virtue of great sages. Jie of Xia, Zhou of Yin, Duke Huan of Lu, and King Mu of Chu had the same outward appearance and seven openings as ordinary people, yet harbored the hearts of beasts. People judge by appearances alone, hoping in this way to find the highest wisdom; it is very difficult to do so.

“When the Yellow Emperor and the Flame Emperor fought in the fields of Banquan, they led forces endowed with sage-like Virtue. They sent bears, brown bears, wolves, leopards, wildcats, and tigers into the vanguard, and used eagles, pheasants, hawks, and kites as their banners. This was a way of commanding beasts through force. When Yao appointed Kui to oversee music and struck the stone chimes, the many beasts danced to the music. After the Shao music had been performed in nine sections, even the phoenix came in response. This was a way of summoning beasts through sound.

“From this, why should the nature of beasts necessarily differ from that of humans? Their bodies and sounds are simply different from ours, and people do not know how to communicate with them. The sage knows and understands all things, and so can guide and command them.”

The instincts of animals are in some ways like those of human infants. They follow their nature and preserve their lives without needing human intelligence: females and males mate, and mothers and young are attached to one another; they avoid flat ground and shelter near steep places, shun the cold and seek warmth; they live together in groups and travel in lines; the weak stay within and the strong on the outside; when drinking, they watch out for one another, and when foraging, they call to their companions.

In ancient times, animals and humans lived together and walked side by side. It was only in the age of emperors that animals began to flee in fear; in later ages, they hid and ran away to escape harm. Today, in the east there is a country of the Jie clan, whose people can often understand the speech of the six domestic animals—horses, cattle, sheep, chickens, dogs, and pigs. This is probably just an unusual ability they have acquired.

The sages of antiquity could fully understand the nature of the myriad things and hear the voices of living beings of different kinds. They gathered these beings and taught them so that they could live alongside humans. Thus, they first assembled the spirits and demons, then came to understand the peoples of the lands in the eight directions, and finally gathered animals and insects. This shows that living beings endowed with blood and Qi (vital energy) do not differ greatly from one another in their minds. The sages understood this, and so when they taught and transformed the myriad things, they left out no kind.

In the state of Song, there was a man named Ju Gong who loved monkeys and kept a large troop. He understood what the monkeys wanted, and they understood his intentions. Ju Gong cut back on his family’s expenses to meet the monkeys’ needs. Before long, his household ran short of provisions. He planned to limit the monkeys’ food, but worried they would no longer obey him, so he first tricked them, saying, “I’ll give you acorns: three in the morning and four in the evening. Is that enough?” The monkeys all leapt up in anger. A little later, he said, “I’ll give you acorns: four in the morning and three in the evening. Is that enough?” The monkeys all lay down, pleased.

Among the myriad things, the clever and the foolish deceive one another in much the same way. The sages use their wisdom to win people over just as Ju Gong used a scheme to win over his troop of monkeys.

Only when a person’s standing and their actual conduct are both unimpaired can they avoid being swayed by joy and anger.

Ji Shengzi was training fighting cocks for King Xuan of Zhou. Ten days later, the king asked, “Can the cock fight now?” Ji Shengzi replied, “Not yet. It still thinks itself strong and relies on its vital energy to show off its strength.” Ten more days passed, and the king asked again. Ji Shengzi said, “Not yet. When it hears another cock crow or sees its shadow, it still reacts.” Another ten days passed, and the king asked again. Ji Shengzi said, “Not yet. It still glares angrily and bristles with force.” Ten more days passed, and the king asked once again. Ji Shengzi said, “It is nearly ready. Even when other cocks crow, its expression no longer changes. Seen from a distance, it looks like a wooden cock. Its inner De is now complete. The other cocks dare not approach to challenge it; they turn and flee.”

Hui Ang, a persuader from the Warring States period, went to see King Kang of Song. The king stamped his feet, coughed, and spoke loudly and impatiently: “I like people who are brave and strong. I don’t like people who talk about benevolence and righteousness. What do you intend to teach me?” Hui Ang replied, “I have a method that can make people unable to stab you, even if they are brave, and unable to strike you, even if they are strong. Would Your Majesty like to hear it?” The King of Song said, “Good. That is exactly what I want to hear.”

Hui Ang said, “Making people unable to stab or strike you is still a source of humiliation. I have another method: people may be brave, but they will not dare to stab you; they may be strong, but they will not dare to strike you. Yet their restraint does not mean they have no such thoughts. I have another method that keeps such thoughts from arising in their hearts at all. Those who have no wish to harm others naturally have no wish to care for or help them either. I have another method that makes men and women throughout the realm gladly willing to care for and help you. This is far more effective than bravery and strength; it surpasses the previous four methods. Would Your Majesty like it?” The King of Song said, “That is exactly what I want.” Hui Ang replied, “It is the way of benevolence and righteousness advocated by Confucius and Mozi.”

Confucius and Mozi had no territories of their own, yet people regarded them as rulers. They held no official posts, yet people honored them as leaders. Men and women throughout the realm stretched their necks and rose onto their toes, hoping that these two men would bring them stability and prosperity. Now Your Majesty is a ruler who commands ten thousand chariots. If you truly have such an aspiration, the people within your borders will all benefit from it. Your Majesty is far more virtuous than Confucius and Mozi.

The King of Song had no reply. Hui Ang quickly withdrew. The king said to those around him, “That guest is truly eloquent. He actually persuaded me with his words.”

This concludes the first volume of the Classic of the Perfected Emptiness and Highest Virtue (Chongxu Zhidao Zhenjing). The following are textual variants recorded in the collation: For item one, the Northern Song edition has “teacher” in place of “commander.” For item two, it has “compose” in place of “join hands.” For item three, the character “resemble” is absent from the Northern Song edition. For item four, it has “increase” in place of “together.” For item five, the original text had the character “not” before “many”; this was removed on the basis of the Northern Song edition.

The middle volume of the Classic of the Perfected Emptiness and Highest Virtue, third chapter: “King Mu of Zhou.”

During the reign of King Mu of Zhou, a “transformer” arrived from a remote land far to the west. He could change his appearance and perform wondrous arts. He could enter water and fire, pass through metal and stone, overturn mountains and rivers, and move cities. He could travel through the air without falling, and solid objects could not obstruct him. His transformations were endless and beyond reckoning. He could change not only the forms of things, but also people’s thoughts.

King Mu revered him as though he were a god and served him as though he were a ruler. He vacated the main hall for him to live in and offered him sacrificial animals, delicacies, music, and dancing women. But the transformer found the king’s palace too humble, its food too rank, and its consorts not to his liking. King Mu therefore rebuilt the palace, bringing the arts of construction and decoration to their utmost refinement. The project exhausted the wealth of five treasuries before the tower was completed. It rose a thousand ren high, overlooking Mount Zhongnan, and was called the Tower at the Center of Heaven.

King Mu then selected young and beautiful women from Zheng and Wei. They anointed themselves with fragrant balms, shaped their eyebrows, adorned themselves with jewelry, wore splendid dresses, and hung jade rings from their belts. Fragrant herbs decorated the tower, while musicians played “Clouds of Transformation,” “Six Brightnesses,” “Nine Shao,” “Morning Dew,” and other pieces to entertain the guest. Each month, the king presented the transformer with a robe of jade; each day, he served him food fashioned from jade. Still the transformer was not satisfied, and King Mu had no choice but to accompany him personally up the tower to watch the dances and listen to the music.

