《冲虚至德真经解(江遹)》

Master Liezi (that is, Lie Yukou, a Daoist figure of the Warring States period to whom the book Liezi is traditionally attributed) lived in a garden in the state of Zheng, and for forty years no one recognized him. This was because he was a scholar of ancient times skilled in cultivating himself and conducting himself properly; his subtle, mysterious, penetrating, and unobstructed De (Virtue/Power) was deeply concealed and not exposed, making him difficult to fathom. In Puze there were many worthies, yet even after he had lived there in seclusion for forty years no one recognized him—precisely showing how deeply he had “hidden” himself. This accords with the meaning of “withdraw and hide in the hidden and subtle” (retire and conceal oneself in a profound and subtle place) as stated in the Xici (Great Commentary) of the Zhouyi (Book of Changes).

The ruler and the high officials regarded him no differently from ordinary commoners. The commentary holds that one whose virtue is sufficient to govern the state and whose arts of the Dao are sufficient to nourish the people should diligently seek out worthy talents; and one whose wisdom is sufficient to lead the multitude should be wise enough to recognize others. That the ruler and high officials looked upon him as an ordinary person precisely shows that he was unfathomable.

The phrase “the state was insufficient, and he was about to move to Wei” literally means that supplies or provisions in the state were insufficient, and he was about to go to Wei to make a living.

Jiang Yu explains: The state’s grain is insufficient because the harvest has failed. People in the world who study Liezi, seeing that he could ride the wind and travel, wildly speculate that he did not eat the five grains, and they take inhaling wind and drinking dew as a matter of cultivation. They little realize that once he enters the human world, he cannot avoid the various misfortunes of the human way. Therefore the book Liezi discusses this matter at its opening, wanting later people to devote their minds to seeking the Dao and not to startle the ordinary world with bizarre behavior. The “Shuofu” chapter also says: Liezi was poor and in straits, and his face bore the signs of hunger.

The disciple said: Master, you are going away now, and we do not know when you will return. I venture to ask: with what will you instruct us? Have you not heard the words of Huqiu Zilin?

Jiang Yu explains: Taking emptiness, stillness, and inclusiveness as the root, and the Mean as the great Dao, one who can embrace and cover all things is Huqiu Zilin (that is, Hu Zi, Liezi’s teacher).

Liezi said with a smile: What did Hu Zi say? Even so, my teacher once spoke with Bohun Maoren (another teacher and elder of Liezi), and I overheard it; I will try to tell you.

Jiang Yu explains: Liezi and his teacher Hu Zi looked at each other and smiled; their minds were in accord, with no barrier between them. Bohun Maoren was advanced in years, and his keen intelligence had declined, so Hu Zi had no choice but to speak to him; thus Liezi was able to overhear. The Zhuangzi says: To know but not speak is to accord with the Dao of Heaven; to know and speak is to accord with the Dao of humanity. Liezi’s attitude toward Hu Zi was precisely this. Hu Zi’s reason for telling Bohun Maoren also arose from this same cause.

Hu Zi’s words were: Things that have life possess an aspect of the unborn; things that undergo transformation possess an aspect of the untransformed. The unborn can make the ten thousand things generate life without cease; the untransformed can make the ten thousand things transform and continue without end. Living things cannot but live; transforming things cannot but transform.

(This passage speaks of the relation between the substance and function of Dao: the substance of Dao is silent and unmoving, without generation or transformation, and yet it is the root of the generation and transformation of the ten thousand things. The ten thousand things have generation and transformation, but the source of generation and transformation itself is neither generated nor transformed.)

The wondrousness of Heaven and Earth and the bounty of the earth, the reason sages become sages and the myriad things become myriad things—if one were to sum up their principle in a single phrase, it is “generation” and “transformation.” Thus the teachings of the “Tianrui” chapter of the Liezi make this clear at the very outset.

Forms are each distinct and constantly shift and pass away—this is having generation and transformation. Yet the Great Change (Taiyi, the primordial state described in the Liezi before the cosmos has shown any signs) has not yet manifested any omens, and the true nature is eternal and unchanging—this is non-generation and non-transformation.

