《冲虚至德真经义解(宋徽宗)》

All things grow and change, but the Dao (the Way) knows no distinction between past and present. Only those who understand and follow the Dao can remain constant without being bound by change. When responding to the myriad things, they harbor no deliberate intent. This chapter, “Heavenly Portents,” therefore begins with the generation and transformation of all things and concludes with the story of Lord Guo becoming a thief.

Liezi lived in the state of Zheng for forty years, yet no one recognized his exceptional nature. The ruler and the high officials regarded him just as they regarded ordinary people.

Those in ancient times who were skilled in cultivating the Dao were subtle and mysterious, penetrating what was profound and hidden; they were difficult for others to fathom.

There was a poor harvest in Zheng, and Liezi planned to move to the state of Wei. His disciples said, “Now that you are leaving, we do not know when you will return. We, your disciples, presume to ask what you will teach us. Have you not heard what Master Huchu Zilin said?”

Liezi smiled and replied, “What did Huchu say? My own teacher once spoke of him to Bohun Wuren, and I happened to hear a little. I will try to tell you what I heard.”

The Dao cannot be fully explained in words. Once it is put into words, it is already no longer the Dao itself. So what could Huchu have said? He spoke only because he had no choice. I heard him, and now I will pass his words on to you.

There is a kind of existence that does not itself produce anything and does not change along with things, yet enables all things to arise and change without end. Things that have come into being cannot help but continue to grow, and things that are changing cannot help but continue to change. Thus all things are always coming into being and changing. This process never ceases, just as Yin-Yang moves and the seasons turn.

That which does not give rise to anything seems to stand alone; that which does not change appears through cycles of return. These cycles have no end, and the Dao, standing alone, cannot be exhausted.

Life comes from nonbeing into being, while change turns being into nonbeing. What can grow and change is the myriad things; what neither arises nor changes is the Dao. The myriad things are governed by the seasons and their patterns. Since they have come into being, they must continue to grow; since they are changing, they must continue to change. The Dao runs through all things, so their arising and changing never pause for an instant. The Dao stands apart from the myriad things: it neither arises nor changes. It seems to stand alone, yet responds everywhere to all things, and its workings are inexhaustible.

Thus the unchanging Dao runs through all things by way of return. Its cycles have no end, for no one can discern its beginning or its bounds. The Dao stands alone, and its workings cannot be fathomed, for it cannot be measured. Nothing can stand alongside the Dao. How, then, can people truly know the source of why the myriad things are as they are? We can only remain uncertain.

The Book of the Yellow Emperor says: “The Valley Spirit never dies; this is called the Mysterious Female, the deep source that gives birth to the myriad things. The gateway of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth. It continues without interruption, seeming to exist; put to use, it is never exhausted.” Thus, that which brings the myriad things into being does not itself give rise to anything, and that which changes the myriad things does not itself change. The myriad things grow and change of themselves, take shape and color of themselves, use their wisdom and strength of themselves, and perish and renew themselves of themselves. It is wrong to attribute all this to some thing that “brings things into being and changes them, gives them shape and color, applies wisdom and strength, and causes them to perish and renew themselves.”

Yin-Yang moves, the seasons turn, and the myriad things follow their own patterns: in an instant they are born and appear, then suddenly change and vanish. Their forms congeal into substance, their colors emerge, and their Qi waxes and wanes. It is also wrong to attribute all these phenomena to some thing that “brings things into being and changes them, gives them shape and color, applies wisdom and strength, and causes them to perish and renew themselves.”

Yin and Yang move in cycles, and the seasons take turns. All things follow their own patterns, appearing suddenly and vanishing just as suddenly. Forms emerge and colors become distinct; people use their ingenuity and exert their strength. Things wax and wane, fill and diminish, and when one cycle ends, another begins. Nothing moves or changes without being transformed, and there is no moment of complete stillness. These phenomena all embody the Dao, yet continue turning without pause, each unfolding naturally.

Master Liezi said: In ancient times, the sages governed Heaven and Earth by following the changes of Yin and Yang. Since things with form arise from what has no form, where did Heaven and Earth themselves come from? The generation of the cosmos, then, has four stages: Taiyi, the Great Change; Taichu, the Great Beginning; Taishi, the Great Origin; and Taisu, the Great Substance. Taiyi is the stage when Qi cannot yet be seen; Taichu is when Qi first appears; Taishi is when forms first appear; and Taisu is when matter first takes shape.

Qi, form, and substance are all present, yet have not separated from one another. This state is called “hundun,” meaning that all things are mixed together and have not yet divided. It cannot be seen, heard, or touched, so it is called “Yi,” or Change. Yi has no fixed form or boundary. Through transformation it becomes the One; the One transforms into Seven, and Seven transforms into Nine. Nine marks the limit of transformation, after which change begins again from the One. The One is the starting point of change in form.

The clear and light parts rise to become Heaven, while the turbid and heavy parts descend to become Earth. The Qi formed by the blending of clear and turbid parts gathers to become human beings. Thus Heaven and Earth nurture the vital essence, from which all things come into being through transformation.

Yin and Yang are the two greatest qualities of Qi (vital energy), while Heaven and Earth are the two greatest kinds of physical existence. Qi changes and takes form, giving rise to Yin and Yang, and then to Heaven and Earth. The Dao (the Way) is the root that all things follow in common; sages are those who understand and put the Dao into practice. Thus, sages govern Heaven and Earth by following the changes of Yin and Yang.

The Book of Changes says that Taiji (the undifferentiated root of all things) gives rise to the Two Forms (Yin and Yang). The Zhuangzi says that the Dao existed before Taiji, and means the same thing. The Great Change is the state in which Qi is not yet visible: all things are mixed together in a subtle, indistinct obscurity, and only through change does Qi emerge. The Great Beginning is the stage when Qi starts to form; Qi changes and produces physical forms. The Great Origin is the stage when physical forms begin to take shape; forms differentiate and produce substance. The Great Simplicity is the stage when substance first forms. Although Qi, form, and substance are all present, they have not yet separated from one another. At this point, the Dao exists within them as a complete whole. This undifferentiated state is called “the undivided whole,” or, in Laozi’s words, “something formed in confusion.”

The Dao does not manifest as light, so it cannot be seen; it does not manifest as sound, so it cannot be heard; nor can it be grasped by force, so it cannot be pursued. These three qualities cannot be fully fathomed, and so can only be understood as one. Since it is called “One,” it must be given a name; it is therefore provisionally called “Change.” Change has no shape or boundaries, and no fixed form.

If Change is compared to Yang, then “One” begins from it and transforms into one. Number begins with one; when it changes to seven, it seems to draw inward without unfolding. When seven changes to nine, the two interact and set change in motion. When number reaches nine, it reaches its limit and returns to one. One is the starting point of the transformation of forms, and Heaven, Earth, and humanity all arise from it. Thus, clear and light Qi rises to become Heaven; turbid and heavy Qi sinks to become Earth; and Qi that blends and harmonizes the clear and turbid becomes humanity. Jing (essence), the subtle root of all things, is One. One gives rise to two, two gives rise to three, and three gives rise to all things. Thus, Heaven and Earth contain Jing-Qi, from which all things transform and come into being.

Master Liezi said: Heaven and Earth have no power to do everything, the sages have no skill to accomplish everything, and the myriad things have no use for every purpose. Thus, Heaven’s role is to bring forth and cover the myriad things; Earth’s role is to form and bear them; the sages’ role is to teach and transform; and each of the myriad things has its own proper use.

Heaven, then, has things it cannot do; Earth has what it excels at; the sages have things that cannot be put into practice; and each of the myriad things has what it can accomplish. Why is this so? That which brings forth and covers the myriad things cannot form and bear them. That which forms and bears them cannot transform them through teaching. Teaching cannot go against the nature suited to each thing. Once the nature suited to each thing is established, it cannot step beyond its own place and bounds. Therefore, the principles governing Heaven and Earth are either Yin or Yang; the teachings of the sages are either benevolence or righteousness; and the natures of the myriad things are either soft or hard. Each acts according to what suits it and cannot go beyond its proper place.

Heaven is above, Earth below, and the sages between them. Their shared function lies only in bringing about change. Changes arise in continuous succession, and what suits each of the myriad things differs. How could Heaven, Earth, and the sages go against the roles proper to each?

When the sages are distinguished from Heaven and Earth, the three are called the “Three Poles.” When they interpenetrate, the three are called the “Three Powers”: Heaven, Earth, and humanity. Heaven brings forth and covers the myriad things, but cannot form and bear them. Earth can form and bear them, but cannot transform them through teaching. The sages can transform the myriad things through teaching, but cannot go against the nature suited to each. Once the nature of each thing is established, it does not go beyond its own place. This explains how different roles are divided among them.

From the perspective of their distinction, this is so. Yet the sages’ Way reaches up to Heaven, extends down through Earth, and transforms and nourishes the myriad things; it is difficult to describe in concrete forms. Seen this way, Heaven, Earth, and the sages are linked from top to bottom, without any separation. Where, then, is there any distinction between them in length or shortness, or in whether they can attain what they seek?

Thus, there are things that have come into being, and there is the source that brings all things into being; there are concrete forms, and there is the source that enables forms to take shape; there are sounds, and there is the source from which sounds issue; there are colors, and there is the source through which colors appear; there are flavors, and there is the source that gives rise to flavor. Things that come into being will eventually perish, but the source that brings all things into being is never exhausted. Forms shaped by it become tangible things, but the source that shapes them does not itself appear. Sounds issue forth and can be heard, but the source that produces them never makes a sound. Colors become visible, but the source through which they appear remains unseen. Flavors can be tasted, but the source that gives rise to them does not itself present itself. These are all the workings of Wuwei (non-action).

Life, form, sound, color, and flavor are all manifestations of the transformations of the myriad things. Thus, what is hidden comes to light, and what has departed returns. The sources that bring things into being, shape forms, produce sounds, reveal colors, and give rise to flavors are all subtle workings of the Dao (the Way). Who can trace where it begins, or determine where it ends? The Dao is always Wuwei, yet there is nothing it does not accomplish. This is what that saying means.

The Dao can give things Yin and Yang, soft and hard, short and long, round and square, life and death, heat and cold, buoyancy and sinking, and gong and shang—the two notes among the ancient pentatonic scales. It can also give them beginnings and endings, appearing and vanishing, deep darkness and bright yellow, sweetness and bitterness, and a rank or fragrant smell. The Dao itself has no awareness of distinguishing among these things and undertakes no specific action, yet it knows all and can do all.

To know something and to be capable of something is to have grasped only one aspect of the Dao (the Way), not to have attained or exhausted the Great Dao. If one can reach a state of knowing nothing yet knowing everything, and being capable of nothing yet capable of everything, then nothing lies beyond one’s reach or fails to extend everywhere. What, then, could one not accomplish?

Yin-Yang (yin and yang) are changes in Qi (vital energy); softness and firmness are qualities of material; shortness and length are differences in form; roundness and squareness are the shapes of vessels; life and death are the allotted course of living things; heat and cold are changes in the seasons; floating and sinking are the tendencies of things; gong and shang are notes in the five-tone scale; coming forth and disappearing are the traces of action; dark and yellow are colors; sweetness and bitterness are tastes; rankness and fragrance are odors. All the many changes in the world are encompassed by these. Perhaps the people of ancient times who attained the Dao had already reached this state. They were open in all six directions and unobstructed on every side; they could put everything to use, from the great to the small, from the fine to the coarse, and were present everywhere. What place, then, could have been inconvenient for them?

Liezi was on his way to the state of Wei when he stopped to eat by the roadside. One of his followers spotted a skull that had lain there for a hundred years and, pushing aside the tall grass, pointed it out to Liezi. Liezi turned to his disciple Baifeng and said, “Only you and this skull understand the truth that one has never truly been born and never truly died. Is that because it lived a life of great abundance, or because it once enjoyed great happiness?”

The kinds of things in the world and the changes they undergo are beyond counting. Frogs sometimes turn into quail; creatures by the water turn into different kinds of plants. Plants can in turn become insects and birds, and insects and birds can change into one another. Sheep’s livers can become will-o’-the-wisps on the ground, horse’s blood can turn into such lights, and human blood can become wild fires. The sparrow hawk turns into the goshawk, the goshawk into the cuckoo, and, after a long time, the cuckoo turns back into the sparrow hawk. Swallows can become clams, field mice can become quail, rotting melons can become fish, old chives can become amaranth, old ewes can become apes, and fish eggs can become insects.

Some animals can conceive and give birth on their own; they are called “lei.” Birds in rivers and marshes can reproduce simply by gazing at one another; they are called “yi.” An insect that is female but has no male is called “dayao,” and one that is male but has no female is called “zhifeng.” Some men take no wife, yet a woman conceives through longing for them; some women have no husband, yet can still become pregnant. Hou Ji was born after his mother stepped into a giant’s footprint; Yi Yin was born inside a hollow mulberry tree. Juezhao arises in damp places, and xiji arises in wine.

When yangxi grows near bamboo, the bamboo produces no shoots. Very old bamboo gives rise to qingning; qingning gives rise to cheng, cheng to horses, and horses in turn to humans. When humans live long enough, they too return to the workings of transformation. All things arise from these transformations and, in the end, return to them.