Before long, the transformer invited King Mu to travel with him. Holding on to the transformer’s sleeve, the king rose with him into the air. They reached the middle of the sky, then arrived at the transformer’s palace. Built of gold and silver and adorned with pearls and jade, it stood above the clouds and rain, with nothing visible beneath to support it. From afar, it looked like a mass of gathered clouds. Everything seen and heard, smelled and tasted there was unlike anything in the human world. King Mu imagined it to be the “Clear Capital,” the “Purple Tenuity,” “Heavenly Music,” and “Vast Music”—the celestial realm where the Heavenly Emperor dwells, with its music of the heavens.

King Mu of Zhou looked down and saw that his palace seemed to be made from a heap of clods of earth, grass, and trees. Though he had lived there for decades, he realized that he no longer thought of his kingdom.

The Illusionist—the one able to conjure transformations and guide King Mu on journeys of the spirit—came to visit him again and invited him to travel together. Wherever they went, he could see neither sun nor moon above, nor rivers or seas below. Light and shadow dazzled him until he could not see clearly; the sounds that reached him left his mind in confusion. His bones and internal organs trembled with alarm and would not settle; his mind was disordered, and his spirit seemed almost spent. He asked the Illusionist to take him back. The Illusionist moved him there, and King Mu felt as if he were falling down from empty space.

When he awoke, he was still seated where he had been before, and his attendants were the same as before. Before him, the wine had not yet cleared, and the dishes had not yet been heated. King Mu asked where he had just been. His attendants replied, “Your Majesty merely sat in silence, absorbed in thought.” It was as though his spirit had left his body; three months passed before he returned to normal.

King Mu questioned the Illusionist again. The Illusionist said, “Your Majesty and I traveled only in spirit. How could your body have moved at all? Was the place where you stayed just now any different from your palace? Was the place you traveled just now any different from your garden? What Your Majesty is asking about is simply the difference between a normal state and a temporary disturbance. When transformation reaches its utmost, how can its course be fully measured, whether it is swift or slow?”

King Mu was delighted by this. From then on, he no longer concerned himself with affairs of state or took pleasure in his consorts, but traveled wherever he pleased. He ordered a chariot drawn by eight fine steeds: on the right were the lead horses Siyin and Hualiu, and on the left was Luer. The right trace horse was Chiji, and the left was Baiyi. Zaofu drove the main chariot, with Yiqi and Jionghe serving as the men on its right. The chariot behind it was also drawn by eight horses: on the right was the lead horse Quhuang, and on the left was Yulun; the left trace horse was Daoli, and the right was Shanzi. Baiyao was in charge of driving, Sanbai drove the chariot, and Benrong served as the man on its right.

The procession raced a thousand li and reached the country of the Jusu people. They offered King Mu the blood of a white swan to drink, and prepared the milk of cattle and horses to wash his feet. They also prepared milk for washing the feet of the people in the two accompanying chariots. After they had finished drinking, King Mu and his party continued on their way.

After finishing his drink, King Mu continued on his journey and later stayed beside Mount Kunlun, north of the Red River. The next day, he climbed a hill on Mount Kunlun to view the palace of the Yellow Emperor, then placed a seal upon the palace roof as a mark for later generations. Afterward, he paid his respects to the Queen Mother of the West as a guest and drank wine beside the Jade Pool. The Queen Mother of the West poured him wine, and King Mu raised his cup and sang in reply, with the lyrics recalling their meeting. Then he watched the sun set and marveled that he had traveled ten thousand li in a single day. He sighed, “Alas, my virtue is insufficient, yet I have indulged myself in pleasure. Will later generations perhaps hold me to account for my failings?” King Mu truly seemed like a divine being! He enjoyed the pleasures of this world to the full, and when he died a hundred years later, people believed he had ascended to immortality and departed.

Lao Chengzi studied the art of illusion under Master Yin Wen, but after three years he still had not been taught. He asked his teacher to point out his failings and said he was willing to withdraw. Master Yin Wen bowed and invited him inside. After dismissing the others, he said, “Long ago, when Laozi traveled west, he turned back and told me: ‘All that has the breath of life and all that has physical form are manifestations of transformation. The beginning of creation and the changes of Yin-Yang are called birth and death; the development and transformation of things, as their forms continually shift and change, are called metamorphosis and illusion. The transformations of the Creator are subtle and profound, impossible to fathom and without end. Transformations worked through physical forms, by contrast, are outwardly visible and limited in effect, and so arise and vanish with life. Only when you understand that illusion and transformation are no different from life and death can you study the art of illusion. You and I, too, are caught up in transformation—why, then, make a special study of it?’”

Lao Chengzi returned home and pondered Master Yin Wen’s words for three months. At last, he could make things appear and disappear at will, and even reverse the usual order of the four seasons: thunder sounded in winter, and he produced ice in summer; flying creatures became runners, and runners became flyers. He never displayed his abilities throughout his life, and so his art of illusion was never passed down in the world.

Liezi said, “Those skilled in bringing about transformations use methods that are hidden and ordinary, yet their results are indistinguishable from what ordinary people do. The virtue of the Five Emperors and the achievements of the Three Kings may not have depended entirely on wisdom and strength; they may also have been brought about by transformation. Who can see through the reasons behind them? When awake, there are eight signs; in dreams, there are six indications. What are the eight signs?”

The text first lists eight experiences in human life: meeting old acquaintances, taking action, gaining, losing, sorrow, joy, birth, and death. These are signs that arise when the body encounters things in the outside world. It then lists six kinds of dreams: ordinary dreams, which occur when the mind is calm; startled dreams, which come with a sudden awakening or fright; thought dreams, brought on by reflection; waking dreams, in which thoughts from waking life become dreams after sleep begins; joyful dreams, which occur when one is happy; and fearful dreams, which occur when one is afraid. These six kinds of dreams result from the interaction between mental activity and things outside oneself.

Those who do not understand where sensations and changes come from are confused when events occur and cannot grasp their causes. Those who understand the causes can make sense of events and are not startled or afraid. The human body waxes and wanes, grows and diminishes. These changes connect with Heaven and Earth and respond to different things.

When Yin energy is strong, one dreams of crossing a great body of water and feels afraid. When Yang energy is strong, one dreams of walking through a great fire and being burned. When both Yin and Yang energies are strong, one dreams of killing. After eating too much, one may dream of giving things to others; after becoming very hungry, one may dream of asking for things. Those who feel light and weak in body dream of rising into the air; those whose bodies feel heavy and full dream of drowning. If a belt presses against one while sleeping, one may dream of a snake; if a bird carries off one’s hair, one may dream of flying. When illness is about to set in, one dreams of fire; when an attack of illness is imminent, one dreams of eating. Those who drink alcohol dream of sorrow, while those who sing and dance dream of weeping.

Liezi said: When spirit meets things outside oneself, dreams take shape; when the body comes into contact with them, events in waking life take shape. Thus, thoughts from the day become dreams at night: dreams reflect what spirit and body have experienced. For those whose spirit is settled, thoughts and dreams naturally fade away. What one experiences while awake cannot always be put into words, and dreams cannot always be fully understood. These are all expressions of the coming and going of change in things. The perfected people of ancient times, whose cultivation had reached a profound level, were not attached to themselves when awake and did not dream when asleep. Can this really be mere talk?

In the farthest reaches of the West, at its southern edge, lies a country whose boundaries are unknown, called the Land of Gu Mang. There, Yin and Yang energies do not intermingle, so there is no distinction between cold and heat. The light of the sun and moon does not reach it, so there is no distinction between day and night.

The people there neither eat nor wear clothes. Instead, they sleep for long stretches, waking only once every fifty days. They believe that what they experience in dreams is real, while what they see when awake is illusory.