Those limited by “having generation” can only tend toward “transformation”—how could they attain unceasing generation? Those enslaved by “having transformation” ultimately return to extinction—how could they achieve ceaseless transformation? Only things that have generation are subject to change; how could things without generation undergo change? What has transformation ultimately perishes; what does not transform has from the beginning neither arising nor perishing.

The teeming, bustling generation is all the manifestation of the true mind; the teeming, bustling transformation is all the activation of the wondrous mind. Therefore it can “generate generation” and “transform transformation.” Once there is generation, it cannot but generate; once there is transformation, it cannot but transform. Even Heaven and Earth, vast as they are, and the sun and moon, bright as they are, are all confined within the domain of generation and transformation, as if some mechanism were pulling them along so that they cannot stop themselves, or as if they were being turned and cannot halt on their own. As time shifts and the years roll on, never ceasing through the ages—how much more so for the myriad things?

That which generates cannot but generate; then that which causes generation to generate also cannot but generate generation. That which transforms cannot but transform; then that which causes transformation to transform also cannot but transform transformation. Generation upon generation and transformation upon transformation—their starting point cannot be investigated; as they generate and transform, their end is unknown. This is precisely why Heaven and Earth can encompass the myriad things without exhaustion, and the Dao can encompass Heaven and Earth without limit.

Nevertheless, what is called “non-generation and non-transformation” originally cannot be named; only because there are forms and shapes is it reluctantly given a name. Therefore, outside generation and transformation there is no other thing that is non-generated and non-transformed; the wondrous principle of non-generation and non-transformation resides precisely within generation and transformation. Hence the scripture says: “There is generation, yet it is not generated; there is transformation, yet it is not transformed.” This means that what is called generation has in fact never truly generated, and what is called transformation has in fact never truly transformed.

That which causes them to become generation and transformation is neither outside nor in me; it is simply self-generation and self-transformation. Looking at the scripture’s opening statement, “There is generation, yet it is not generated; there is transformation, yet it is not transformed,” the principle has already been stated exhaustively. If one is compelled to elucidate the principle of generation upon generation and transformation upon transformation, it must in the end return to “self-generation and self-transformation.”

As for lodging one’s body in the realm of generation and transformation while complying with generation and transformation, and being situated within generation and transformation without being constrained by them—then the generation of the myriad things is the true substance of my mind, and the transformation of the myriad things is the wondrous function of my mind. This is why sages are sages, and it is also the essential purport of Liezi’s handed-down teachings.

Scripture One: Therefore there is constant generation and constant transformation. “Constant generation and constant transformation” means that at no time is there no generation, and at no time is there no transformation.

The phrase “constant generation and constant transformation” is spoken with regard to the way all things, ancient and modern, are interconnected; it speaks of the fundamental principle of the transformative workings (the natural transformative nurturing of Heaven and Earth). Seen from the standpoint of an individual thing, no sooner has it come into being than it is changing; while it lives it is changing, and when it dies it is also changing. If one counts “the temporary aggregation of Qi (vital energy)” as generation, it cannot be called “constant generation”; if one counts “the shifting and perishing of bodily form” as transformation, it cannot be called “constant transformation.” For the transformative workings, as they relate to the ten thousand things, when a thing has just been born its transformative nurturing has not ceased, and when it has already died that transformative nurturing continues as usual. The transformative workings are fundamentally constant, and there is no interruption between generation and transformation. If, within the transformative workings, a single thing had even the slightest gap between its generation and its transformation, the principle of generation and transformation would nearly be extinguished.

Someone offered an analogy: the life and death of things are like the alternation of day and night. When the sun rises it is day; when it sets it is night. Day cannot be called “generation,” nor can night be called “extinction.” This is what is meant by “at no time is there no generation, at no time is there no transformation.” The first chapter of Laozi’s Daodejing speaks of “the constant Dao (the Way),” “the constant name,” “constant non-being,” and “constant being.” If one speaks only of Dao and does not reach the realm of “constancy,” it is not sufficient to be “the gate of all wonders.”

Scripture Two: “It is merely Yin-Yang; it is merely the four seasons.”

Explanation: Yin-Yang alternate in their movement and form the four seasons of spring, summer, autumn, and winter. All things that fall within the scope of life turn according to the molding and forging of Yin-Yang and cannot act on their own. Yet Dao disperses and becomes Yin-Yang; the function of generation and transformation is merely lodged in things that have form. The wonder of “constant generation and constant transformation” is not manifested only through Yin-Yang and the four seasons. To say “it is merely Yin-Yang and the four seasons” makes its meaning too small.