The Classic of Changes says, “By investigating where things begin and where they ultimately return, one can understand the principle of life and death.” Whatever lives must eventually die. What dies here may be reborn elsewhere. Only by understanding this can we see that life and death are not absolutely separate. We cannot say that there is life without death, or death without life. Life and death transform into each other, and what we experience now is simply the continuation of earlier changes. Are these changes a source of sorrow, then, or something to welcome? The myriad things take different forms and replace one another; their transformations through life and death are too numerous to count.

The “transformations among kinds” described below are only a portion of what the eyes can see and the ears can hear. A frog becoming a quail shows that transformations among things are not confined to water or land. The creatures produced by clams and the plant known as lingxi, a kind of water plantain, also undergo the same sort of transformation: some receive the Qi of water and soil and grow in low places; others receive the Qi of hills and mountains and grow at higher elevations. This means that things change according to the forms and Qi they encounter.

Lingxi transforms into yuqi, a kind of insect from ancient legend, and then into niaozu, as if taking on the form of another creature. The root of niaozu transforms into jiza, while its leaves become butterflies, as if one form had divided and changed into different creatures. The butterfly then transforms into an insect that lives beneath the stove and looks like a shed casing, called “niaojueduo.” Flying creatures, too, can transform into wriggling insects. After a thousand days, “niaojueduo” becomes a bird called “ganyugu,” showing that creatures living in holes can transform into birds that nest in trees.

Some transformations result from a shift in form, such as simi becoming yilu. Huangkuang arising from decaying quanquan, as well as the phenomena called digao, zhuanlin, and wildfires, also belong to this kind of change. Other transformations involve repeated changes of nature: a hawk becomes a sparrow hawk, the sparrow hawk becomes a cuckoo, and the cuckoo becomes a hawk again. A swallow becomes a clam; a field mouse becomes a quail; a rotten melon becomes a fish; old chives become amaranth; an old ewe becomes an ape; and fish eggs become insects. Some creatures arise through transformation from closely related kinds, while others transform into one another despite seeming to belong to different kinds.

On Mount Danyuan there is a beast called lei that can reproduce by itself without mating. In the river marshes, a bird called yi can reproduce simply by looking at another of its kind. Some creatures are entirely female and are called dayao; others are entirely male and are called zhifeng, yet they too can reproduce on their own. This shows that some creatures generate life through nothing more than their own Yin-Yang Qi. There are similar stories about human beings: a woman who longs for her husband can conceive through her feelings even without a husband, and a man who longs for his wife can likewise have a responsive reaction even without a wife. As for the stories that Hou Ji was born from a giant’s footprint and Yi Yin from a hollow mulberry tree, they cannot be investigated in detail, but there is no need to find them strange.

Juezhao grows in damp places, generated by Qi; xiji grows in wine, generated by its flavor; yangxi grows alongside busun through long-established habits. Jiu zhu produces qingning, so something without life gives rise to something living; qingning then produces cheng, so something without awareness gives rise to something that is aware. The Book of Master Shi says that cheng is an animal resembling a leopard, and that cheng produces a horse: this is one kind giving rise to another of the same kind. A horse then produces a human being: this is one kind giving rise to a different kind.

Seen in this light, the appearance and disappearance of insects, and the growth and decay of plants, have no fixed pattern and no end. How, then, can we determine where life and death begin or which comes first? Each thing has its own point of emergence when it comes to life and its own destination when it dies. From this, the sage knows that behind the myriad things there is a mechanism that drives transformation, yet nothing can prevent it from turning of its own accord.

The Book of the Yellow Emperor says: When a body moves, it does not produce another body; it produces a shadow. When a sound is made, it does not produce another sound; it produces an echo. Movement without form gives rise to things with form. Everything that has form must eventually come to an end.

Will Heaven and Earth come to an end? They, too, will end along with me. Will things continue to develop after that ending? I do not know. Does the Dao (the fundamental principle underlying all things in the universe) have an end? It had no beginning to begin with. Will it continue to develop? It is not bound by the passage of time. Whatever lives will eventually return to non-life; whatever has form will eventually return to formlessness. “Non-life” does not mean that life never existed; “formlessness” does not mean that form never existed. Life follows the patterns of things and must inevitably reach its end. An ending occurs because it cannot be avoided, just as the arising of life cannot be avoided. To wish for life to continue forever and for its end never to arrive is to misunderstand the patterns of change.

Spirit belongs to Heaven; bones belong to Earth. The spirit, belonging to Heaven, is light and pure, and disperses. The bones, belonging to Earth, are heavy and turbid, and gather together. Once the spirit leaves the body, each returns to its proper home. Hence the word “ghost”: it means “return,” a return to one’s true dwelling. The Yellow Emperor said, “The spirit enters its place of return, and the bones go back to their source. What remains of me?”

When a person becomes still, their nature can be restored; once they become active, they move away from the root. This is simply how things work. A body in motion does not produce another body, but it leaves a shadow. A sound does not produce another sound, but it creates an echo. Even motion without form gives rise to something from nothing, moving still farther from the root. What arises from nothing must eventually return to nothing, so the body is bound to reach its end.

Heaven, Earth, and I came into being together. When Heaven and Earth come to an end, I will end with them. Who knows where this ending ends? To call it an “ending” is already to enter a realm beyond what can be known for certain. Beginning and ending, long and short: all things change in their own time. Thus, for things that have a beginning, the highest Dao is to have no beginning. Trace them back to their root, return to the beginningless, and they reach the ultimate. For things that endure, the highest Dao is to have no duration. Trace them back to their root, return to what does not last, and they too reach the ultimate.

Why do living things ultimately return to nonbirth, and things with form ultimately return to formlessness? “Nonbirth” does not mean that they were never born in the first place; “formlessness” does not mean that they never had form. These expressions make sense only when viewed from the perspective of things that are alive and have form. By the natural course of things, life must come to an end; its end is unavoidable, just as its coming into being is unavoidable. If you wish to make life last forever and take “the end” as its limit, how can you know that the center of cyclical change is in fact inexhaustible? This is what it means to be deluded by the fixed allotments of things.

Life is formed when the harmonious Qi of Heaven and Earth comes together. The spirit belongs to Heaven, so it is clear and light and disperses; the bones belong to Earth, so they are heavy and turbid and congeal. When the spirit disperses and each part returns to its source, what remains of “me”? This is speaking of ordinary people. The spirit returns to its gateway and the bones return to their root. What, then, is left of me?

As for the sages, above they roam with the creator of all things, and below they befriend what transcends beginning and end. Though their bodies grow old, the true “I” alone endures.

From birth to death, a person undergoes four changes: infancy, youth and adulthood, old age, and death. In infancy, the breath is unified and the mind is pure. Harmony reaches its utmost, so external things cannot harm the child, and De (Virtue) is never more complete. In youth and adulthood, blood and Qi (vital energy) grow vigorous and restless. Desires and thoughts arise in profusion, making a person vulnerable to disturbance by external things, and De declines along with them. In old age, desires and thoughts gradually subside, and the body is about to rest; one no longer competes or pursues external things. Though not as complete and pure as in infancy, one is closer to one’s original nature than in youth and adulthood. At death, life comes to rest and returns to its source.

The infant’s unified breath, pure mind, and utmost harmony are precisely what the Laozi calls “abundant De” (deep Virtue). The restless blood and Qi, and the flourishing desires and thoughts of youth and adulthood, are just as the Zhuangzi describes as “entangled through contact” (coming into contact with external things and becoming bound up with them). In old age, blood and Qi decline, so desires and thoughts subside and the body is about to rest. In the end, one returns to one’s original abode: life comes to rest and returns to its source. The Zhuangzi says, “The Great Clod (Heaven and Earth) gives me form, makes me toil through life, grants me ease through old age, and brings me to rest through death.” This is the principle being described. From infancy until death, life is continually moving and changing; hence it is called “transformation.”

When Confucius was traveling on Mount Tai, he saw Rong Qiqi walking through the countryside near Cheng. Dressed in a deerskin garment and belted with a cord, he played his zither and sang as he walked. Confucius asked, “Sir, what makes you so joyful?” Rong Qiqi replied, “I have many reasons to be joyful. Heaven gives life to all things, and among them human beings are the most precious. I am fortunate to have been born human; that is my first joy. Among human beings, men and women are distinguished, and men are regarded as more esteemed. I am fortunate to have been born a man; that is my second joy. Some people die young, before they have even seen the sun and moon, while I have already lived to the age of ninety. That is my third joy. Poverty is the usual lot of a scholar, and death is the end of human life. Since I accept what is usual and have reached life’s end, what is there to worry about?”

Confucius said, “Well said. You truly know how to console yourself.”

When Lin Lei, an ancient recluse, was nearly a hundred years old, he wore coarse cloth and a fur coat, gathering stray ears of grain from an old field as he walked along, singing. When Confucius arrived in the state of Wei, he saw Lin Lei in the countryside and turned to his disciples, saying, “That old man is worth talking to. Go and speak with him.” Zigong asked to go. At the end of a field ridge, he caught up with Lin Lei and, facing him, sighed: “Sir, do you have no regrets? You gather grain while singing as you walk.” Lin Lei did not stop walking or singing. Only after Zigong kept pressing him did he raise his head and reply, “What have I to regret?”

Zigong said, “When you were young, you made no effort; when you grew up, you did not seize your opportunities. Now you are old, with no wife or children, and death is close. What joy can there be in gathering grain and singing?”

Lin Lei smiled and said, “I think the reason for my joy is something everyone has, yet they take it for sorrow. When I was young, I did not rush about; when I grew up, I did not compete with others for opportunities. That is why I have lived so long. I have no wife or children in old age, and death is near, so I can be joyful like this.”

Zigong said, “Long life is what people yearn for, and death is what they dread. Why do you regard death as joyful?”

Lin Lei said, “Death and life are no more than going to one place and returning from it. Since we die here, how can we know we will not be born again there? I know that life and death are not entirely the same, but how can I know that busily striving to stay alive is not a delusion? And how can I know that my death now is not better than my life before?”

Zigong did not understand what he meant. He returned and told Confucius. Confucius said, “I knew from the start that he was someone worth talking to, and so it proved. Yet although he has grasped something, he has not fully understood it.”

The Classic of Changes says, “Delighting in accord with the way of Heaven and understanding the workings of fate, one has no worries.” At ease with the constant Way, one can pass through life in peace. Changes between life and death cannot disturb oneself, so one can take joy in life. Cultivate yourself and accept whether circumstances go smoothly or against you. Understand that coming and going, and change itself, are not worth clinging to; if you do not let them unsettle your mind, what is there to worry about? Yet knowing joy and knowing sorrow do not amount to true joy. Confucius believed that true joy is a heart unmoved by joy. Rong Qiqi was indeed able to console himself; Lin Lei seems to have grasped this principle, though he had not fully put it into practice.

Zigong had grown tired of learning and said to Confucius, “I wish there were a time when I could rest.” Confucius replied, “In life, there is no time to rest.” Zigong asked, “Then is there nowhere for me, Ci”—Zigong’s personal name—“to rest?” Confucius said, “There is. Look at a tomb: broad and high, deep and spacious, cut off from the world of the living. Then you will know where rest is to be found.” Zigong said, “Death is truly great! There the noble person rests, while the petty person is brought low.” Confucius said, “Ci, you understand. Everyone knows the joys of being alive, but not the hardships of life; they know the weariness of old age, but not that old age can also bring ease; they know that death is hated, but not that death also means rest.”

If one learns the Way but does not understand what death entails, what is learning for? Zigong grew tired of learning and wanted to rest precisely because he did not yet understand the principle of death. Confucius therefore told him that there is no rest in life. Look at the tomb: broad, deep, high, spacious, and cut off from the world. That is where rest is found. But ordinary people, after death, simply return to the dissolution of the body. Though a noble person’s body dies, the Way they have understood does not thereby vanish. That is why it is said that the noble person rests there, while the petty person is brought low. The hardship of being alive is “life makes me weary”; the ease of old age is “old age brings me ease”; and the rest of death is “death lets me rest.”

Yan Zi said, “Well said! The ancients understood that human beings die. After death, the benevolent find rest, while the unrighteous pass into extinction. Death is the ultimate resting place of De. The ancients called the dead ‘those who have returned.’ If the dead are those who have returned, then the living are travelers on the road. To keep pressing onward without knowing to return is like leaving one’s home. When a person abandons their home, everyone condemns them. But when all under Heaven abandon their home, no one knows to condemn them.

“Suppose someone leaves their homeland, forsakes their family, gives up their livelihood, and wanders everywhere without returning. What would people say of such a person? Surely, they would call them unruly and unrestrained. Now suppose someone prizes their outward form and life, flaunts their cleverness and skill, embellishes their reputation, and boasts before the world without knowing when to stop. What would people say of them? Surely, they would call them wise. In truth, both have lost their way. The world approves of one and condemns the other; only the sage knows what to approve and what to leave aside.”

Death and life are both great matters in human existence. Only those who know how to treat life well understand how to treat death well. Hence the saying, “Well said! The ancients understood that human beings die.” “To die without perishing” means longevity: although the benevolent die, their De endures, so it is said that they find rest; the unrighteous, by contrast, perish along with the myriad things, so it is said that they dissolve into extinction.

“Jiao” refers to the place of return. Life belongs to Yang: life is the manifestation of De, and its source lies in Yang. Death belongs to Yin: death is the resting place of De, and its source lies in Yin. Thus, to regard life as a journey and death as a homecoming also expresses the principles of Yin-Yang and movement and stillness. Those who wander recklessly err by pursuing what is external; those who flaunt their wisdom err by clinging to their inward form and life. Worldly prejudice leads people to choose one and reject the other. Only the sage knows what to approve and what to leave aside.