In the land called the Center, among the Four Seas, the territory stretches north and south of the Yellow River and reaches east and west beyond Mount Tai, spanning more than ten thousand li in every direction. The seasons of cold and heat are distinct, so the year has both chilly and warm periods; the boundaries between day and night are clear, dividing each day into daytime and nighttime. Among the people are both the clever and the foolish. Living things grow in abundance, and people possess many different skills. The state has rulers and ministers, superiors and subordinates, while rites and laws maintain social order. The words, actions, and affairs of its people are too numerous to count. They are sometimes awake and sometimes asleep, believing that what they do while awake is real and what they see in dreams is illusory.

At the northern edge of the far East lies a country called Fulou. Its climate stays warm throughout the year, and the land receives only the faint light of the sun and moon, so it cannot grow good crops. The people eat grass roots and tree fruits, and do not know how to cook food with fire. They are fierce and harsh in temperament: the strong oppress the weak, and they honor the victorious but give little regard to righteousness. They are often running and rarely rest, always awake and never asleep.

In the Zhou dynasty, a man named Yin was skilled at managing his household. The workers under him labored from early morning until dusk without rest. One old laborer was already utterly exhausted, yet Yin still demanded that he work harder. By day, the old man worked while groaning; at night, drained and weary, he quickly fell fast asleep. In his confused dreams, he often saw himself as a ruler, governing the people and managing the affairs of the state. He wandered through palaces and gardens, doing as he pleased and enjoying boundless happiness. When he awoke, he went back to his labor.

When someone offered sympathy for his hardship, he replied, “A person lives a hundred years, half by day and half by night. By day I am a slave, and it is indeed hard. But at night I am a ruler, and my happiness is boundless. What is there to complain about?”

Yin, meanwhile, spent all day worrying over worldly affairs, devoting his thoughts to managing the household until he was exhausted in body and mind. At night he, too, fell into a heavy sleep. He dreamed that he had become someone else’s slave, running about in service and having to do every kind of work. Yin, who was master by day and servant by night, and the old laborer, who was servant by day and ruler by night, had circumstances that were exactly reversed.

Once, a man named Yin dreamed that he had become a servant, rushing about and doing every kind of work. He was scolded and beaten with a staff, and none of it was spared him. At night, he groaned and cried out in his sleep until dawn. Worried, Yin went to ask a friend for advice.

“Your position is high enough to bring you honor, and you have more than enough wealth—far more than other people,” his friend said. “Dreaming at night that you are a servant is simply a common alternation of hardship and ease. How could you possibly live the same life while awake and while dreaming?” Hearing this, Yin eased the servants’ workload and reduced the burdens on his own mind. His illness improved somewhat.

A man from Zheng was gathering firewood in the wild when he startled a deer and chased it down and killed it. Afraid someone would see, he hurriedly hid the deer in a dry ditch and covered it with banana leaves, feeling very pleased with himself. Before long, he forgot where he had hidden it. Thinking the whole thing had been a dream, he walked along reciting the story. Someone nearby heard him, went to the place he described, and took the deer.

When that person got home, he told his wife, “The woodcutter just now dreamed that he had found a deer, but didn’t know where it was hidden. I found it, so it seems his dream really came true.”

“Did you dream that the woodcutter found a deer?” his wife asked. “Was there really a woodcutter? You have indeed found the deer now, but does that mean your dream came true?”

“Since I have the deer, why should I care whether he dreamed of me or I dreamed of him?” he replied.

The woodcutter went back, unwilling to accept the loss of the deer. That night, he dreamed of where he had hidden it and of the person who had taken it. Early the next morning, following the directions in his dream, he found the deer and began arguing with the other man. Together they went to the magistrate.

“At first, you really did find the deer, but mistook what happened for a dream,” the magistrate said. “Later, you dreamed of finding the deer, but mistook the dream for reality. The other man really did take your deer, and now the two of you are disputing over it.” The woodcutter’s wife added, “He says he dreamed that someone took the deer, but no one can prove whose deer it was. Now the deer is indeed in your possession, so why not divide it in two?”

The case was reported to the ruler of Zheng, who exclaimed, “Does the magistrate, too, have to be dreaming when he divides up someone else’s deer?” He then consulted the prime minister. “I cannot distinguish dreams from waking reality,” the minister replied. “Perhaps only the Yellow Emperor could judge what is waking and what is a dream.” So the ruler ordered the deer divided in two.

When a judicial officer of the state of Zheng heard about this, he said, “Alas, is the judicial officer again going to confuse a man in a dream with a deer, as happened before?” He went to ask the prime minister. The prime minister said, “I cannot tell the difference between dreaming and waking. Only the Yellow Emperor and Confucius could distinguish them. Now that both the Yellow Emperor and Confucius are gone, who can tell? For now, let us believe the judicial officer.”

In Yangli, in the state of Song, there was a man named Hua Zi who developed amnesia in middle age. He would forget by evening what he had received that morning, and by the next morning what he had been given the night before. Walking along the road, he would forget that he was walking; sitting at home, he would forget that he was sitting. He could not recall the past or know what was happening in the present. His whole family was distressed.

They went to an official historian for divination, but the reading yielded no answer. They asked a shaman to pray, but that had no effect. They also called in a doctor, but the illness remained uncured. A Confucian scholar from the state of Lu claimed he could treat it, and Hua Zi’s wife and children offered half their property in exchange for his method. The scholar said, “This illness cannot be diagnosed through divination, cured by prayer, or treated with medicine or acupuncture. I will try to change his thoughts and ideas; perhaps that will help him recover.”

The scholar made Hua Zi cold so that he would want clothes, left him hungry so that he would want food, and shut him in darkness so that he would want light. Pleased, the scholar told Hua Zi’s son, “The illness can be cured. But my method is secret and cannot be shared with others. Please have everyone else leave. I must stay alone with him in the room for seven days.” The family did as he asked. No one knew exactly what the scholar did, but Hua Zi’s illness of many years was completely cured in a single day.

Once his mind had cleared, Hua Zi flew into a rage. He drove away his wife, punished his son, and took up a weapon to chase after the scholar. The people of Song seized him and asked why he was acting this way. Hua Zi said, “When I was forgetful, my mind was empty. I did not even know whether Heaven and Earth existed. Now, all at once, I remember everything that came before: the deaths and lives, gains and losses, sorrows and joys, loves and hatreds of several decades are surging through my mind in a tumult. I fear the deaths and lives, gains and losses, sorrows and joys that lie ahead…”

Now, as I suddenly look back on the past, thoughts about life and death, gain and loss, sorrow and joy, likes and dislikes, accumulated over the decades, rush into my mind in a jumble. I worry that in the future, turmoil over these matters will disturb my mind in the same way. Things forgotten in the blink of an eye—can they ever be remembered again?

Zigong found this strange when he heard it, and told Confucius. Confucius said, “This is not something you can understand.” Then he turned to Yan Hui and said, “Write this down.”

In the state of Qin there was a family named Feng. Their son was clever as a child, but as he grew up he developed a disorder that confused his perceptions. When he heard singing, he thought it was weeping; when he saw white, he thought it was black; when he smelled a fragrance, he thought it was the odor of decay; when he tasted sweetness, he thought it was bitterness. He would do something wrong and believe he had done it correctly. Whatever he settled on in his mind, he saw the heavens and earth, the four directions, water and fire, cold and heat—all turned upside down and confused.

Yang Shi said to the boy’s father, “The state of Lu has many learned and skilled gentlemen. Perhaps they can cure his illness. Why don’t you visit them?” The father set out for Lu. On the way, as he passed through Chen, he met Lao Dan, a Daoist scholar, and told him about his son’s condition.