Scripture Three: “That which does not generate appears solitary; that which does not transform cycles back and forth. Its limits cannot be exhausted; being solitary, its Dao cannot be exhausted.”

Explanation: What does not generate and does not transform is steadfastly independent and does not move with change; what does not transform merely cycles back and forth. Their boundaries are endless, and that Dao of steadfast independence is likewise inexhaustible.

The commentary says: “Only by being alone” is why it can cooperate and respond with the myriad things, becoming the root to which the movements of the myriad things return and the foundation on which the myriad things depend and on which the creative transformations of Heaven and Earth rely. Yet the Dao itself does not go to match itself with things; it is things themselves that match with the Dao. What Laozi calls “seems to be the ancestor of the myriad things” is what is meant here by “Yidu” (seeming solitude—a transcendent existence that appears to stand apart from the myriad things). The cyclical coming and going and transformation of the myriad things is what is called “Wuduan zhi ji” (the beginningless fundamental order). The bounds of the Dao cannot be exhausted, and its workings cannot be exhausted; therefore it can forever generate and regenerate and ceaselessly change.

The Yellow Emperor’s Book (an ancient Daoist text attributed to the Yellow Emperor) says: The Valley Spirit (the mysterious Qi that is empty yet able to generate and nourish the myriad things) never dies; this is called the Mysterious Female (the deep and subtle mother that gives birth). The gate of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth. It continues unbroken, as if always present; use it, yet it is never exhausted.

The sentence “This is why it constantly generates and constantly transforms” explains the reason the Dao can enduringly generate and transform, and it connects with the preceding passage. The quotation that follows is the same as the preceding one, and its content is also an explanation of the Valley Spirit and the Mysterious Female.

The valley is empty yet able to resonate with external things; after resonating, it does not retain them within. Human life consists in harmonious Qi circulating throughout the body, entering and exiting through the nose and mouth in breathing, and thus it has the image of a valley—empty and responsive to the myriad things. What is called the “Valley Spirit” (Gushen) is the wondrous nature of the valley; it is called “one” because it is numinous, wondrous, and beyond measurement. “The Valley Spirit does not die; this is the Dao of long life and enduring vision” means the method of cultivation by which one may endure for a long time.

The statement that it “does not die” is because all living things are governed by the transforming power of creation and are driven by the Qi of Yin-Yang: when born, they cannot but be born; when they die, they cannot but die. Only humans are the most intelligent of the myriad things. Although like all things they receive creative transformation and are born, after birth there is within them a part that creation cannot cause to die. This is because I share one Qi with Heaven and Earth and am thereby able to govern myself; able to guard my own root, my life is held in my own hands and does not belong to Heaven and Earth.

If one can constantly preserve and nurture the Valley Spirit, so that breathing is deep, long, continuous, and subtle as if reaching the heels, and the harmonious Qi fills the whole body, then one may become a person who cultivates the body to the age of one thousand two hundred years without physical decline. Such a one still has life, yet has already transcended birth and death and endures as long as the great Dao. Therefore it is called the “Valley Spirit”; it is not called “life” but “does not die.”

“Xuan” is the color of Heaven, that is, its deep, profound, and dark appearance. “Pin” belongs to the category of Earth and refers to the female. For birds one speaks of female and male; for beasts, of pin and mu. “Pin” is the most Yin, soft, and able to give birth. On the metaphysical level, Yin precedes Yang, and so this thing that ceaselessly generates and regenerates is borrowed to metaphorize the Valley Spirit and is called “Pin.” The Valley Spirit generates without end, and so it is called the “Mysterious Female” (Xuanpin). The wondrous function of the Valley Spirit is that within the body it nourishes oneself; extended to others, it nourishes others. If this spirit can be constantly preserved, how could what it transforms and generates ever be exhausted? Its essential wonder is like this—if not for the two words “Mysterious Female,” what else could one use to name it?

“Gate” refers to the passage of coming and going. Here it metaphorizes the Valley Spirit within my body, which comes and goes with inhalation and exhalation, with no gap between them even for a hair. If one can long preserve life without dying, then the body’s waxing and waning, decrease and increase, are no longer constrained by creation, and the power of creation is instead held in my hands. The reason Heaven and Earth can endure is precisely through this principle.