Someone asked Liezi, “Why do you value emptiness?” Liezi replied, “Emptiness itself has nothing to make it valuable.” He went on: “Rather than give it a name, it is better to call it stillness, or emptiness. Only by remaining still and empty can one rest in one’s original place. To choose and reject, to give and take, is to lose that place. Once things have been shattered like a stone struck apart, even if people later promote benevolence and righteousness, they cannot restore them to their original state. So it is better to be still, better to be empty. Only by remaining still and empty can one rest in one’s original place. To choose and reject, to give and take, is to lose that place. Once things have been ruined, promoting benevolence and righteousness afterward cannot make them whole again.”

Where there is nobility, there is lowliness; where there is a name, there is a corresponding substance. Emptiness has none of these distinctions. The Laozi says, “Bring the mind to utmost emptiness, and firmly hold to stillness.” Emptiness can contain the myriad things; stillness can meet every change. So it is better to be still, better to be empty. To say that emptiness and stillness let a person rest in their original place means that the myriad changes and things cannot obstruct them. To say that choosing and rejecting, giving and taking, make a person lose that place means that once one abandons one side and clings to the other, the mind becomes attached. “Only when the Great Dao is abandoned do benevolence and righteousness appear.” Once things have fallen into ruin, how could promoting benevolence and righteousness afterward bring them back to the Great Dao?

Zhou Xiong said, “Heaven and Earth turn without pause, changing and shifting in secret. Who can perceive it? Where something diminishes, something else increases; where something is achieved here, something is lost elsewhere. Diminishment, increase, achievement, and loss occur as worldly affairs change, and pass away with time. They come and go in turn, at intervals too brief to notice. Who can see them? The movement of Qi does not happen all at once, and the decline of the body does not become apparent all at once. So people cannot tell when it took shape or when it began to decline. It is like a person growing from birth to old age: their appearance, complexion, wisdom, and expression change a little each day. Their skin, nails, and hair are continually renewed and shed over the years; they did not remain unchanged from infancy. The changes are so subtle that they are hard to perceive, and often only become clear later.”

“Spirit” (Shen) is a way of describing the wondrous workings of creation and transformation among the myriad things. It is so subtle that it cannot be apprehended by the senses or ordinary reasoning. Everything that depends on form, is governed by the course of Qi, and is confined between Heaven and Earth moves ceaselessly with the two Qi of Yin and Yang; the myriad things, too, are constantly coming and going, changing and transforming. Yet if we seek to discover who governs and drives all this, we find no one. How, then, could we understand it through these things?

Only the sages understand what gives rise to the myriad things. Recognizing this, they can accord with the profound and subtle principle behind them. Those who understand only after events have unfolded are already late in knowing. The sages spoken of here transcend even this belated understanding.

There was a man in the state of Qi who feared that the sky and earth would collapse, leaving him with nowhere to stand. He was so worried that he could neither sleep nor eat. Another man, troubled by his anxiety, went to reassure him. “The sky is simply accumulated Qi, and Qi is everywhere. We stretch our bodies, breathe in and out, and move about within the sky all day long. Why worry that it will collapse?”

The man asked, “If the sky really is made of accumulated Qi, won’t the sun, moon, and stars fall down?” His comforter replied, “The sun, moon, and stars are simply things that shine within the Qi. Even if they fell, they wouldn’t injure anything.”

The man asked again, “Then what if the earth collapses?” His comforter said, “The earth is simply piled-up clods of soil, filling every direction; there is nowhere without them. We walk and stamp our feet, moving about on the earth all day long. Why worry that it will collapse?” Hearing this, the man immediately felt relieved and was delighted. His comforter was just as pleased.

When Changluzi heard about this, he laughed and said, “Rainbows, clouds, wind, rain, and the four seasons are celestial phenomena formed by the gathering of Qi. Mountains, rivers, seas, metals, stones, fire, and trees are earthly things formed by the gathering of physical substance. Since we know that Qi gathers to form celestial phenomena and clods of soil gather to form the earth, how can we say that heaven and earth will never be destroyed? Heaven and earth are tiny things within emptiness, yet they are the greatest among things with form. That their beginning and end are difficult to fathom is only natural; that they are difficult to measure and understand is only natural, too. Those who fear the destruction of heaven and earth are certainly thinking too far ahead. But those who say heaven and earth can never be destroyed are not entirely right either. In the end, heaven and earth cannot escape destruction; eventually, they will return to it. If the time comes when heaven and earth are destroyed, why should we not worry?”

When Liezi heard this, he laughed and said, “To say that heaven and earth will certainly be destroyed is wrong; to say that they certainly will not be destroyed is equally wrong. Whether heaven and earth will be destroyed or not, I cannot know. Even so, they are one and the same. Thus, while alive, we do not know what comes after death; after death, we do not know what it was to be alive. When we come into the world, we do not know when we will leave; when we leave, we do not know where we will go. Whether heaven and earth will be destroyed or not is also something I cannot know. Given that, why should I set my mind on it?”

At the level of form, everything that takes shape must eventually be destroyed. At the level of the Dao (the Way), there is neither formation nor destruction. Those confined by physical form believe that all things have form and Qi (vital energy), and so must inevitably decay. Those who understand the Dao know that it neither falls into ruin nor collapses; nothing can destroy it. Only those who have penetrated the matter understand this. That is why Liezi did not set his mind on the changes of life and death.

Shun asked Cheng, an official in charge of affairs, “Can the Dao be obtained and possessed?” Cheng replied, “Your own body does not belong to you. How, then, could you possess the Dao?” Shun asked, “If my body does not belong to me, then to whom does it belong?” Cheng said, “It is a form temporarily entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Life is not yours; it is the harmonious Qi temporarily entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Your nature and lifespan are not yours; they are the Qi of natural transformation temporarily entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Your descendants are not yours either; they are things temporarily entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth through transformation. When you act, you do not know where you are going; when you stay, you do not know what supports you; when you eat and drink, you do not know why you do so. What flourishes and moves between Heaven and Earth is nothing more than Qi. How, then, could you claim it as your own?”

What is empty does not exist; only what is substantial exists. Whatever can be acquired and possessed can be grasped and put to use. The Great Dao is mysterious and formless, so profound that it is hard to know. Since the Great Dao cannot be possessed, how can the human body, physical form, and life—which gather temporarily into existence, then suddenly change and vanish—be considered one’s own?

Physical form is the body. Thus the human body is a form in which Heaven and Earth temporarily dwell. “Harmony” refers to Qi, so human life is Qi in which Heaven and Earth temporarily dwell. The growth of all things is simply a matter of following the patterns of nature and life. Nature and life, too, are transformations that follow the way of things and temporarily dwell in Heaven and Earth. The body is a form passed down by one’s parents; descendants are the result of life in Heaven and Earth temporarily transforming and continuing. Since this is so, none of these things truly belongs to me.

Thus, when walking, one does not know where one is going; when staying still, one does not know what one can rely on; and when eating, one does not know the taste of food. A person is subject to some force and driven by some force, yet is merely Qi, flourishing and circulating throughout Heaven and Earth, in motion. How, then, can one claim to possess the Great Dao?

Even so, the Great Dao remains the common path that everyone follows. Therefore, the scripture says, “The Dao will become your dwelling.” Does this mean that the Dao ultimately cannot be attained or possessed? If you treat the Dao as private property, you cannot truly possess it. Only the sage can possess the Dao, because the sage does not claim it as their own.

The Gu family of Qi was wealthy, while the Xiang family of Song was poor. Xiang traveled from Song to Qi and asked Gu how to become rich. Gu said, “I am skilled at ‘stealing.’ When I first began, I could support myself within a year; by the second year, I had a surplus; and by the third, I was very well off. After that, my prosperity even benefited the people in my village.”

Xiang was delighted to hear this, but he understood only the word “stealing,” not the principle behind it. When he returned to Song, he climbed walls and broke into houses, taking anything his hands could reach or his eyes could spot. Before long, he was caught with stolen goods, and the property he already owned was confiscated. Thinking Gu had made a fool of him, Xiang went to confront him.

Gu asked, “How did you go about being a thief?” Xiang described what he had done. Gu said, “Alas, you have misunderstood the principle of ‘stealing’ completely! Let me explain. I have heard that Heaven has its seasons and Earth its resources. I make use of Heaven’s seasons and Earth’s advantages, drawing on the way rain and clouds nourish life, and mountains and marshes sustain it. I grow grain and crops, build roads, and put up houses. On land I make use of birds and beasts; in the water, of fish and turtles. These, too, are things I make use of. Grain and crops, earth and timber, birds and beasts, fish and turtles—all are produced by Heaven and Earth. Can they really be mine alone? I make use of what Heaven and Earth produce, yet I have brought no calamity upon myself.

“Gold, jade, precious treasures, grain, cloth, and all kinds of goods, on the other hand, are things people have gathered together. How could Heaven and Earth have given them directly to any one person? You stole these things and were punished. Whom can you blame?”

Xiang was utterly bewildered. Thinking Gu was deceiving him again, he went to ask Master Dongguo for advice. Master Dongguo said, “Is your body not something you have taken from what is given? You live and take physical form through the harmonizing Qi of Heaven and Earth, Yin and Yang. How much less can you claim that everything outside your body is entirely your own? In truth, all things in Heaven and Earth are connected. To insist that something belongs to you is delusion. Gu’s ‘stealing’ accords with what is just, so it brings no calamity. Your stealing came from selfish intent, so you were punished.

“Clinging to the distinction between public and private can itself become a kind of ‘stealing’; letting go of that distinction can also be called ‘stealing.’ To regard public and private fairly is to accord with the De of Heaven and Earth. One who understands the De of Heaven and Earth—how could they cling to the question of who is a thief and who is not?”

Taking what does not belong to you is like theft. Sometimes, taking something for the public good brings no calamity; at other times, taking it out of self-interest incurs guilt. The key is whether you are entangled by what you have taken and whether you claim it as your own. Yet as long as your mind still distinguishes public from private, you will inevitably crave something. So even holding to the idea of public and private counts as theft. Even if you believe you make no distinction between public and private, you may still be attached to the very idea of making no distinction. Thus, claiming to have no thought of public or private still counts as theft. Let public and private each find their proper place, follow their own course, and be free of deliberate intent; then you can embrace all things. This is the De of Heaven and Earth. Those who understand this can do away with distinctions and merge completely with all things. Though things differ, they can still accord with Heaven and Earth. How could I explain the distinctions among them? Thus ends the “Tianrui” chapter.

End of An Explanation of the True Scripture of the Profound Void and Perfect De, Volume One.

An Explanation of the True Scripture of the Profound Void and Perfect De, Volume Two

Written by Emperor Huizong of Song

The Yellow Emperor

In ancient times, those who understood the Great Dao first understood the Way of Heaven, and only then spoke of De. The Liezi begins with the “Tianrui” chapter and follows it with “The Yellow Emperor.”

Fifteen years after ascending the throne, the Yellow Emperor rejoiced that the people of the realm supported him. He put the nurturing of life first and the pleasures of the ears and eyes second. He nourished his mouth and nose, yet his body and mind grew utterly weary; his face became haggard, and his spirit confused. Fifteen years later, he worried that the realm was not well governed. He used to the full the acuity of his eyes and ears, applied his intelligence and abilities, and toiled over the affairs of the people. The result was the same: body and mind utterly weary, face haggard, spirit confused. The Yellow Emperor sighed, “My fault is great indeed! To toil only for myself brings such distress; governing all things brings such distress too.”

So he set aside all affairs of state, left the palace, dismissed his attendants, took down the hanging bells and chime stones, and reduced his meals. He withdrew to the Grand Court Lodge, quieted his mind and composed his body, and went three months without attending to government. One day, as he slept in the daytime, he dreamed that he traveled to the land of Huaxu.

The Perfected Person, whose cultivation has reached a very high level, does not let external things burden the body, nor the body’s desires burden the mind. Above, he travels with the power that brings forth and transforms the myriad things; below, he keeps company with an existence beyond life and death, without beginning or end. Neither sorrow nor joy can alter his original nature. What, then, could trouble him? The Yellow Emperor therefore freed himself from the burdens of the myriad things and prepared to return to a state of undifferentiated unity. He fasted, quieted his mind, and tended to his body, then traveled in a dream to the land of Lady Huaxu.

The land of Lady Huaxu lies west of Yanzhou and north of Taizhou. No one knows how many tens of millions of li it is from the state of Qi. It is probably beyond the reach of boats, carts, horses, and walking; it can be visited only by traveling freely in spirit.

This country has no teachers or rulers, and all things return to unity; everything follows its own nature. Its people have no greedy desires and likewise follow their own nature. They know neither attachment to life nor aversion to death, so none die young. They regard neither themselves as close nor external things as distant, so they have no love or hatred. They know neither betrayal nor defiance, nor do they seek favor or submit, so they struggle over no gains or losses. They cherish nothing and fear nothing.

They can enter water without drowning and enter fire without feeling its heat. They can be struck or whipped without injury or pain, and a touch of the finger brings neither soreness nor itching. They travel through the air as if walking on solid ground, and sleep in the empty expanse as if lying on a bed. Clouds and mist cannot block their sight, nor can thunder disturb their hearing. Beauty and ugliness cannot unsettle their minds, and valleys cannot trip their steps. This is because they can move freely by means of the spirit.