Lao Dan said, “How do you know that your son alone is confused? People in the world today are all misled about right and wrong, and cannot see clearly what benefits or harms them. There are so many with the same affliction that no one notices it. One confused person cannot throw a whole family into disorder; a confused family cannot throw a whole village into disorder; a confused village cannot throw a whole state into disorder; and a confused state cannot throw the world into disorder. If everyone in the world were confused, who could throw the world into disorder? If everyone’s thoughts were like your son’s, then you would be the confused one. Who can judge sorrow and joy, sounds and colors, odors and flavors, right and wrong, correctly? Besides, what I say may well be confused too. How much less can those in Lu who claim to be learned dispel another person’s confusion? Rather than spend your grain feeding them, hurry home.”

A man from Yan was born in Yan and grew up in Chu. Only in old age did he return to his homeland. As he passed through Jin, his traveling companion deceived him, saying, “That city is the capital of Yan.” The man at once looked sorrowful, and his face changed. His companion then pointed to the local earth shrine—the village place of worship—and said, “This is the shrine of your homeland.”

He sighed deeply and pointed to the houses. “These seem to be the old home of my ancestors.” Then, with tears in his eyes, he pointed to the graves. “These seem to be my ancestors’ tombs.” He wept uncontrollably, while his companions could not help laughing in surprise. “What I showed you earlier was only the state of Jin.” At once, the man came to his senses. When he reached the state of Yan, he truly saw its cities and altars of the soil, as well as his ancestors’ old home and tombs. His sorrow, in contrast, had eased.

Zhongni, Chapter Four

Zhongni (Confucius) was sitting quietly when Zigong came in to attend him and saw that his face was troubled. Not daring to ask him about it, Zigong went out and told Yan Hui. Yan Hui picked up a qin, hoping to ease Zhongni’s sorrow by playing music.

When Confucius was at leisure, Zigong came in to attend him and saw that he looked troubled. Not daring to ask him directly, Zigong went out and told Yan Hui. Yan Hui picked up a zither and sang as he played. Hearing the song, Confucius called Yan Hui in and asked, “Why are you happy all by yourself?” Yan Hui replied, “Why are you troubled all by yourself?” Confucius said, “First, tell me what you aspire to.” Yan Hui answered, “I once heard you say that following Heaven’s Way and understanding one’s fate can free a person from worry. That is why I am happy.”

Confucius’ expression grew grave. “Did I say that? You have misunderstood me. Those were only words I spoke in the past; take what I say today as the guide. You know that following Heaven’s Way and understanding one’s fate can make a person free of worry, but you do not know that they can also bring deep sorrow. Now I will tell you the truth of the matter: cultivate yourself, and accept hardship or success as they come; understand that departure and arrival are not yours to control, and do not let change disturb your mind. This is what you mean by following Heaven’s Way and understanding one’s fate without worry.

“In the past, I studied the Odes and the Documents, and set the rites and music in order, hoping to govern the realm through them and benefit generations to come. My work was not limited to cultivating myself and governing the state of Lu. Yet the bonds between ruler and minister in Lu grew more disordered by the day; benevolence and righteousness steadily declined, and people’s feelings and inborn nature grew ever more shallow. These principles could not be put into practice in a single state or age, so how could they be carried out throughout the realm and passed down to later generations? I began to understand that the Odes, the Documents, rites, and music could not save the world from disorder, yet I still did not know how to change things. This is what troubles those who follow Heaven’s Way and understand their fate.”

Confucius continued, “Still, I have now come to some understanding. True joy and true knowing are not the joy and knowing spoken of by the ancients. Joy without deliberate striving, and knowing without attachment, are true joy and true knowing. Then there is nothing that cannot bring joy, nothing that cannot be known, nothing that cannot cause sorrow, and nothing that cannot be done. Why must the Odes, the Documents, rites, and music be abandoned? And why deliberately change them?”

Yan Hui faced north, bowed, and clasped his hands. “I, too, have understood,” he said. After leaving, he told Zigong what Confucius had said. Zigong was bewildered. He went home and pondered it for seven days, neither sleeping nor eating, until he was nothing but skin and bone.

Yan Hui went once more to counsel Zigong. Afterward, he returned to Confucius and continued playing the zither, singing, and reciting the Poetry and the Documents, without stopping all day. A minister of Chen praised him, saying, “Yan Hui has grasped it too.” He then told Zigong what had happened.

When Zigong heard this, he was bewildered. He went home and brooded for seven days, neither sleeping nor eating, until he was nothing but skin and bone. Yan Hui went once more to counsel him. Then Yan Hui returned to Confucius and, as before, played the zither, sang, and recited the Poetry and the Documents, without stopping all day.

Later, the minister of Chen went on a mission to Lu and paid a private visit to the Shu Sun family. “Our state of Lu has a sage,” said the Shu Sun family. The minister of Chen asked, “Do you mean Kong Qiu?” “Indeed,” they replied. “How do you know he is a sage?” The Shu Sun family said, “I once heard Yan Hui say that Kong Qiu can keep the mind’s preconceptions from governing him and let the body move according to its natural course.”

The minister of Chen said, “Our state of Chen also has a sage. Have you not heard of him?” The Shu Sun family asked, “Which sage do you mean?” The minister replied, “Kangcangzi, a disciple of Lao Dan (Laozi), has grasped Lao Dan’s Dao. He can see with his ears and hear with his eyes.”

When the Marquis of Lu heard this, he was greatly astonished. He sent a high-ranking minister bearing lavish gifts to invite Kangcangzi. Kangcangzi accepted the invitation and came to Lu. The Marquis of Lu respectfully asked him to explain.

Kangcangzi said, “The messenger’s account was inaccurate. I can perceive things without relying on my ears and eyes, but I cannot change their original functions.”

The Marquis of Lu said, “That is even more extraordinary. What is your Dao like? I would very much like to hear you explain it clearly.”

Kangcangzi said, “My body is in accord with my mind, my mind with my Qi, my Qi with my spirit, and my spirit with the unbounded. Whether it is something minute or a faint sound, even if it is in some distant corner of the world or right before my eyes, once it reaches me, I am sure to perceive it. But I do not know whether it is the body’s seven apertures and four limbs that perceive it, or the mind, abdomen, and six organs that sense it. I simply know it naturally.”

The Marquis of Lu was delighted. Later, he told Confucius about this, but Confucius only smiled and said nothing.

The Grand Steward of the Shang state, a high-ranking official in charge of state affairs, paid a visit to Confucius and asked, “Are you a sage?” Confucius said, “If you mean a sage, how could I presume to claim that? Still, I am indeed widely learned.” The Grand Steward of Shang then asked, “Were the rulers of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties sages?”

Confucius said, “The rulers of the three dynasties—Xia, Shang, and Zhou—were skilled at employing people of wisdom and courage. Whether they should be called sages, I, Kong Qiu, do not know.”

Someone asked, “Were the Five Emperors sages?” Confucius replied, “The Five Emperors were skilled at employing people who spoke of benevolence and righteousness. Whether they should be called sages, I do not know.” The person then asked, “Were the Three Sovereigns sages?” Confucius said, “The Three Sovereigns were skilled at responding to the times. Whether they should be called sages, I do not know.”

The Grand Steward of Shang, greatly surprised, said, “Then who should be called a sage?” Confucius grew solemn and fell silent for a moment. Then he said, “In the West there is a sage. He does not govern, yet the world is not in disorder. He does not speak, yet people trust him of their own accord. He does not teach, yet people act as they naturally should. His heart is so vast that the people do not even know how to praise him. I suspect he is a sage, but I do not know whether he truly is one or not.” The Grand Steward of Shang silently pondered this and thought, “Kong Qiu must be deceiving me.”