To the west of Yan Prefecture and north of Tai Prefecture, far beyond the capital of Qi, lay a remote and boundless land, reached by a long, winding road. Only those whose spirit could roam freely could arrive there.

One who cultivates himself without relying on a teacher, feels content without pursuing desires and pleasures, remains undisturbed by the changes of life and death, and is not entangled by ties of closeness or distance: such a person does not seek gain, yet gain does not come to him; does not deliberately avoid calamity, yet calamity does not befall him. He clings to nothing and fears nothing. Someone who still holds fast to things can already attain this; someone who has forgotten them can go further: entering water, he does not drown; walking into fire, he feels no heat; struck or stabbed, he feels no pain. Once he has forgotten even his body, he can ride the empty air and rest in the void, without obstruction or stumbling, going wherever he wishes with ease. Moving freely in and out amid the transformations of Yin-Yang, he becomes impossible to fathom even in his wondrous depths—how much less can ordinary people understand him? As the saying goes, this is simply the spirit at work.

When the Yellow Emperor awoke, he felt calm and content. He summoned Tian Lao, Li Mu, and Taishan Ji and said to them, “I spent three months in seclusion, purifying myself, quieting my mind, and gathering in my body, hoping to discover how to cultivate myself and govern all things, but I found no answer. Later, exhausted, I fell asleep, and this is what I dreamed. Now I understand: the highest Dao cannot be sought through human feelings and thoughts. I have come to know it and attained it, but I cannot tell you about it.”

For the next twenty-eight years, the realm was governed in great peace and became almost like the land of the Huaxu clan, a legendary ideal realm of harmony and tranquility. Later, the Yellow Emperor ascended to the heavens—that is, he died. The people mourned him, and their grief did not cease for more than two hundred years.

When people overexert their bodies, grow anxious in mind, and rely on knowledge to argue at every turn, they cannot master this art. But if they can quiet the mind and spirit, restrain the body, and let awareness settle into stillness, they can understand the Dao (the Way). The highest Dao has genuine feeling and signs of its efficacy, yet it is Wuwei (non-action) and formless; it cannot therefore be pursued through emotion. Even someone who understands and attains it cannot pass it on to another in its entirety.

Mount Lieguye, a legendary mountain of immortals, lies in the Sea-River Isles. A divine person lives there, someone beyond ordinary humanity and attuned to the Dao. He breathes the air and drinks dew, eating no grains. His mind is still as a deep spring, and his body pure and quiet as a maiden’s. He shows no special closeness or favor to anyone, yet immortals and sages willingly serve him. He feels neither fear nor anger, and honest, simple people readily follow his instructions. He grants no favors or benefits, yet all things naturally flourish. He hoards and seizes nothing, and commits no wrong. Yin-Yang is therefore harmonious, the sun and moon shine brightly, the seasons proceed smoothly, and wind and rain are well balanced. All things grow at their proper time, and the harvest is abundant year after year. The land is free of epidemics and calamities; people do not die young, and no wicked deeds occur. All things are free of illness and disaster, and ghosts and spirits show no uncanny signs.

The word “spirit” describes a presence that enables all things to reveal their subtle transformations. The divine person embodies this subtlety and transcends the limits of form and number; thus he can respond to all things without being burdened by them. His breathing the air, drinking dew, and eating no grains shows that he does not concern himself with preserving life for personal gain. His mind, still as a deep spring, and his body, pure and quiet as a maiden’s, show that he is calm and focused, with no scattered thoughts. His lack of favoritism, fear, and anger—though immortals and sages serve him and simple, honest people follow him—shows that he moves in accord with the Dao. Such a person acts with ease and Wuwei; Yin-Yang then becomes harmonious and stable, and living beings come to no harm. He grants no favors and accumulates no wealth, yet Yin-Yang naturally harmonizes, the seasons proceed smoothly, and things are born and nurtured at their proper times. The harvest is abundant, people do not die young, all things are free of illness and disaster, and ghosts and spirits show no uncanny signs. This is the principle by which a sage follows the nature of all things, allowing each to find its proper place without leaving anything out.

Liezi studied with Lao Shangshi and befriended Bogaozi. Later, he grasped the Dao taught by these two masters and became able to ride the wind.

The classic says, “One skilled at walking leaves no cart tracks or footprints.” Liezi rode the wind, and although no tracks or traces could be seen, he still relied on something. Only someone who has reached a wondrous state has no need to rely on anything and can arrive naturally.

When Yin Sheng heard of this, he followed Liezi as a student and stayed at home for several months without leaving. He waited for an opportunity to ask Liezi to teach him the art of riding the wind. He asked ten times in all, but Liezi refused each time. Dissatisfied, Yin Sheng announced that he was leaving, and Liezi did not try to stop him. After he left, Yin Sheng could not put the matter aside for several months, so he returned to study with Liezi. Liezi asked, “Why do you keep coming and going?” Yin Sheng replied, “Before, I respectfully asked you for guidance, but you would not tell me, so I felt some resentment. Now I have let it go, and so I have returned.” Liezi said, “I thought you understood the principles, but I never imagined you were so shallow. I’ll tell you now: what I learned by studying with my master was just this.”

Yin Sheng asked three times and received no answer; he made ten requests in all and was not taught. This was because the Dao is inherently difficult to explain in words. In the end, although Liezi did speak, he only described what he himself had learned from his teacher.

After serving my master and spending time with that gentleman for three years, I no longer dared to think in my heart about who was right and who was wrong, or speak of gains and losses. Only then did my master give me a glance. After five years, I would sometimes still think about right and wrong, and sometimes still speak of gains and losses. Only then did my master begin to relax his brow and smile at me. After seven years, my thoughts no longer distinguished right from wrong, and my words no longer weighed gains against losses. Only then did my master invite me to sit beside him. After nine years, whatever I thought or said, I no longer knew which rights, wrongs, gains, and losses belonged to me and which belonged to others. Nor did I still regard my master as my teacher or that gentleman as my friend. Once the distinction between inner and outer had dissolved, my eyes seemed able to hear like ears, my ears to smell like a nose, and my nose to taste like a mouth. All the senses flowed into one another without distinction. My mind and spirit settled, and my body seemed to vanish; my bones and flesh felt as though they had melted away. I could not tell what my body was leaning against or what my feet were standing on. Carried east and west by the wind, I drifted like a withered leaf or a dry husk, unable to tell whether the wind was carrying me or I was carrying the wind.

After three years, he was no longer confused, and so his master gave him a glance. After five years, he was no longer blinded by preconceptions, and so his master smiled with a relaxed face. After seven years, he was no longer held back by attachments, and so his master let him sit beside him. By the ninth year, he could no longer make out distinctions of right and wrong, gain and loss, even if he tried. He had forgotten the difference between self and things, and his five senses had become one. Whether the wind carried me or I carried the wind—why should the mind cling to such distinctions?

You have not been with your master long, yet you have already complained and shown resentment again and again. One part of your body cannot even contain Qi; one limb cannot be borne by the earth. How, then, could you tread on emptiness and ride the wind? Yin Sheng was deeply shaken by these words. He held his breath and remained silent for a long time, not daring to speak again.

Those who seek the Dao must let go even of their thoughts. How much more, then, of resentment and discontent? If one part of your body cannot contain Qi, and even one limb is not borne by the earth, then your body is no longer under your control. How could you possibly attain the Dao?

Liezi asked Guan Yin, “The Perfected One can enter water without suffocating, walk on fire without feeling burned, and move among all things without fear. How is this possible?”

Guan Yin replied, “It is because refined Qi is not constrained by external things. When you reach this state, your body is no longer governed solely by you. How could you attain the Dao through the physical body alone?”

Liezi asked the same question again. Guan Yin replied, “This is the state of holding fast to pure, undivided Qi. It is not something achieved through cleverness, skill, decisiveness, or courage. Ji Yu (possibly a mistaken transcription of ‘Ju Wu’) told you: whatever has form, sound, or color is a thing. How could things differ greatly from one another? They all belong to the realm of form, so how could they, by that fact alone, attain a state beyond all things? In the end, they are merely form and color. The myriad things arise from what is formless and return to a place where change ceases. If you investigate to the end by relying only on these formed things, how could you find the fundamental, true Dao?

“The Perfected One dwells in a realm without limits, keeps the laws that have neither beginning nor end, and wanders freely through the transformations that cycle among all things. He brings his nature and feelings back to purity, nurtures his own Qi, and holds De within himself, thereby reaching the source from which the myriad things arise. In such a person, the innate capacity to hold fast remains whole and unharmed, and the spirit has no opening through which external things could enter. Where, then, could they intrude?

“A drunk person who falls from a carriage often escapes death even when the carriage is moving swiftly. His joints and bones are no different from anyone else’s, yet the outcome of his fall is different because his spirit has not been disturbed. He does not know when he is riding, nor when he falls. Since life and death, fear and alarm, have not entered his mind, he does not fear when he encounters external things. If drunkenness can bring a person to this state for a time, how much more so when one preserves one’s innate nature? The sage entrusts himself to the Way of Heaven, and so no external thing can harm him.”

The Perfected One possesses a wondrous state. “Pure” means that the spirit is not depleted. By preserving one’s unadorned original nature, one can safeguard the natural qualities bestowed from birth. The sage entrusts himself to the Way of Heaven, and so external things cannot harm him.

The Perfected, those who have attained the highest level of cultivation, possess a spirit whose workings are beyond measure. What is meant by “purity” is that they do not injure their spirit. The Way of Pure Simplicity, a path of cultivation that preserves one’s unadorned, original nature and keeps the spirit focused, consists solely in guarding the spirit. By guarding it without losing it, one can become one with the spirit. Thus the Perfected can move through the depths without obstruction, pass through flames without feeling heat, and walk above all things without fear. This is the result of preserving Qi (vital energy) in its undivided purity, not something achieved through cleverness, skill, resolve, or courage.

A person’s appearance, form, voice, and color all have names and actual forms. Once name and form are established, they attach to the body and are moved by external things. Once a body has taken shape, it persists until it declines and dies. How are such people different from the Perfected, and how could they alone reach what precedes all things? The Dao (the Way) comes into being from the formless and does not correspond to any particular thing. It ends at the source of transformations that cannot be traced back, and so exists independently, beyond the influence of external things. If form, color, name, and sound are not enough to reveal the truth of the Dao, who can claim to have truly known and fully fathomed it?

The Perfected abide within the bounds of what is not excessive, acting appropriately without overstepping. They dwell in the law that has neither beginning nor end, turning with change without limit. They roam through the process by which all things arise and pass away, and so journey together with the source that brings them forth. They make their nature whole and undivided, nourish their original Qi without depleting it, and cultivate De (Virtue/Power) without scattering it. In this way, they reach the source from which all things arise. To say that they come into being from the formless and end where nothing changes means that their innate capacity for preservation remains wholly intact; their spirit has no gap, and external things cannot enter. This is why they can move through the depths without obstruction, pass through flames without feeling heat, and walk above all things without fear.

A drunk person riding in a cart is made whole in body and mind by the effects of wine. Even when jolted by external things, they are not startled. The Perfected walk above all things because they keep their nature hidden within; thus they can transcend external things without being harmed. All this results from preserving Qi in its undivided purity and not injuring the spirit.

When Lie Yukou, the legendary master archer, shot for Bohun Wuren, he drew his bow to its full tension and balanced a cup of water on his elbow before releasing the arrows. He shot one arrow after another, each following close behind the last, while fresh arrows continued to stick in the target. Yet he remained motionless, and not a drop spilled from the cup. This was because he had not injured his spirit.

Lie Yukou performed archery for Bohun Wuren. He drew his bow to the full, with a cup of water resting on his elbow. After he released one arrow, before it had landed he had already sent another after it. The arrows followed one another in succession, seeming to hang in the air. Lie Yukou was so focused that he looked like a wooden puppet. Bohun Wuren said, “This is only the skill of archery; it is not yet ‘shooting without shooting.’ I’ll take you to the top of a high mountain. We’ll stand on a precipitous rock above a hundred-fathom abyss. When we get there, will you still be able to shoot?”

So Bohun Wuren climbed the mountain, stepped onto the perilous rock, and went to the edge of the abyss. With his back to the cliff, he slowly retreated until half of each foot hung over the edge. Then he cupped his hands toward Lie Yukou and invited him forward. Terrified, Lie Yukou fell to the ground, his sweat running down to his heels. Bohun Wuren said, “One who has truly attained the Way looks up to peer into the blue sky and down to plunge into the Yellow Springs; they range across the eight directions of Heaven and Earth without their expression or breath changing. Now you are so frightened that your eyes dart about and your thoughts waver. You may already be in danger.”

Drawing the bow to its full span shows that Lie Yukou had great strength in his arms; balancing water on his elbow shows his precise control; releasing arrows in quick succession shows his speed; looking like a wooden puppet shows his complete concentration. Yet these skills had not reached the point of communion with the Dao, so Bohun Wuren said that this was still “the skill of archery,” not “shooting without shooting.”

One who has truly attained the Way looks up to peer into the blue sky—how much higher is that than simply climbing a mountain? They plunge down into the Yellow Springs—how much deeper is that than standing at the edge of an abyss? They range across the eight directions without their expression or breath changing—how much more does that go beyond standing with one’s back to a cliff and one’s feet hanging over the edge? Lie Yukou fell to the ground and sweated; he could no longer shoot. This shows that although he maintained single-minded focus without distraction, his spiritual attainment had not yet reached its utmost. That is why Bohun Wuren said, “Your mind has already wavered. You may be in danger.”

The Fan family had a son named Zihua, who was skilled at building his reputation. People throughout the country admired and obeyed him. He enjoyed the ruler of Jin’s favor, and though he had never taken office, he ranked above the Three Ministers. Anyone he showed even the slightest regard for was granted rank by the state of Jin; anyone he took even the slightest dislike to was dismissed by the state. His courtyard held more guests than the court had officials.

Zihua set his retainers to compete with one another in cleverness and stupidity, with the strong bullying the weak. Even when someone was injured on the spot, no one paid it any mind. Day and night they treated this as a game, until the whole country had nearly taken on the same custom.

Hesheng and Zibo were senior retainers of the Fan family. Once, while traveling through the outskirts, they spent the night at the home of an old farmer named Shangqiu Kai. In the middle of the night, Hesheng and Zibo spoke of Zihua’s power, saying he could make the living die and the dead live again, and make the rich poor and the poor rich. Shangqiu Kai, who had been suffering from hunger and cold, hid behind a window and listened. He believed what he heard, borrowed some grain, and set off with a basket on his back for Zihua’s home.

Zihua’s retainers were all scions of prominent families. They wore white robes, rode in fine carriages, walked at an unhurried pace, and carried themselves arrogantly. Seeing Shangqiu Kai’s age, frailty, dark complexion, and disheveled clothes, they all looked down on him. Then they drew close to him, teasing, deceiving, and insulting him; they shoved and punched him and did whatever they pleased. Shangqiu Kai never showed any sign of anger. Gradually, the retainers ran out of ways to torment him and grew bored.

One day, the retainers climbed a high platform with Shangqiu Kai. In front of everyone, they casually called out, “Whoever dares to jump down from here will receive a hundred pieces of gold.” They all volunteered at once. Thinking they meant it, Shangqiu Kai jumped first. He descended as lightly as a bird in flight, and when he landed, not a bone or tendon in his body was harmed. The Fan retainers assumed it was a matter of chance and saw nothing strange in it, so they gave him a hundred pieces of gold.

Next, they pointed to the deep part of a bend in the river and said, “There’s a pearl down there. Swim down and you can get it.” Shangqiu Kai did as they said, and after swimming across, he really did bring up a pearl. Only then did the others begin to feel astonished and doubtful. Zihua ordered people to provide him with meat and silk clothes so he could live comfortably.

Not long afterward, a fire broke out in the Fan family’s storehouse. Zihua said, “Whoever can go into the fire and bring out brocade will be rewarded according to how much they retrieve.” Without hesitation, Shangqiu Kai went into the flames to fetch the goods, going in and out repeatedly. His body was untouched by smoke or soot, and he had no burns. The Fan retainers thought he possessed Daoist arts, so they all apologized to him, saying, “We didn’t know you had such arts, so we deceived you. We didn’t know you were a supernatural person, so we insulted you. You were like a fool, deaf and blind, for us to do as we pleased with. What ability did you rely on?”

Shangqiu Kai said, “I have no Daoist arts. I don’t even know myself why this happened. But there is something I can tell you. When the two of you stayed at my home, I heard you praise the Fan family’s power, saying they could make the living die and the dead live, and make the rich poor and the poor rich. I believed you completely, without the slightest doubt, so I didn’t mind how far I had to travel before coming here. Once I arrived, I also took everything your retainers said to be true. I worried only that my sincerity might not be deep enough or my attention complete enough. I never gave a thought to what might happen to my body or what dangers there might be. I simply believed with all my heart. In this way, external things could not obstruct me. That is all.

“Now I know you were deceiving me, and suspicion has taken hold in my mind. My eyes and ears have also begun to pay attention to everything around me. When I think back on how I escaped burns and drowning, I can’t help feeling alarmed. My whole body grows hot and trembles with unease. How could water and fire still come near me?”

After that, whenever the Fan retainers encountered beggars or veterinary healers on the road, they no longer dared to insult them. They often got down from their carriages and bowed in greeting.

When Zai Wo heard this story, he told Confucius. Confucius said, “Don’t you understand? Someone whose mind is utterly single and whose faith is unwavering can resonate with external things, move Heaven and Earth and the ghosts and spirits, and travel in all directions without obstruction. How could it be limited to walking across dangerous ground or entering water and fire? Shangqiu Kai believed falsehoods and was still unhindered; how much more so with what is sincere and trustworthy! Young men, remember this lesson.”

Sincerity can bring forth the nature of spirit and clarity. When this nature is whole and without flaw, it is the Dao of the sage. The sage embraces spirit and vital energy, letting them move freely. One who reaches this state can travel throughout the world and find a way through every place. How could this be limited to passing through dangerous places or entering water and fire? Shangqiu Kai believed false claims and still came to no harm. How much more so when both sides are sincere? Young people should remember this.

The saying that sincerity brings forth spirit, that spirit is made whole, and that one embraces spirit to roam freely means that the sage lives in the world with complete simplicity and honesty, forgetting self-interest and cunning schemes. The mind is undisturbed by life and death or by fear and alarm. So even when faced with what defies reason, one is not afraid; one moves among all things without trembling. When others use falsehood to test such a person, sincerity is the response. Where could that person fail to pass through?

Shangqiu Kai leapt from a high terrace without injury; he dived into a river inlet and indeed found the pearl; he went in and out of the fire without a speck of dust on him. He was not burned because his heart was sincere. The way of utmost sincerity reaches deep into body and mind and accords with spirit and clarity. A person no longer dwells on what becomes of the body or weighs gain against loss, and so can overcome external things without being harmed.

Thus, a drunk man can fall from a cart without injury. When the Yellow Emperor lost the Dark Pearl, a jewel that symbolizes profound truth, it was finally found by Xiangwang, a figure in the parable who symbolizes one who is unselfconscious and does not seek deliberately. Guan Yin, a Daoist figure, held that one who walks through fire without feeling its heat does so by keeping to pure Qi.

If the mind harbors cunning schemes, its natural innocence cannot be complete. Without that completeness, the spirit cannot be settled, and it cannot bear the Dao. Shangqiu Kai later came to understand that these events were absurd and illusory. When he recalled that he had once escaped being burned by fire and drowned in water, he was overcome with fear and no longer dared go near either. This was because a calculating mind had arisen and he had begun to doubt. Such is the difference between believing in falsehood with sincerity and harboring suspicion without sincerity. The state of those who are truly sincere is higher still: they can move Heaven and Earth and communicate with the spirits, traveling freely through the four quarters of the world without obstruction. How could this be limited to passing through danger or entering water and fire?

Under the care of the Shepherd Official serving King Xuan of Zhou, there was a laborer named Liang Yang who was skilled at raising wild birds and beasts. He put food out in a garden courtyard, and even tigers, wolves, eagles, and ospreys became docile and tame. The birds and beasts paired off and bred in groups. Many different kinds lived together without fighting or devouring one another.

King Xuan worried that Liang Yang’s skill would be lost when he died, so he asked Mao Qiuyuan to learn from him. Liang Yang said, “I am only a lowly laborer. What skill could I possibly pass on? I fear Your Majesty thinks I am hiding something, so let me explain how to raise tigers. When you go along with their nature, tigers are pleased; when you oppose their wishes, they become angry. This is the nature of living creatures with blood and vital energy. But do joy and anger arise without cause? They are provoked when something goes against them or offends them.

“Those who feed tigers do not dare give them live prey, for fear they will become angry while killing it. Nor do they dare give them whole food, for fear they will become angry while tearing it apart. They must attend to the timing of the tigers’ hunger and fullness, and guide their anger away. Though tigers and people belong to different kinds, a tiger grows close to the person who cares for it because that person goes along with its nature. By the same reasoning, killing its prey would go against it. How could I dare oppose it and provoke its anger? Yet I do not deliberately cater to it and make it excessively pleased, either. Excessive joy is inevitably followed by resentment, and resentment often turns back into joy. Both reactions go beyond due measure.

“Now my mind holds no thought of either compliance or opposition. The birds and beasts see me as one of their own kind. So they play in my garden and do not miss the tall forests or broad lakes; they roost in my courtyard and do not long for deep mountains and secluded valleys. This is what happens naturally when one accords with the way things are.”

The softest thing in the world can pass through the hardest thing in the world. This is the way of great victory spoken of by the sages.

Tigers and wolves are fierce beasts; eagles and falcons are skilled birds of prey. Animals of different kinds live together in one place without fighting or devouring one another. Instead, they dwell freely in a garden. This is because someone knows how to care for and tame them by the right methods. Human nature and life are the same: when we follow their natural tendencies, mind and body can be at peace. If joy and anger exceed their proper bounds, Yin-Yang becomes unbalanced. If we deliberately go against someone’s nature and provoke them, how can that be called following the natural course of life?

A tiger keeper watches when the animal is hungry and when it is full, and finds ways to ease its anger. All he does is follow its nature. How could I dare to go against its nature and make it angry? This is called not violating its nature. Nor do I deliberately indulge it until it becomes excessively pleased; this is called not letting its nature run wild. Excessive pleasure often turns into anger, and after anger there is often a return to pleasure. Both are results of emotions going too far. Now, since I neither deliberately oppose it nor deliberately flatter it, neither provoking its anger nor making it excessively pleased, it is only natural that it should live in ease and freedom.

In caring for life, the sage does not let things they favor or dislike injure their mind and body. Extending this principle to nurturing the myriad things and bringing harmony to all under Heaven requires no other secret: it is simply this same principle.

Yan Hui asked Confucius, “I once crossed a very deep pool. The ferryman handled the boat with such wondrous skill 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 rounds of practice. As for someone who can dive, even if they have never seen a boat, they can learn to handle one very quickly.’ I then asked him what the reason was, but he did not answer. What does this mean?”

A man who handles a boat as if he were a spirit does so because his De extends throughout the world and is unfathomably deep. A swimmer can be taught to steer a boat because he does not fear the water; a skilled swimmer can often steer well because he has long practiced the craft. As for a diver, even if he has never seen a boat before, he can step aboard and handle it with ease. The secret is beyond words. Ask him how he does it, and he cannot explain: when the Dao reaches this level, it can no longer be conveyed through speech.

Confucius said, “As for medicine, you and I have studied its writings for a long time, yet we have not grasped its substance. How much less, then, can we explain the Great Dao? A swimmer can be taught to steer a boat because he does not fear the water; a skilled swimmer can often steer well because he has forgotten the water. As for a diver, even if he has never seen a boat before, he can step aboard and handle it with ease because he sees an abyss as he would a hillside, and a boat capsizing as he would a cart rolling backward. The overturning and transformation of all things unfold before his eyes, yet they cannot disturb his spirit. Wherever he goes, he remains at ease.”

“One who wagers a roof tile is nimble in skill; one who wagers a belt hook becomes apprehensive; one who wagers gold grows bewildered in spirit. The skill itself is the same, but concern for what one might lose makes one value things outside oneself. Whoever values external things allows their inner self to be burdened.”

In the phrase “speaking of medicine,” the word for “medicine” shares a sound with a word meaning “sigh.” A physician is also someone who examines carefully and works out how to treat an illness; the art of medicine may perhaps include the sense of making good what has gone wrong.

A skilled swimmer can teach others to swim. Beginners who take water lightly may be overwhelmed by it, and their bodies suffer as a result. Skilled swimmers practice again and again until they no longer give the water a thought; then they can move freely across its surface, their ability unchanged by shifts in the current. As for a diver, even if he has never seen a boat before, he can handle one with ease. To him, people and things beyond himself form an undivided whole, and he acts without hesitation. Death and life, fear and alarm cannot enter his heart—how much less, then, can thoughts of gain and loss?

Thus he regards an abyss as he would a hill, and a capsized boat as he would a cart overturned. Though all things lie before him, they cannot disturb his mind, so wherever he goes, he remains at ease. This is because the Dao on which his mind rests is not yet deep enough, leaving him easily affected by changes in the world around him.

That is why someone who throws a tile can do so skillfully; someone who throws a belt hook is troubled by misgivings; and someone who throws gold becomes confused. An early Confucian scholar says that throwing something back and forth is called “kou”; here it probably refers to a game involving drawing lots or throwing hooks. The more precious the object one prizes, the more tense one becomes: with a tile, one is skillful; with a hook, apprehensive; with gold, confused. Apprehension means fearing a mistake; confusion is like forgetting what one meant to do.

So it is said that placing too much value on things outside oneself constrains the heart. When the mind is attached to something, it cannot rest at ease.

Confucius was watching a waterfall at Lüliang. The waterfall was thirty fathoms high, and its spray drifted thirty miles downstream. Turtles, alligators, fish, and softshell turtles could not swim through it. Yet Confucius saw a man swimming in the water. Thinking that he had met with some misfortune and meant to take his own life, he sent his disciples downstream to catch up with him and save him. After a few hundred paces, the man came out of the water, his hair loose and unbound. Singing as he walked, he passed beneath the trees at Tang (a place name; the character “xing” here is used for “tang,” meaning pond).

Confucius followed him and asked, “The waterfall at Lüliang is thirty fathoms high, and its spray runs thirty miles downstream. Even turtles, alligators, fish, and softshell turtles cannot swim through it. A moment ago, I saw you moving through the water and thought you were suffering and meant to take your life, so I sent my disciples downstream to save you. When you came out, your hair was loose and you were singing. I thought you were a ghost, but looking closely, I see you are a person. May I ask if you have some secret for swimming?”