Zixia asked Confucius, “What kind of person is Yan Hui?” Confucius said, “Yan Hui surpasses me in benevolence.” Zixia asked, “And what kind of person is Zigong?” Confucius replied, “Duanmu Ci surpasses me in eloquence.” He then asked, “What kind of person is Zilu?” Confucius said, “Zhong You surpasses me in courage.” Zixia asked again, “And what kind of person is Zizhang?” Confucius replied, “Zhuansun Shi is more solemn than I am.”

Zixia rose from his seat and asked, “If that is so, why do these four still take you as their teacher?” Confucius said, “Sit down, and I will tell you. Yan Hui is benevolent, but does not know how to hold back. Zigong is skilled in debate, but does not know when to be silent. Zilu is courageous, but does not know how to yield. Zizhang is solemn, but does not know how to be easygoing. If I were to take each of their strengths and combine them in place of myself, I would still refuse. That is why they take me as their teacher and have not gone to study under someone else.”

Liezi, a Daoist figure, took Huqiuzilin as his teacher and befriended Bohun Wuren, another Daoist figure. Later, he lived in Nanguo. The number of people who followed him grew day by day, until they could not be counted. Even so, Liezi remained humble. Every morning they gathered to discuss and debate, speaking about everything under the sun. Liezi and Nanguozi lived on opposite sides of a wall for twenty years, yet never visited one another or sought each other’s advice. Even when they met on the road, they acted as if they had not seen each other. Their students and servants all assumed that Liezi and Nanguozi must be enemies.

A man who had come from the state of Chu asked Liezi, “Do you and Nanguozi have some grudge against each other, Master?”

Liezi said, “Nanguozi, a practitioner of the Dao, looks full on the outside, yet within him there is only emptiness and stillness. He cannot hear, see, speak, or feel, and his body shows no alertness at all. What would be the use of visiting him? Still, let us try going together.”

He chose forty disciples to accompany him. When they met Nanguozi, he was indeed like someone who had lost his soul: he could not hear, see, speak, or feel, and his body showed no alertness. It was difficult to communicate with him. Liezi turned to look at his disciples and saw that their body and spirit seemed unable to come together, and that they too could not get along with others.

After a while, Nanguozi pointed to the disciples who had not yet left and began to speak. His expression was cheerful, as though he were focused and upright, with a vigorous bearing. Liezi’s disciples were all startled. When they returned to their lodgings, puzzled looks still remained on their faces.

Liezi said, “Those who truly grasp the meaning of the Dao do not speak. Those whose wisdom has advanced do not speak either. To treat silence as speech is still speech; to treat not knowing as knowing is still knowing. Silence and not speaking, not knowing and being unaware—these are both speech and knowledge. Such people have nothing they cannot say or know, and may also be said to say nothing and know nothing. That is how it is. Why are you so astonished?”

Liezi then told them about his own apprenticeship with Lao Shang, his teacher: “After three years of study, I no longer dared to think in my heart about right and wrong, or to speak of gain and loss. Only then did Lao Shang look at me. After five years, I began again to think about right and wrong and to speak of gain and loss. Only then did Lao Shang’s brow relax a little and a smile appear. After seven years, I followed whatever arose in my heart without distinguishing right from wrong, and said whatever came to my lips without weighing gain and loss. Only then did my teacher let me sit beside him. After nine years, whatever I thought in my heart or said aloud, I no longer knew whether I was judging right and wrong or gain and loss, nor whether others were doing so. The divisions between the outer and inner were all dissolved. After that, my eyes seemed to become ears, my ears seemed to become a nose, and my nose seemed to become a mouth. The senses no longer stood apart from one another.”

His mind and spirit were wholly focused and settled, and his body seemed to dissolve, even his flesh and bones blending into one. He could no longer sense what his body was resting against, what his feet were standing on, or what was passing through his mind. Nor could he tell where his words were hidden. That is simply what it is like to reach this state. At that point, nothing can conceal the principles of things.

At first, Liezi (whose name was Yukou, a Daoist figure of the Warring States period) enjoyed traveling. Huqiuzi asked him, “Yukou enjoys traveling. What is there to enjoy about it?” Liezi replied, “The pleasure of traveling lies in seeing that things have no fixed, unchanging form. Other people travel to see what is before their eyes; I travel to see how things change. Traveling, traveling—perhaps no one can understand the way I travel.”

Huqiuzi said, “Is Yukou’s way of traveling the same as other people’s, or different? Whatever the eyes see, they can also see changing. You admire the constant changes in things outside you, yet do not know that you yourself are changing in just the same way. You travel only outward and do not know how to look within. Those who travel outward always seek satisfaction in external things; those who look within find satisfaction in themselves. To find satisfaction in oneself is the highest form of travel. To seek satisfaction in external things is to have not yet reached the end of the journey.”

Thereafter, Liezi never went out again for the rest of his life, believing that he still did not understand travel. Huqiuzi said, “Perhaps the highest form of travel is just this! One who has reached the highest state does not know where they are going; one who has reached the highest state of observation does not know what they are looking at. All things can be objects of travel, and all things can be objects of observation. This is what I mean by traveling and observing. Truly, the state of travel reaches the utmost height!”

Long Shu said to Wenzhi, “Your medical skill is remarkable. I have an illness. Can you cure it?” Wenzhi said, “I will do as you ask. But first, tell me your symptoms.” Long Shu said, “When people in my village praise me, I feel no honor; when people in the state criticize me, I feel no shame. Gaining something brings me no joy, and losing something brings me no sorrow. I regard life as I regard death, and wealth as I regard poverty. I look at other people as if they were pigs, and at myself as if I were looking at someone else. I live in my own home as though it were an inn…”

I view my own home as though I were living in a land of the Rong and Man, as the ancients called the distant regions of foreign peoples. I suffer from these afflictions: rank and rewards cannot move me, punishments cannot frighten me, gains and losses in times of prosperity and decline cannot change me, and sorrow and joy cannot shake me. Thus I truly cannot serve a ruler, befriend relatives and friends, govern my wife and children, or keep my servants in check. What kind of illness is this? Is there any way to cure it?

Wenzhi, the physician, had Longshu stand with his back to the light while he observed him from behind, facing the light. After a while, Wenzhi said, “Ah, I can see your heart. Your heart is clear and open, almost approaching that of a sage. Six of its seven apertures are unobstructed, and only one is blocked. Perhaps taking sagely wisdom for an illness comes from this. This is not something my limited skill can cure.”

To live on naturally, without relying on anything, is the Dao. To follow the way of life and be born—though one eventually dies, this is not true extinction. That is the constant order. To follow the way of life yet end in death is unfortunate; but the rule that some must inevitably die is also the Dao. To die in accordance with the rule of death, when death has not yet arrived but one is already destined to perish, is also the constant order. To turn from death back toward life is fortunate. Thus, to be born naturally is called the Dao; to follow the Dao and complete one’s life is called the constant order. To die through deliberate action is also part of the Dao; to die in accordance with the Dao is called the constant order.

When Jiliang died, Yang Zhu, a thinker of the Warring States period, stood facing his house and sang. When Suwu died, Yang Zhu stroked his body and wept. When a servant was born, people sang for him; when a servant died, they wept for him.

Those who are about to go blind can often first see the finest hairs clearly; those about to go deaf can often first hear tiny insects in flight. Those whose sense of taste is about to fail can often first distinguish the flavors of the Zi and Mian rivers; those about to lose their sense of smell can often first detect the odors of burning and decay. Those whose bodies are about to grow stiff often first rush about, fleeing from danger; those whose minds are about to become confused often first become fixated on distinguishing right from wrong.