The man replied, “No, I have no secret. At first, I simply followed the water’s natural course. Then I grew accustomed to its nature, and in the end I could swim and sing freely, just as you saw. I follow the water’s flow and do not impose my own wishes upon it. That is why I can move through the water.”

Confucius asked, “What do you mean when you say that at first you followed the water’s natural course, then grew accustomed to its nature, and finally could swim freely?”

The man said, “I was born in the mountains and felt at home living among them; that was my starting condition. As I grew up, I lived by the water and felt at home in it; that became my nature. I do not know why I am this way, but it came about naturally. That is my destiny.”

Giant softshell turtles, Chinese alligators, fish, and turtles cannot swim to certain places, yet people can reach them because they have forgotten the dangers of crossing the water. If you examine someone as though he were a spirit or demon, he is in fact human; yet his abilities make people suspect that he is divine. To understand the principle behind this, one need only act in accordance with the nature of the water, without letting personal preferences intrude. Those who descend with the current sink to the riverbed; those who rise with the rapids float to the surface. This is what it means to follow the force of the water.

People who live in the mountains are at ease in the mountains and do not resist their surroundings. Those who grow up by the water are at ease living in it and do not go against their nature. This is what it means to remain unburdened by external things and not alter one’s own nature: one does not know what makes things so, yet they are so of themselves. Thus, to not know why things are so, yet for them to be so of themselves, is called the Mandate of Heaven.

End of volume two of The Commentary and Explanation of the True Classic of the Utmost Virtue, the Chongxu.

The Commentary and Explanation of the True Classic of the Utmost Virtue, the Chongxu, volume three

Written by Emperor Huizong of the Song

“Yellow Emperor,” Part Two

Confucius was on his way to the state of Chu when he passed through a wood. There he saw a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas on the trees with sticky poles. His movements were so deft that he seemed simply to be reaching out and picking something up. Confucius asked, “Your skill is remarkable. Do you have a secret?” The old man replied, “I do. After five or six months of practice, I could balance two pellets on top of one another without letting them fall, and I rarely missed a cicada. When I could balance three pellets without letting them fall, I missed only one time in ten. When I could balance five pellets, catching cicadas became as easy as reaching out to pick something up. When I stand, my body is as steady as a tree stump; when I extend my arm, it is motionless like a withered branch. Though Heaven and Earth are vast and the myriad things are many, my mind holds only the cicada’s wings. I do not turn or lean aside, nor let anything else distract me from the cicada’s wings. How could I fail to catch one?”

Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “When one’s will is single-minded and undistracted, one can reach a wondrous state. This must be what the hunchbacked old man has achieved.” The old man replied, “You are a scholar in a flowing robe. How can you understand enough to ask about such things? First practice the skill you seek; then you may discuss its principles.”

To focus the mind in one place is called “refinement.” One who has mastered the Dao can adapt to any situation. When he stands, he is as steady as a tree stump; when he extends his arm, he is motionless like a withered branch. He is quiet and still, as though he has forgotten that he has a body. Even amid the vastness of Heaven and Earth and the multitude of things, his mind attends only to the cicada’s wings. He does not turn or lean aside, and he lets nothing else displace the goal before him. With such wholehearted focus, disturbances from the outside world fade away. The longer he focuses, the less often he misses: at first, his misses decrease only slightly; with sustained practice, they fall to one in ten; and with further practice, catching cicadas becomes as easy as reaching out to pick something up. There is no other reason for this: his will is simply single-minded.

To focus the mind in one place is called “refinement.” Only a mind of the utmost focus can penetrate the most wondrous principles in the world. Thus it is said that when one’s will is single-minded and undistracted, it can gather into a wondrous state.

A man by the sea loved gulls. Every morning he went to the shore to play with them, and more than a hundred would come and linger there. His father said to him, “I hear that the gulls all enjoy playing with you. Catch a few and bring them back for me to see.” The next day, when the man returned to the shore, the gulls circled and wheeled in the air but refused to descend. This is why the finest words are expressed without words, and the highest action leaves no trace of deliberate action. To understand things through cleverness alone is to have only shallow insight.

Those in ancient times who had attained the Dao (the Way) cast aside clever contrivance and forgot calculation. They kept their hearts pure, and so could enter among the beasts without alarming them or walk into a flock of birds without disrupting its order. If even birds and beasts did not shun them, how much less would people? This was because they harbored no schemes within; naturally, external things had no reason to distrust them.

When the heart cannot remain pure, thoughts of cunning and calculation multiply. Birds then fly high to escape nets, bows, and other hunting tools. The gulls wheeled in flight but refused to descend because the man, having once cast aside clever contrivance, had now begun to scheme. The sage does not govern the state through cleverness. The sage speaks, yet does not become entangled in the burdens that words bring; the sage acts, yet leaves no trace of deliberate effort. To understand things through cleverness alone is to have only shallow insight.

Zhao Xiangzi led a hundred thousand followers to hunt in Zhongshan. They set fire to the forest, and the flames rose so high that their light illuminated the land for a hundred miles. A man emerged from a stone cliff, moving up and down through the smoke and flames. Everyone thought he was a ghost or monster. Once the fire had passed, the man walked out slowly, as though nothing had happened to him.

Zhao Xiangzi found this strange, so he kept the man and examined him closely. His appearance and his seven orifices were like those of an ordinary person, as were his breathing and speaking voice. Zhao Xiangzi asked him, “How can you live inside a stone and enter a fire?” The man replied with a question: “What is this thing you call stone? What is this thing 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 about this, he asked Zixia, “Who exactly was that man?” Zixia said, “From what I have heard from my teacher, a person whose mind is at peace and who is one with all things can communicate with them all. Nothing external can harm or obstruct such a person, so they can pass through metal and stone, and walk on water and through fire.” Marquis Wen asked, “Why don’t you do this?” Zixia said, “I still cannot cut away my selfish desires and set aside cleverness. But I can try to explain the principle.” Marquis Wen then asked, “Why doesn’t your teacher do it?” Zixia said, “My teacher is capable of doing it, yet chooses not to.” Marquis Wen was delighted to hear this.

When the mind accords with the Dao, it merges with it as one; from the beginning, there is no distinction between them. The body changes in response to things outside it, and the transformations of the myriad things each take their own course. If you set yourself against external things, you will divide one thing from another according to their kinds. But if you bring them into harmony by following what is natural, why deliberately seek distinctions?

You and the myriad things share a single source; from the beginning, you are one. When no trace remains of emptiness and solidity set against each other, you can pass through stone walls—what could stop you? When benefit and harm no longer conflict, even amid flames and ashes, what could injure you? Thus, one who brings the myriad things into harmony becomes one with them, and external things can no longer harm him. To be “unimpeded” means to swim through metal and stone, and walk across water and fire.

Zixia understood this principle but could not put it into practice. Confucius could put it into practice, but did not make a show of doing so. The Dao is not attained by those who pursue it deliberately, nor approached by those who make no effort at all. At this point, Zixia spoke of “hollowing out the mind and abandoning knowledge”—clearing away a calculating mind and relinquishing the wisdom that makes distinctions—but he himself could not do it. The sage keeps the Dao within and does not flaunt it. Confucius could embody it without making a deliberate display: that is the true attainment. Those who rush through metal and stone or walk across water and fire to prove they possess the Dao set their own “Dao” against the world. In doing so, they give others the chance to see through and judge them. That is why, after discussing the teachings of Shu, Zhuzi, and others, the Liezi text here exalts Confucius as the one whose attainment was most complete.

A spirit medium came from Qi and settled in Zheng. His name was Jixian. He could foretell a person’s death or survival, gains or losses, fortune or misfortune, and length of life; he could even state the exact year, month, and day when events would come to pass. His powers seemed divine. When the people of Zheng saw him, they ran away and hid. Liezi, however, was utterly impressed. He returned and told Huqiuzi, “I once thought your Dao had reached its highest point. I never imagined there could be a higher state.”

Huqiuzi said, “I showed you only the outward appearance of the Dao; I had not yet let you grasp its substance, and already you think you have attained it. If there were only female birds and no males, how could there be eggs? When you set the Dao against the world, you inevitably reveal your own views, and that is how others can see through you.”

For a related explanation, see the Zhuangzi. Liezi once brought that man along and asked me to reveal myself to him. The next day, Liezi brought him to meet Master Huzi. Afterward, the man said to Liezi, “Alas, your master is close to death. He cannot be saved and may not live ten days. What I saw was an uncanny sight, like a heap of damp ashes.”

Liezi went inside, weeping until his tears soaked the bedding, and told Huzi what the man had said. Huzi replied, “Just now I showed him ‘Earth’s Pattern.’ Its state is like a sprout that neither trembles nor stays still. He must have detected signs that I was concealing my De and not letting it stir. That is why he said I would not survive.”

When people see an uncanny sight, they think it is outside the ordinary. When they see damp ashes, they think they can never burn again. The perfected people of antiquity let the pivot of the Dao move through endless transformations, so that neither one side nor another, neither right nor wrong, could find a counterpart against which to define itself. With De concealed and unstirring, one’s words and responses seem to have lost their counterpart. That is why Huzi showed him Earth’s Pattern. Seeing signs that Huzi was concealing his De, the man thought he was close to death. Earth shares its De with Yin energy; as a result, neither side nor right and wrong remain opposed. With De concealed and unstirring, one’s words and responses seem to lack a counterpart, so Huzi showed the man Earth’s Pattern. Seeing this sign of concealed De, the man said Huzi would not survive. Earth shares its De with Yin energy: its workings appear as patterns, at once still and manifest. Hence the phrase “neither trembling nor staying still.” “Not trembling” means not moving; “not staying still” means not remaining fixed.

Later, Liezi came again with the man. The next day, he brought him once more to see Huzi. Afterward, the man said to Liezi, “How fortunate! Your master has encountered me, and his condition has improved. In the state that was like ashes, there is now vitality. I saw signs of transformation concealed within him.” (Some versions read “whole” instead of “ashes.”)

Liezi went inside and told Huzi what the man had said. Huzi replied, “Just now I showed him ‘Heaven and Earth.’ Neither name nor substance could enter my state, while signs of vitality issued from my heels. This is transformation concealed within. He must have detected signs that I was turning toward vitality.”

If dead ashes still contain life, one explanation is that even ashes that seem unable to burn again may still hold the potential to catch fire. When he had earlier seen damp ashes, their vitality had already disappeared. Since they were extinguished, he naturally thought they could not be revived. Now he sees “Duquan” (the impulse still latent within the ashes), whose active force remains hidden inside. Yet because it has already begun to stir, he considers it to have vitality.

Then let him look at “heavenly soil”: soil that still has breath, as though it were growing. The life force bestowed by Heaven remains latent in the soil. Since it has begun to stir, it may be considered alive, and so it is called “heavenly soil.” Neither names and appearances nor actual conditions can constrain it; truth and falsehood thus merge into one. The movement of Qi begins at the heels, and breathing arises from there. This is what is called “Duquan.” The Dao itself cannot be seen; the way its workings are received is roughly like this. Hence the saying: “This must be what it means to see my subtle impulse toward goodness.”

After a while, Jixian came again. The next day, he went with Liezi once more to visit Huchu. After they came out, Jixian said to Liezi, “When your master was sitting, his breathing was uneven, so I could not read his physiognomy. Have him fast for a while, and I will come again tomorrow morning to examine him.” Liezi went inside and relayed these words to Huchu. Huchu said, “Just now I showed him the Great Equilibrium, without the slightest sign of manifestation. He probably glimpsed the beginnings of balance in my breathing.”

The abyss formed by swirling water, the abyss formed by still water, the abyss formed by flowing water, the abyss formed by floodwaters, the abyss formed by cascading water, the abyss formed by gushing springs, the abyss formed by blocked water, the abyss formed by the Ji River, and the abyss formed by the Fei River: these are collectively called the Nine Abysses.

The Qi (vital energy) of the earth is stronger in Yin than in Yang; where Heaven and Earth meet, Yang is stronger than Yin. When things reach “Taichong,” the state in which Yin and Yang blend and harmonize with one another, both are present, yet it cannot simply be said to belong more to Yin or to Yang. This is therefore called “Taichong without signs.” A “sign” is an indication of wondrous change as it appears in things. Because the changes of Yin and Yang are difficult to discern, their signs cannot be seen. “Chong” means the meeting of Yin and Yang. Taichong has no clear signs and reveals only a balance in due measure; hence it is called “the subtle state of balanced Qi.”

The blending of Yin and Yang without visible signs can be illustrated by the currents in nine kinds of deep pools. “Pan” refers to water flowing in circles and turning back. Only when water turns back can it preserve its integrity and unity; this is why all these pools are called “abysses.” An abyss formed where a giant salamander turns in the water shows that integrity and unity can be maintained even amid intense movement. An abyss formed where still water turns back shows that they can be maintained even when movement comes to a halt.

“Flowing water” is a metaphor for flowing outward: when it mixes with things beyond itself, it flows out excessively. “Irrigating water” is a metaphor for flowing inward: if it is used only to nourish things outside itself, its flow will dry up. “Yong” is river water that flows out and then turns back to flow again, unlike water that flows inward and dries up. “Ji” is water that flows out and then stops, unlike water that turns back and flows again. “Fei” describes water that branches into different courses as it flows out, then gathers into one again. These conditions together broadly encompass the principle by which water turns back and preserves its unity.