So, if things do not develop to their extreme, they will not turn into their opposites.

The area around Puze in the state of Zheng had many worthy men, and Dongli, too, was home to quite a few people of talent. Once, when Bofengzi of Puze was passing through Dongli, he met Deng Xi. Looking back at his disciples, Deng Xi laughed and said, “Let me put on a little performance for you and see what you make of this visitor.” The disciples replied, “We would like to see that.”

Deng Xi asked Bofengzi, “Do you understand the principles of caring for people and raising animals? Those who depend on others for their keep but cannot provide for themselves are like dogs and pigs. People raise livestock and put them to use through their own skill. The people you lead have food, clothing, and a place to live and rest because of the rulers’ efforts. Yet you gather here, young and old alike, like livestock shut in a pen and waiting to be sent to the kitchen. How are you any different from dogs and pigs?”

Bofengzi did not answer. One of his attendants stepped forward through the crowd and said, “My lord, have you not heard that Qi and Lu have many capable people? Some are skilled in building, some in making weapons and armor, some in music, some in writing and arithmetic, some in military affairs, and some in ancestral rites. There is no shortage of talent of every kind. Yet those of outstanding ability do not necessarily hold high office or command others. Those in high office may lack wisdom, and those who issue orders may lack ability. It is the truly wise and capable who end up serving them. The rulers are, in fact, the ones who serve us. What is there for you to boast about, my lord?”

Deng Xi had no reply. He glared at his disciples and withdrew.

Gongyi Bo was renowned among the feudal lords for his strength. Tangxi Gong recommended him to King Xuan of Zhou, who prepared gifts and invited him to court. When Gongyi Bo arrived, King Xuan looked at him and thought he seemed weak. Doubtful, he asked, “How strong are you?”

Gongyi Bo replied, “I can break the legs of a louse in spring and support the wings of a cicada in autumn.”

The king’s expression changed. “I can tear the hides of rhinoceroses and wild oxen and drag nine oxen by their tails, yet I still think I am not strong enough. And you are famed throughout the world because you can break a spring louse’s leg and support an autumn cicada’s wing?”

The king asked, “A woman can break the leg of a louse in spring and bear the weight of a cicada’s wing in autumn. Her strength is renowned throughout the world. Why is that?”

Gongyi Bolong sighed deeply, rose from his seat, and replied, “Your Majesty asks well. I will answer truthfully. My teacher, Shangqiu Zi, was unmatched in strength throughout the world, yet even his closest family knew nothing of it, because he never displayed his strength. I served my teacher with my life, and only then did he tell me: ‘If you want to see what others cannot see, observe what others have never noticed. If you want to obtain what others cannot obtain, practice skills others have never tried. So those who learn to see first become able to see a cartload of firewood; those who learn to hear first become able to hear the sound of a struck bell. When the mind possesses a skill that is easy to perform, nothing in the outside world is difficult. Once nothing outside is difficult, one’s reputation naturally spreads beyond one’s own household.’ My reputation has now reached the courts of the feudal lords because I went against my teacher’s instruction and displayed my skill. So my reputation comes not from merely possessing strength, but from knowing how to use it. Is that not better than merely possessing strength?”

Zigong Mou, a worthy prince of the state of Wei, enjoyed associating with worthy people. He paid no heed to affairs of state, but admired Gongsun Long, a man from Zhao. For this reason, Yuezheng Ziyu and his companions mocked him.

Prince Mou asked, “Why do you mock me for admiring Gongsun Long?”

Ziyu replied, “Gongsun Long has no teacher to guide his conduct and no friends from whom to learn. He is eloquent, but his arguments do not accord with reason; his words wander without limit and have no foundation. He delights in novelty and speaks recklessly. He tries to confuse people’s minds and refute others, and he practices these skills with Han Tan and the rest.”

Prince Mou’s expression changed. “Why do you speak of Gongsun Long in such harsh terms? Tell me what really happened.”

Ziyu said, “I laugh at Gongsun Long for deceiving Kong Chuan. He claimed that a skilled archer could make the tip of each arrow shot later catch up with the tail of the arrow before it, so that the arrows touched one another in succession. The first arrow struck the center of the target without breaking or falling, while the tail of the next arrow seemed to bite onto the bowstring. Seen from the side, the arrows appeared to form a continuous line. Kong Chuan was astonished when he heard this. Gongsun Long added, ‘But that is not the most subtle part.’ Hong Chao, a disciple of Yuan Meng, once frightened his wife when she was angry…”

Prince Mou took out the Wuhào bow, said to be an excellent bow, and a Qíwèi arrow, said to be an excellent arrow, and shot at his own eyes. The arrow struck his eyeball, yet his eyelid did not blink. The arrow fell to the ground without stirring up any dust. Could these really be the words of a wise man?

Prince Mou said, “The words of a wise man are not something foolish people can understand. The point of the second arrow touches the tail of the first; their speeds are equal, so the second cannot catch up with the first. When the arrow strikes the eyeball and the eyelid does not blink, it is because the arrow’s force has been completely spent. What is there to doubt?”

Le Zheng Ziyu said, “You followers of Gongsun Long speak in ways foolish people cannot understand. The point of the second arrow touches the tail of the first; their speeds are equal, so the second cannot catch up with the first. When the arrow strikes the eyeball and the eyelid does not blink, it is because the arrow’s force has been completely spent. What is there to doubt? How can you follow Gongsun Long without making excuses for his errors? Let me tell you some of his even stranger claims. Gongsun Long deceived the ruler of Wei with these words: there can be thought without a mind; there can be pointing without reaching; things can be exhausted; shadows do not move; a single hair can move a weight of ten thousand jun; a white horse is not a horse; and an orphaned calf never had a mother. These claims defy common sense and turn categories upside down; they are too many to recount.”

Prince Mou said, “You do not understand profound arguments and mistake them for nonsense; in truth, it is you who are talking nonsense. To say there can be thought without a mind means that, when thought is present, mind and thought are not distinct. To say there is pointing without reaching means that everything can be reached. Things always come to an end. To say shadows do not move is to say that their changes can be explained as changes of position. A hair can move a weight of ten thousand jun because the force that moves it matches the weight’s circumstances. To say a white horse is not a horse is to distinguish its color from its name. As for ‘an orphaned calf never had a mother,’ the point is that once it has a mother, it cannot be called an orphaned calf.”

Le Zheng Ziyu said, “You treat all of Gongsun Long’s claims as sound reasoning. Even if he spoke from some other orifice, you would still echo him.” Prince Mou remained silent for a long while, then rose to take his leave. “Please allow me to return in a few days and debate this with you.”

Yao governed the realm for fifty years, yet did not know whether it was well governed or whether the people were willing to support him. He asked those around him, but they did not know. He asked the officials at court, but they did not know. He asked the people in the countryside, but they too did not know.

Yao disguised himself as an ordinary person and went sightseeing along Kangqu, a road that led in every direction. He heard children singing: “The people who nurture us all receive your kindness. The people need not deliberately seek knowledge or carefully devise plans; they naturally follow the laws of the Celestial Emperor.” Pleased by what he heard, Yao asked, “Who taught you to sing those words?” One child replied, “I heard them from a senior official.” Yao went to ask the official, who answered, “They are an ancient poem.” When Yao returned to court, he summoned Shun and yielded the realm to him. Shun did not refuse and accepted the realm.