The Zhuangzi lists only three of these because the nine conditions can be expanded into nine categories or grouped into three. In the end, they all point to the same principle.

One day, Liezi met Beihun Wuren again. The next day, they went to see Huchu once more. Before Beihun Wuren had even found his footing, he turned and fled in panic. Huchu said, “Go after him and see.” Liezi chased him for a while but could not catch up. He returned and told Huchu, “He’s gone. He ran far away, and I couldn’t catch him.”

Huchu said, “What I showed him just now was a state that has never departed from the source. I made myself empty and still, changing with whatever came. He could not tell what I was, so he fled—like plants bending with the wind, like waves flowing with the current.”

Only then did Liezi realize that he had never truly learned anything before. He went home and shut himself away for three years. He tended the fire and cooked for his wife, and ate like a pig. He stopped dividing things into intimate and distant, noble and lowly. He returned what was carved and embellished to its simple state, standing at ease on his own and keeping his original form. From then on, he devoted his life to this state.

“Never departing from the source” means that the sage takes the Dao of Heaven as his root and lets body and mind settle within it, so he never departs from the source. For a related explanation, see Commentary on the Zhuangzi.

Liezi set out for the state of Qi, but turned back halfway there. He met Beihun Wuren, who asked, “Why did you turn back halfway?” Liezi said, “I was frightened.” “What frightened you?” Liezi replied, “I ate at ten broth shops, and at five of them they rushed to serve me first.”

Beihun Wuren said, “If that was all, why were you frightened?” Liezi said, “The sincerity within me had not yet shown itself, but my outward bearing already seemed radiant. With this outward display, I stirred people’s hearts, making them slight their elders and hurry to obtain what they feared losing. Those broth sellers make their living by selling food and soup. They have little to spare, earn small profits, and hold no power, yet they were already so eager to serve me. How much more would a ruler of a great state, commanding ten thousand chariots, be burdened all day with affairs of state and spend all his wisdom on governing? If he appointed me, gave me responsibilities, and demanded results, I would be frightened by that.”

People in ancient times who attained the highest level of self-cultivation were clear and open in understanding, yet returned to simplicity. They practiced Wuwei (non-action) and returned to their original nature. They did not display their innate abilities, but silently aligned themselves with the Dao (the Way). They seemed indistinct, as though they were not there, yet they truly existed. They moved naturally and left no trace, while their spirit remained full and strong. Such people understood that few could know the true “I”—and that this made it all the more precious.

If sincerity within cannot remain undivided, one has not yet forgotten selfish desires. If one’s words and actions outwardly shine with brilliance, one has not yet escaped attachment to bodily form and reputation. Using outward display to sway others leads people to look down on elders of virtue and prize themselves instead. To labor for the state and exhaust one’s mind handling affairs brings sorrow and illness, ease and pleasure, all at once. Fear under threat and delight in joy also crowd the heart in turn. When these troubles are stirred into such confusion, how could one not be disturbed?

Bohun Maoren, one of Liezi’s teachers, said, “You see things clearly. If you settle yourself in this way, people will rally around you.” Before long, many people came to Liezi’s home, and the guests’ shoes filled the space outside his gate.

Bohun Maoren stood facing north, leaning on his staff with its head near his chin. He stood for a while, then left without saying a word. The guests told Liezi what had happened. Liezi picked up his shoes and ran barefoot to the gate, where he called after him, “Since you came, Master, why didn’t you stay for a meal?” Bohun Maoren replied, “Never mind. I told you before that people would rally around you, and now they have. It is not that you can make people rally around you; you simply cannot stop them from doing so. Why be surprised? When you feel the influence of the outside world, agitation arises in your heart. Deliberately pursuing that agitation will only disturb you and bring no benefit. None of those who associate with you will offer you advice; their pleasing words are all harmful. If you do not awaken and understand, how will you be able to tell the difference?”

Those who observe well deserve praise, for they are able to reflect inwardly. If you can remain true to yourself, you should remind yourself to withdraw and preserve stillness. The Perfected Person, one of profound cultivation, holds fast to the spirit and moves among ordinary people, keeping others from discerning what lies within. For this reason, you must remain true to yourself. If you cannot, others will gain a hold over you and control you; once they control you, you are no longer beyond their scrutiny.

Thus, respond only when moved to do so, and do not deliberately seek to be different. This is how to keep others from gaining a hold over you. If you anticipate being moved, you will respond whenever something stirs you; if you present yourself as unlike ordinary people, you are deliberately seeking difference. In doing so, you give others a hold over you and expose yourself before them. You will also be stirred by external things, disturbing your original mind and leaving you unable to avoid being entangled by them.

If those you associate with do not explain the Way to you, you have no means of awakening. If they offer only shallow words of admonition, can that truly dispel a person’s confusion? It may instead cause further distress. If you can neither perceive nor understand, how can you hold fast to your own Way for long? Hence the saying, “How can one become fully attuned to another?” To become fully attuned means that people mutually influence and cultivate one another until they achieve something.

Yang Zhu was traveling south to the land of Pei, while Laozi was heading west to Qin. They met in the suburbs. When they reached the region of Liang, they encountered Laozi again. After traveling partway, Laozi looked up at the sky and sighed. “I thought you could still be taught,” he said. “Now it seems you cannot.” Yang Zhu did not reply.

When they arrived at their lodgings, Yang Zhu first asked someone to prepare water and towels for washing, along with a comb. He left his shoes outside the door, then went on his knees to Laozi and said, “A moment ago, Master, you looked up at the sky and sighed, saying that you had thought I could be taught, but now you could not teach me. I would like to ask why, but there was no suitable moment along the way, so I did not dare speak. Now that you are free, please tell me where I have gone wrong.”

Laozi said, “Your gaze is arrogant and your manner overbearing. Who would want to be around you? Those as pure as snow appear outwardly to be covered in dust; those of profound De (Virtue) seem to have something lacking.” Hearing this, Yang Zhu was alarmed and changed his expression. “I will follow your teaching,” he said.

Earlier, when Yang Zhu had traveled, the people at the inn had welcomed and attended him. The host had arranged a seat for him, and the host’s wife had brought him a towel and comb. The other guests had all given up their seats, and even those tending the fire had moved away from the stove to make room for him. By the time he returned, the people at the inn were treating him as an equal, and some even competed with him for seats.

A skilled merchant hides valuable goods away, so that he seems to have nothing at all. A virtuous gentleman has deep reserves of De (Virtue/Power), yet appears plain and unadorned, even somewhat dull. Few truly understand me, and fewer still can follow my example. Those who flaunt their cleverness and startle the ignorant, deliberately behaving strangely and praising and promoting themselves—how could they be said to understand the Dao (the Way)?

Liezi did not deliberately shock the world, yet people still criticized him. Yang Zhu, by contrast, changed his appearance and carefully dressed himself to seem unusual. It is no surprise, then, that a heart of simplicity like his would be difficult to teach.

The whitest thing can seem stained. When the heart is clear, it can cleanse the depths of the mind and leave no blemish. Even when bearing the world’s filth, one does not deliberately adorn oneself to prove one’s purity. Those of the highest virtue may seem incomplete. Their virtue is already unsurpassed, yet they do not think they have anything to boast about. This is what is meant by “the highest De does not consider itself virtuous”: the highest virtue does not claim to be virtue.

After Yang Zhu took the advice and went elsewhere, the people at the inn competed to sit beside him. Perhaps when he had first arrived, his gestures of greeting and farewell, handshakes, and deferential yielding had drawn attention, and the others had treated him as an oddity, as described above. When he returned, however, they looked down on him and competed to share his table. This shows that the sage wears coarse cloth on the outside while keeping a treasure within. So one should cast aside outward display and take inner virtue as one’s model.

Yang Zhu passed through the state of Song and headed east to lodge at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines: one was beautiful, the other ugly. The ugly one was treated with respect, while the beautiful one was looked down on. Yang Zhu asked why, and a young man at the inn replied, “The beautiful one thinks herself beautiful, so we no longer find her beautiful. The ugly one thinks herself ugly, so we no longer find her ugly.” Yangzi said to his disciples, “Remember this: if someone is virtuous yet lets go of the idea that they are virtuous, where would they fail to be welcomed?”

From the perspective of the Dao, no thing has an absolute beauty or ugliness. To know something as beautiful is to have something opposed to it as ugly. People regard what they find beautiful as wondrous and what they dislike as foul. Yet the wondrous will eventually change into the foul—and is the foul not also something that can be cherished?

From the perspective of the Dao, nothing in the world is inherently beautiful or ugly. Once people decide what is beautiful, ugliness becomes its opposite. People regard the marvelous as beautiful and the foul-smelling as repulsive. Yet the marvelous can turn into the foul, and the foul may turn into the marvelous. How, then, can beauty and ugliness be distinguished? The sages do not keep judgments of right and wrong, beauty and ugliness, in their hearts. They set aside their preconceptions and live in accordance with the changing world. They do not boast or claim credit. They do what is virtuous without presenting themselves as virtuous. No one in the world seeks to outdo such a person or contest their achievements; wherever they go, how could they fail to be welcomed?

There are two ways to prevail in the world: one can bring lasting success, while the other cannot. The way to prevail over time is through softness; the way that cannot endure is through force. Everyone has heard of these principles, but few truly understand them. The ancients said, “To prevail through force is to overcome those weaker than yourself; to prevail through softness is to begin by responding to those stronger than yourself.” If you overcome those weaker than yourself by force, you will be in danger when you meet an equal. If you respond softly to those stronger than yourself, you face no such danger. To govern yourself in this way is to accord with the community; to govern the world in this way is also to accord with the community. This means that by refusing to contend for victory, you can prevail, and by refusing to force yourself into a role, you can fulfill it.

Zhouzi said, “If you wish to be firm, you must protect yourself with softness; if you wish to be strong, you must preserve yourself through weakness. As softness accumulates, it becomes firmness; as weakness accumulates, it becomes strength. Observe the direction in which things accumulate, and you can see where fortune or disaster will arise.” If you overcome those weaker than yourself by force, then when you meet an equal, your firmness will bring danger. If you overcome those stronger than yourself through softness, your power will be immeasurable. Laozi said, “An army that exerts its strength will perish; a tree that is too hard will break. Softness and weakness belong to life, while hardness and strength belong to death.”

To accumulate many small victories until they become a great victory is something only a sage can do. Laozi said, “Nothing in the world is softer and weaker than water, yet nothing is better at overcoming what is hard and strong. Nothing can take its place.” If something could take its place, it would yield to others and lose itself. How, then, could it overcome external things? Because nothing can replace it, however many changes it undergoes, water always keeps its nature, and external things cannot overcome it. This is the Way of Constant Victory.

The Way of Constant Victory lies in softness; the way that often fails to win lies in strength. These two principles are not difficult to understand, yet people often fail to grasp them. As the Laozi says, the soft can overcome the hard, and the weak can overcome the strong. Everyone in the world knows this, but few can put it into practice.

Strength means beginning in a position inferior to one’s opponent. Softness means starting with oneself. Once someone who was initially inferior catches up and becomes one’s equal, one is in danger. But someone who begins with oneself faces no such danger. This is what is meant by the soft overcoming the hard and the weak overcoming the strong.

If you insist on opposing the way of the world, you are bound to meet an opponent. Water, though soft and yielding, can pass through the hardest places in the world. That is the principle at work here. To govern oneself by this principle is like having something to rely on; to take charge of the affairs of the world by it is likewise to have something to rely on. In other words, from self-cultivation to governing the world, one must be like someone who is soft, yielding, and humble to be capable of the task. Such a person does not strive to conquer external things, but first overcomes the self; does not depend on others to shoulder responsibility, but takes it on personally.

When two armies fight, the side that acts with compassion can prevail. Hence the saying, “When an army is strong, it moves toward destruction.” A small paulownia tree that can be enclosed by joined hands is something a carpenter knows to nurture well. But once it grows too tall and hard, it is cut down for use. Hence the saying, “Trees that are hard are easily broken.”

All things turn their backs on Yin and face toward Yang. Only when the two Qi blend and harmonize do they attain a state of balance. Yang Qi brings forth life; Yin Qi brings decline and death. When all things enter this phase of decline, harmony disappears. Thus softness and weakness belong to the realm of life, while hardness and strength belong to the realm of death.

The outward form of a thing does not necessarily correspond to its intelligence. In other words, one may look dull and clumsy without being slow-witted, while looking human does not necessarily mean having a keen mind. Sages value those whose minds are in accord with theirs and do not fixate on appearance. Ordinary people, by contrast, tend to feel close to those who look like them and distant from those whose minds are more discerning. When someone’s appearance resembles their own, they feel affection and kinship; when it differs, they feel distance and fear.

A person has a body seven feet tall, with limbs proportionate to the trunk, hair on the head, and teeth in the mouth, and can stand and walk upright. Such a being is called human. Yet the human heart may still harbor the nature of a beast. Even with a bestial heart, someone whose appearance is human is readily welcomed by others. Birds and beasts have wings, horns on their heads, sharp teeth, and distinct claws, and can fly or run. Yet they may still possess human intelligence. Even with a human mind, they are often shunned simply because their appearance is different.

Fuxi, Nüwa, Shennong, and the Xia ruler were ancient sovereigns whose unusual forms included a serpent’s body with a human face, or the head of an ox and the nose of a tiger. Yet they possessed the virtue of sages. Jie of Xia, Zhou of Yin, Duke Huan of Lu, and King Mu of Chu had all the usual human features and appearance, but their hearts were like those of beasts. Ordinary people judge whether someone possesses the highest wisdom by appearance alone, and so they find it difficult to recognize wisdom itself.

When the Yellow Emperor and the Yan Emperor fought in the wilds of Banquan, they led bears, brown bears, wolves, leopards, jackals, and tigers into battle, and used eagles, pheasants, hawks, and kites as their banners. This was a way of driving birds and beasts by force. When Yao appointed Kui, an ancient official in charge of music, to oversee music, the striking of stone chimes made the various animals dance. When the Shao music reached its ninth movement, even phoenixes came to join in. This was a way of moving birds and beasts through sound. Why, then, must the minds of animals be different from those of humans? Their forms and voices are simply different, and people do not know how to communicate with them. Sages know and understand everything, and so can guide and direct them.

Some animals possess an innate intelligence close to that of humans, and need not learn from people how to satisfy their desires and preserve their lives. Males and females mate, and mothers and young are attached to one another. They avoid open ground and seek shelter in dangerous places; they keep out of the cold and move toward warmth. They live together in groups and travel in ranks, with the weak in the middle and the strong on the outside. When drinking, they look out for one another; when foraging, they call to their companions.

In remote antiquity, birds and beasts lived and traveled alongside humans. Only in the age of the sovereigns did they begin to flee in alarm; in later times, they hid and ran off to escape danger. Today, in the country of the Jie clan in the east, there are people who can understand the speech of the six domestic animals. This is simply an ability acquired through knowledge of a particular kind. The sacred and wise people of antiquity understood the full nature of all things and could comprehend the voices of beings unlike themselves. They therefore gathered these beings together and taught them, so that they could live alongside people like ordinary subjects. First they came to understand ghosts, spirits, and demons; then they learned the ways of the peoples in the eight directions; and finally they brought together birds, beasts, insects, and other creatures. This shows that among all living beings endowed with blood and vital energy, there is little difference in their intelligence. The sacred and wise understood this, and so their teachings left no kind of living being untouched.

Pre-Qin Confucians explained “child” as “same”; here, “same” is the correct reading. In the age when the highest De (Virtue/Power) prevailed, people shared a state free of knowledge and desire, and their inherent virtue had not become dispersed. This was called simplicity. People could therefore live alongside birds and beasts and coexist with all things as members of one family. They could lead animals around for amusement or climb up beside magpies’ nests to observe them.

Perhaps the Yellow Emperor’s battle at Banquan and Emperor Yao’s use of music to transform the people both reflected this state. Ge Jielu understood the cries of cattle. In the Zhou dynasty, officials were appointed to raise and teach birds and beasts. They cared for and communicated with them, learned to recognize the sounds of different creatures, and gathered them together for instruction. People in later generations still witnessed this realm of simplicity. The Liezi lamented that simplicity had been lost, and placed in its pages the hope of seeking the original meaning of the Dao and De. It sought to change the world’s clever contrivances and return people to a state of purity and sincerity; that is why it tells these stories.

A man in the state of Song raised monkeys and loved them, keeping a large troop. He understood their thoughts, and they understood his intentions. He would rather cut back on his family’s provisions than deprive the monkeys of what they needed. Before long, food in the household grew scarce. He planned to limit the monkeys’ rations, but feared they would not obey him. So he first deceived them, saying, “I’ll give you acorns: three in the morning and four in the evening. Is that enough?” The monkeys all jumped up in anger. He then said, “I’ll give you acorns: four in the morning and three in the evening. Is that enough?” The monkeys settled down and accepted the offer happily. Things deceive one another through cleverness or foolishness much like this. When sages use their wisdom to deceive the people, they are like the monkey keeper using a scheme to deceive the monkeys: they merely change the way the offer is phrased. The total amount remains the same, yet the monkeys’ anger and delight follow their words.

Those of old who were skilled in following the Dao did not seek to make the people clever, but to keep them simple. The people could be guided to act without needing everyone to understand the reasons behind it. Thus, those skilled in following the Dao simply let the people act in accordance with the Dao, without interfering through clever contrivances. When people return to their natural state, the Dao can sustain them all, and they can walk alongside the Dao. There is then no need to employ cleverness.

Ji Xingzi trained fighting cocks for King Xuan of Zhou. After ten days, the king asked, “Are the cocks ready to fight?” Ji Xingzi replied, “Not yet. This one is still boastful and restless, relying on a burst of pride.” Ten days later, the king asked again. Ji Xingzi said, “Not yet. It still reacts when it hears a sound or sees a shadow.” Ten days later, the king asked again. Ji Xingzi said, “Not yet. Its gaze is still sharp and its presence still forceful.” Ten days later, the king asked again. Ji Xingzi said, “Almost. Even when other cocks crow, it is no longer disturbed.” Ten more days passed, and the king asked once again. Ji Xingzi said, “It is ready. Seen from a distance, it looks like a wooden cock. Its spirit and presence are settled and complete. The other cocks dare not challenge it; when they see it, they turn and flee.

Those truly skilled at overcoming opponents do not contend with others. Precisely because they do not contend, no one under Heaven can contend with them. To quiet the mind, one must bring the breath into harmony; to settle the spirit, one must follow one’s original nature. This is the virtue of non-contention. In such a person, the nature endowed by Heaven remains whole, and the spirit suffers no impairment. How could external things intrude? Even when confronted by things that go against their wishes, they are not alarmed or afraid, and so those things cannot harm them. This state of preserving pure, harmonious Qi does not depend on such abilities as cleverness or courage. Only such a person can be called complete in virtue.

Hui Ang paid a visit to King Kang of Song. The king stamped his foot, cleared his throat, and said urgently, “What I admire is that external things cannot alarm a person, and that a person is not harmed by external things. Preserving pure, harmonious Qi is not something achieved by relying on cleverness or acting with courage. That is what it means to be complete in virtue.”

Hui Ang paid a visit to King Kang of Song. The king stamped his feet, cleared his throat, and said impatiently, “I admire people who are brave and strong. I have no taste for those who talk about benevolence and righteousness. How do you intend to instruct me?”

Hui Ang replied, “I have a way to keep people from stabbing you, even when they are brave, and from striking you, even when they are strong. Would Your Majesty like to hear it?”

The King of Song said, “Yes. That is exactly what I want to hear.”

Hui Ang said, “Keeping people from stabbing or striking you still leaves you humiliated. I have another way: brave people will not dare to stab you, and strong people will not dare to strike you. By ‘not dare,’ I don’t mean they have no such thoughts. I have yet another way: people will have no thought at all of harming you. But if they feel no wish to care for and help you, that is still not enough. I have one more way: men and women throughout the realm will sincerely rejoice in you, and everyone will want to care for and help you. This is far better than bravery and strength, and far superior to those four methods. Would Your Majesty like that?”

The King of Song said, “That is exactly what I want.”

Hui Ang replied, “This is what Confucius and Mozi did. Though Confucius and Mozi had no territory, people honored them as rulers; though they held no official posts, they became leaders of the people. Men and women throughout the realm stretched their necks and rose onto their toes, hoping these men would bring stability and benefit to the people. Now Your Majesty rules a state with ten thousand chariots. If you truly hold such an aspiration, everyone within your borders will benefit, and your virtue will far surpass that of Confucius and Mozi.”

The King of Song had no reply. After Hui Ang hurried away, the King said to those around him, “What a persuasive guest. He actually talked me around.”

The sage governs all under Heaven with wondrous authority and virtue. He does not rely on killing, but treasures compassion as his guiding principle. His benevolence thus extends throughout the world, and everyone is willing to draw near to him; his sense of justice extends throughout the world, and everyone is willing to submit to him. This is the way to prevail over the long term, far surpassing displays of courage and brute force. It is also why people everywhere cherish the sage and benefit from him.

The text mentions Mo Di (Mozi) again when discussing Confucius because the Zhuangzi, in its discussion of the ancient arts of the Dao, recognizes that the various schools and arts each have their strengths. Although Mozi did not fully understand the Dao or excel in every respect, he was still a talented person with particular strengths.

End of Volume Three of The Explanatory Commentary on the True Scripture of the Most High Virtue, the Chongxu.

The Explanatory Commentary on the True Scripture of the Most High Virtue, the Chongxu, Volume Four

Written by Emperor Huizong of Song

King Mu of Zhou

The Dao itself makes no distinction between truth and falsehood, yet the myriad things each have their own distinctions between this and that, right and wrong. It is like dreaming and waking: from them arise all manner of confused differences. Only a truly great sage can understand the principle behind them and bring the myriad things into unity.

During the reign of King Mu of Zhou, the fifth ruler of the Western Zhou, a magician came from a remote land in the far west. He could enter water and fire and pass through metal and stone; turn mountains and rivers upside down and move cities. He could ride through empty space without falling, and touch solid objects without being harmed. His transformations were endlessly varied and impossible to exhaust. He could change not only the forms of things, but also people’s thoughts.

One who understands the Dao of transformation may already know how wondrous powers operate: water and fire cannot harm such a person, and metal and stone cannot obstruct them. High and low make no difference to them, and they can forget both the empty and the solid. Their transformations are inexhaustible, and they might almost be called wondrous. But “spirit” means that it brings about subtle changes in the myriad things in ways that people cannot fathom. The magician changed the forms of objects and altered people’s thoughts by grasping the principles of transformation, understanding how things change, and adapting them in accordance with their forms. That is why he is called a “magician.”

King Mu of Zhou revered the magician as though he were a deity and served him as though he were a ruler. He gave up his own chambers for the magician to live in, offered him the three sacrificial animals—a cow, a sheep, and a pig—as a feast, and selected women skilled in song and dance to entertain him.

King Mu of Zhou revered the Illusionist as though he were a spirit and served him as though he were a ruler. He gave up his open-air sleeping quarters for the Illusionist to live in, offered him the three sacrificial animals to eat, and selected young women skilled in song and dance to entertain him. The Illusionist considered King Mu’s palace low and shabby, unfit to live in; the food in its kitchens smelled rank and was filthy, unfit to eat; and the concubines and attendants smelled unpleasant and were unfit to approach.

King Mu therefore built a separate palace for him, undertaking extensive construction and covering it with red and white paint, sparing no effort or craft. The wealth of the five treasuries was exhausted before the palace terrace was complete. It rose a thousand ren above Mount Zhongnan and was named the Terrace in Midheaven. King Mu selected young, beautiful women from Zheng and Wei. He had them apply fragrant ointments and shape their eyebrows, wear hairpins and earrings, and dress in splendid robes with long Qi-style skirts trailing behind. They powdered their faces, painted their brows, and wore jade rings. The palace was filled with fragrant herbs such as baizhi and du ruo, and music including “Rising Clouds,” “Six Harmonies,” “Nine Shao,” and “Morning Dew” was performed for the Illusionist’s pleasure. Each month, garments made of jade were presented to him; each day, exquisite food was served. The Illusionist was still dissatisfied, and King Mu had no choice but to go up to the terrace himself to see him.

People regard what they love as wondrous and what they detest as corrupt. The wondrous and the corrupt keep turning into one another, so how can beauty and ugliness be distinguished? The Illusionist rejected King Mu’s palace, food, and concubines, insisting that they be rebuilt and selected anew before he would live there or accept them. This shows that he had not let go of his attachment to what he liked and disliked, what he considered beautiful and ugly. King Mu’s reverence for the Illusionist, then, amounted to treating him as a spirit.

Not long afterward, the king visited the Illusionist again—the one who could transform his form and lead him into otherworldly realms—and went traveling with him. The Illusionist took hold of the king’s sleeve, rose into the air, and paused above the ground. They then arrived at his palace. Built of gold and silver and adorned with pearls and jade, it floated above the clouds and rain, with no visible support beneath it. From a distance, it looked like clusters of clouds. Everything the king saw, heard, smelled, and tasted was unlike anything in the human world. He thought he had reached Qingdu, Ziwei, Juntian, and Guangyue—the legendary dwelling and music hall of the Celestial Emperor. Looking down, however, he saw that the palace towers seemed like heaps of earth and bundles of grass. He felt he had lived there for decades and no longer thought of his own kingdom.

The Illusionist then invited the king to continue their journey. Wherever they went, the king could see neither sun nor moon above, nor rivers or seas below. The glare dazzled him, so he could not see clearly; the jumble of sounds made it impossible for him to understand what he heard. His whole body, his hundred bones, and his six viscera—the ancient term for the organs within the body—trembled with fear. His mind grew confused and his spirit drained away, so he asked the Illusionist to take him back.

The king thought the palace was Qingdu, Ziwei, Juntian, and Guangyue, the dwelling of the Celestial Emperor. This shows that it was not truly the heavenly realm. There were gold, silver, pearls, and jade; everything he saw and heard, tasted and felt was unknown in the human world, and he was so delighted that he forgot his kingdom. Later, when he reached a place where he could see neither sun and moon nor rivers and seas, where he could not see or hear clearly, his mind grew confused and he urgently asked to return. This shows how changing the form of things can also alter a person’s thoughts.

After the Illusionist brought the king back, the king could see the sun and moon, but still could not see the rivers and seas. His eyes could not make things out, and his ears could not distinguish sounds. His mind grew confused and his spirit drained away, so he again asked the Illusionist to take him back.