Guan Yinxi said: “The Dao exists within itself, yet does not cling to any fixed form. The forms of the myriad things appear through the Dao. The Dao’s movement flows like water; at rest, it is clear as a mirror, and in response, it answers like an echo. Thus, the Dao resembles the myriad things. The myriad things may go against the Dao, but the Dao does not go against them.

Those who are good at realizing the Dao do not rely on their ears, eyes, bodies, ingenuity, or deliberate thought to seek it. If they try to pursue the Dao through seeing, hearing, bodily activity, or intellect, they will seek in vain. The Dao seems to be right before us, then suddenly appears to be behind us. When put to use, it fills the space above and below and in all four directions; when its use ceases, no one knows where it is. Deliberate thought alone cannot recognize the Dao. It can neither be attained through deliberate seeking nor approached through complete unawareness. Only those who realize it in silence and allow their Dao nature to develop on its own can attain it: to have knowledge without clinging to feelings, and ability without contrived action—this is true knowing and ability.

If the mind has no awareness, how could feelings arise? If there is no ability at all, how could anything be done? Such a state is merely like clods of earth gathered in a heap or dust piled up; even doing nothing would not accord with reason.”

Tang of Shang asked Xia Ge, “In the earliest antiquity, did all things exist?” Xia Ge replied, “If nothing existed at the beginning, how could all things exist now? If people in later ages were to say that nothing exists today, could that claim stand?”

Tang said, “Then do all things have no before or after?” Xia Ge replied, “The beginnings and endings of all things have no fixed bounds. A beginning may become an ending, and an ending may become a beginning. How could their boundaries be made clear? Yet I do not know what lies beyond all things, or what came before events began.”

Tang asked again, “Then do the upper and lower realms and the four directions have boundaries and ends?” Xia Ge replied, “I do not know.” Tang pressed him repeatedly. Xia Ge said, “If there is nothing, there can be no boundary. If there is something, it must have an end. How could I know? Yet beyond what is called boundless, there cannot be another ‘boundless’; within what is called endless, there cannot be another ‘endless.’ From this I know that Heaven, Earth, and all things have no boundaries or ends, but I do not know whether they might have other boundaries and ends.”

Tang asked again, “What lies beyond the Four Seas?” Xia Ge replied, “It is much like Qi Zhou, the name the ancients gave to the region where China lies.” Tang asked, “How can you verify that?” Xia Ge said, “I traveled east as far as the Ying encampment. The people there were like us. When I asked about the lands farther east, I was told they were still like the encampment. I traveled west as far as Bin, where the people were also like us. When I asked about the lands farther west, I was told they were still like Bin. So I surmise that the Four Seas, the Four Wilds—the remote lands in the four directions—and the Four Extremities, the ends of Heaven and Earth in the four directions, are probably no different from where we are.”

Thus, the great and the small contain one another without end. To contain all things is like containing Heaven and Earth: all things are inherently limitless. To contain Heaven and Earth is to have no boundary. How could I know that beyond Heaven and Earth there is not an even greater Heaven and Earth? That too is something I do not know.

If so, Heaven and Earth are just one kind of thing among all things. All things were once imperfect, so in ancient times Nüwa, a primordial goddess of legend, melted five-colored stones to mend the sky and cut off the legs of a great turtle to support the four quarters of Heaven and Earth.

Later, Gonggong contended with Zhuanxu for the imperial throne. In a fit of anger, Gonggong hurled himself against Mount Buzhou, breaking the pillar that supported the sky and snapping the cords that held the earth in place. As a result, the sky tilted toward the northwest, and the sun, moon, and stars all moved in that direction; the land sank in the southeast, so the rivers and accumulated waters flowed there.

Tang then asked, “Are there distinctions among things in size, length, likeness, and difference?” Ge replied:

Far to the east of the Bohai Sea, countless millions of miles away, lies a vast, deep chasm with no bottom, called the Guixu—the legendary abyss into which all the waters of the world flow. The waters from the eight directions and the nine regions, along with the waters of the Celestial River, all pour into it, yet its level neither rises nor falls.

Within the Guixu are five mountains, called Daiyu, Yuanjiao, Fanghu, Yingzhou, and Penglai. Each mountain has a circumference of thirty thousand li, and its flat summit stretches nine thousand li across. The five mountains stand seventy thousand li apart, as close to one another as neighbors. On their slopes are terraces and towers built of gold and jade; every bird and beast has pure white plumage or fur. Trees grow there bearing fruit like pearls and jade, and their flowers and fruit are delicious. Whoever eats them lives forever. The mountains are home to immortals and sages, and countless numbers fly back and forth to visit one another within a single day and night.

But the mountains have no foundations attached to anything. They drift up and down with the tides and cannot remain still for even a moment. The immortals and sages were deeply troubled, so they appealed to the Celestial Emperor. Fearing that the five mountains might drift far to the west and leave the immortals without a home, the emperor ordered Yujiang, a legendary deity, to send fifteen giant Ao turtles to support the mountains on their heads. The turtles were divided into three groups, which took turns bearing the weight, changing shifts once every sixty thousand years. Only then did the five mountains settle firmly and cease to move.

A giant from the Land of Longbo could reach the five mountains in just a few steps. With a single cast of his fishing line, he caught six giant Ao turtles and carried them all back to his country. There, he heated their shells to divine by them. As a result, Daiyu…

In the kingdom of Longbo lived giants who could reach the five immortal mountains in just a few strides. With a single cast of the fishing line, one of them caught six ao—giant turtles said to bear the immortal mountains on their backs. He bound them together, carried them back to his country, and roasted their bones for divination. As a result, the immortal mountains Daiyu and Yuanjiao drifted to the North Pole and sank into the sea. The immortals and sages who were displaced and scattered numbered in the hundreds of millions. The Heavenly Emperor was enraged. He reduced the territory of the kingdom of Longbo, making it small, and caused its people to grow shorter over time. Even in the age of Fuxi and Shennong, its people still stood several thousand zhang tall.

Forty thousand li east of the Central Region lies the kingdom of Jiaoyao, whose people are one chi and five cun tall. At the farthest northeastern reaches live a people called the Jing, who stand nine cun tall. South of Jing grows a tree called mingling, whose spring lasts five hundred years and whose autumn lasts another five hundred. In ancient times there was a great chun tree, whose spring lasted eight thousand years and whose autumn lasted another eight thousand. On rotting soil grows the fungus zhi: it appears at dawn and dies by dusk. In spring and summer, a tiny flying insect comes into being when it rains and dies as soon as it sees the sun.

North of the land of Fa lies the vast sea, also called the Heavenly Pool. In it lives a fish thousands of li across, its length matching its breadth, called Kun. There is also a bird called Peng, whose wings are like clouds hanging in the sky, and whose body is immense in proportion to its form. How could ordinary people know that such creatures exist? Yu the Great saw them with his own eyes; Boyi knew of them and gave them their names; and when Yijian heard of them, he recorded the matter.

Among the waterside inlets along the river lives an exceedingly tiny insect called jiaoming. They swarm together and settle on the eyelashes of mosquitoes without colliding. They dwell and move about there, yet the mosquitoes do not notice them. Li Zhu and Ziyu, even with their eyes sharpened and brows raised as they watched closely in daylight, could not see their shapes. At night, Shi Kuang pricked up his ears and bent his head to listen, but could not hear their sounds.

Only the Yellow Emperor and Rongchengzi lived on Mount Kongtong. They fasted together for three months, until their minds and spirits seemed to grow still and their bodies seemed to lose sensation. The Yellow Emperor slowly gazed with his spirit-intention and, in a daze, saw Rongchengzi as though he were in a hollow on Mount Song. Then he slowly focused his hearing and faintly heard a sound like thunder rumbling.

In the regions of Hao and Chu there is a kind of large tree called you. Its leaves are green, and it grows even in winter. Its fruit is red and sour. Eating its bark and sap can cure illnesses such as fainting caused by disordered Qi. The people of Qizhou prized it; but when it crossed the Huai River and reached the north, it became a trifoliate orange. The myna cannot fly across the Ji River, and the foxlike animal called a mo dies if it crosses the Wen River. This is caused by the local Qi of the water and soil.

Even so, though living things in different places vary in form and in the Qi they receive, their natures are the same. They cannot take one another’s place, yet each can preserve its own life and has all that it needs. By what standard can we judge their size, length, sameness, or difference?

Mount Taixing and Mount Wangwu extend for seven hundred li and rise to a height of ten thousand ren. They originally stood south of Jizhou and north of Heyang. In the north lived a man called Yu Gong, who was nearly ninety and dwelt facing the mountains. Troubled by the blocked road on the mountains’ northern side and the long detour it forced him to take, he gathered his family and proposed, “Let us do our utmost to level these steep mountains, opening a direct road to the south of Yuzhou and as far as the southern bank of the Han River. What do you think?” Everyone agreed.

Yu Gong’s wife raised an objection: “With your strength, you could not even level a small hill like Kuifu. What could you do about Mount Taixing and Mount Wangwu? And where would you put all the earth and stones you dug out?” His family replied, “We’ll throw them onto the shore of the Bohai Sea, north of Yintu.” So Yu Gong led three of his descendants who were strong enough to carry loads. They broke stone and dug earth, carrying it in baskets to the shore of the Bohai Sea. A neighbor named Jingcheng had a young son, only seven or eight years old, who came bounding along to help. They made only one round trip between the two seasons of the year.

An old man named Zhisou, who lived by the bend of the river, laughed and tried to dissuade Yu Gong. “You are not very wise,” he said. “With what little strength and remaining years you have, you could not destroy even a blade of grass or a tree on the mountains. What could you do with all that earth and stone?”

The Fool of Mount Bei sighed deeply and said, “Your mind is so stubborn that it cannot be opened, not even as wise as a widow or a child. Even if I die, I will still have sons; my sons will have grandsons, and my grandsons will have sons. Generation after generation, they will multiply without end. The mountains, meanwhile, will not grow any higher. Why, then, can they not be dug down flat?” The Wise Old Man of the River Bend had no reply.

When the mountain spirit who held a snake heard this, he feared that the Fool would keep digging without end, so he reported the matter to the Heavenly Emperor. Moved by the Fool’s sincerity, the Heavenly Emperor ordered the two sons of the Kui’e clan to carry away the two mountains: one was set east of Shuofang, the other south of Yongzhou. From then on, no hills blocked the way from southern Jizhou to the south bank of the Han River.

Kua Fu overestimated his strength and tried to catch up with the sun’s shadow, pursuing it as far as the region of Yugu, where the sun sets. Thirsty, he went to drink from the Yellow River and the Wei River. Even their waters were not enough, so he planned to head north to drink from the Great Marsh. Before he could reach it, he died of thirst along the way. The walking stick he left behind, nourished by the moisture of his body, grew into a peach forest stretching for thousands of miles.

Yu the Great said, “Throughout heaven and earth, in all four directions and within the four seas, the sun and moon shine, the stars move, and the seasons turn, with the year marked by Tai Sui. The creation and forms of all things are connected with the transformations wrought by spirits. Some die young, while others live long; only sages can understand the principles behind this.”

Xia Ge said, “Yet there are also things that come into being without the aid of spirits, take form without relying on the changes of Yin and Yang, and shine without the light of the sun and moon. They do not die young through killing, nor live long through another’s care. They eat no grains, wear no silk or cotton, and travel without riding in boats or carts. They follow the natural Way, and this is something even sages cannot understand.”

When Yu the Great was controlling the waters and land, he once lost his way and took a wrong turn, mistakenly entering a certain kingdom.

North of the North Sea lies a place called the Land of Ultimate North, thousands upon thousands of miles from Qi Province. Its people travel without boats or carts, and conduct their affairs in accord with nature. This way of life is beyond the reach of even the sages. When Yu the Great was managing the waters and lands, he once lost his way and took a wrong turn, accidentally entering this country.

No one knows where the Land of Ultimate North ends. There is no wind or rain, frost or dew, and no birds, beasts, insects, fish, or plants grow there. The land is level on every side, with lofty mountains all around. Within the country stands a mountain called Gourd Ridge, shaped like a wine jar. At its summit is a circular opening called the Nourishing Cavern. From it wells a spring known as Divine Fragrance. Its scent surpasses that of orchids and pepper, and its taste is finer than fermented wine and sweet wine. The water flows from a single source and divides into four streams, which run down the mountain and spread throughout the country, nourishing every place.

The local earth Qi is gentle and harmonious, and there are no epidemics. The people are mild in temperament and adapt to things around them. They do not compete for strength or fight; their hearts are soft and their bodies supple. They are neither arrogant nor envious. Young and old live as equals, with no rulers or subjects. Men and women associate freely, without matchmakers or marriage ceremonies. People live along the water and grow no crops. The climate is warm and comfortable, so they neither weave cloth nor wear clothes. They live to a hundred before dying; none die young or fall ill. Their population is flourishing beyond count, and they are joyful, free of old age, grief, and pain.

The people love to sing. They often gather in groups and take turns singing, their voices carrying on all day. When hungry or tired, they drink the water of Divine Fragrance, and their energy and spirits return to a calm balance. If they drink too much, they become drunk and do not wake for more than ten days. Bathing in the spring makes their skin smooth and fragrant; the scent lingers for more than ten days.

When King Mu of Zhou journeyed north, he passed through the Land of Ultimate North and stayed there for three years, forgetting to return home. After he went back to Zhou, he longed for the place and felt bereft. He would eat neither wine nor meat, and summoned none of his consorts to attend him. It took several months for him to return to normal. Guan Zhong once urged Duke Huan of Qi to use an expedition to Liaokou as an opportunity to travel together to the Land of Ultimate North, and nearly succeeded in bringing it about.

Xi Peng remonstrated, saying, “You would set aside Qi’s vast territory, its many people, magnificent mountains and rivers, abundant produce, flourishing rites and morality, and fine clothing. You would also leave behind the beautiful singers and dancers who fill your courtyard, and the loyal, worthy ministers who fill your court. At your word, a million soldiers obey; with a gesture, the feudal lords follow your lead. Why envy that place, abandon Qi’s ancestral temples and altars of soil and grain, and follow the people of the Rong and Yi lands? This must be because your Elder Father has grown old and confused. Why do you still listen to him?”

Duke Huan then put the idea aside and told Guan Zhong what Xi Peng had said. Guan Zhong replied, “This is indeed something Xi Peng cannot understand. I fear he knows nothing about that country. What is there in Qi’s wealth worth longing for? And why should Xi Peng’s words matter?”

The people of the south cut their hair and expose their bodies; those of the north wear fur caps and coats; people of the Central Plain wear caps and robes. The people of the nine provinces each have their own ways of making a living: some farm, some trade, some cultivate the land, and some fish. Just as people wear fur in winter and hemp cloth in summer, travel by boat on water and by cart over land, they quietly adapt to the conditions of their place. Their customs thus take shape in keeping with their nature.

East of Yue there is a country called Zhexiu. When its people have a firstborn son, they pickle and eat him, calling this “benefiting the younger brother,” meaning that the practice is good for the younger brother. When their grandfather dies, they carry their grandmother on their backs and abandon her.