To be able to live long without dying means that the body’s fullness and depletion, its waxing and waning, are no longer governed by Zaohua (the transformative work of Heaven and Earth and nature); rather, Zaohua is held in one’s own hands. The reason Heaven and Earth can endure for long lies fundamentally in this principle. Hence it is said: “The gate of the mysterious female (Xuanpin: the deep and subtle gate of generation, the root from which all things are born and transformed in emptiness)—this is called the root of Heaven and Earth.” (From Laozi, chapter 6.) “Continuous, as if existing” refers to the substance of the Valley Spirit (Gushen: the empty, numinous, deathless spiritual entity, so called because a valley is empty yet can echo).

“Continuous” describes something faint yet unbroken. A person’s exhalation and inhalation come and go within the body and may be said to be extremely faint, yet the ability to live long without dying is precisely this unbrokenness. Because it is continuous and unbroken, it seems to exist and seems to perish; it is neither truly existent nor entirely nonexistent.

“Use it without diligence” is what Mencius means by “nourish it properly and do not harm it.” This qi cannot be discarded and left unused, but when using it one must not be too urgent or painstaking. Not using it is like the man of Song who did not weed and let the seedlings go to ruin; using it too urgently and diligently is like the man of Song who pulled up the seedlings to help them grow and instead suffered harm. Only by using it without haste or impatience can it fill the space between Heaven and Earth, and thus the Valley Spirit does not die.

The Daoshou says: “That which was transmitted by Taishu is the discourse of the Dao within the vast, empty luminosity that reflects the myriad phenomena—namely, what Lord Lao called the Valley Spirit.” Since the Valley Spirit is like this, it can cut off the root of birth and death, and therefore constantly lives without dying.

Thus, that which can generate and nourish the myriad things does not itself generate; that which can transform and nurture the myriad things does not itself transform. The myriad things generate themselves and transform themselves; they have their own forms and colors, their own wisdom and power, and their own waxing and waning, arising and resting. If one understands “generation and transformation” as form and color, wisdom and power, waxing and waning, then one is mistaken.

The explanation says: Continuing from the preceding passage, “The Valley Spirit does not die,” this means that if one can nurture and preserve one’s own “Valley Spirit” (Gushen)—that is, the fundamental Qi that is empty, still, and unmoving—then one can realize that within one’s own generation and transformation there is a wondrous function that is neither generated nor transformed, and one need not rely on the process of ceaseless generation and transformation. This is called “self-generation and self-transformation” (zisheng zihua). From the self-generation and self-transformation of one body, one can know that the myriad things also self-generate and self-transform.

Investigating the Dao of generation and transformation, it is originally rooted in spontaneity. To call it “ceaseless generation and ceaseless transformation” already divides “generation and transformation” into two. If one believes that only self-generation and self-transformation matter, as though nothing at all were involved, then one falls into words and nominal appearances. The Dao of generation and transformation is originally beyond speech and without name; once it is called “generation and transformation,” it is already far from the Dao. Therefore, after speaking of “generation and transformation,” one must also understand that this very formulation is itself biased; only then has one reached the ultimate.

Moreover, the transformations of the myriad things are inexhaustible and endless, and all are equally just generation and transformation. If one speaks of them separately, there are differences in form, color, wisdom, capacity, and waxing and waning. The reason for describing them separately is to explain that the great Dao is sufficient to nourish the myriad things and does not omit even the smallest things.

Master Liezi said: In former times, the sage governed Heaven and Earth according to the two Qi of Yin-Yang.

(Note: “Valley Spirit” refers to what Daoism calls the spirit of emptiness and stillness, the root of vitality; “self-generation and self-transformation” means that things grow and change without external force, in accordance with the principle of nature.)

The arising and transformation of all things in the world necessarily take Yin-Yang as their root. To understand the shifting and changes of Yin-Yang, one cannot depart from the scope of Heaven and Earth. To investigate the principles of Heaven and Earth’s creative transformation, one must attribute their governance to the sage. Heaven and Earth, though vast, still have form, and so cannot but rely on something to govern them. The sage, though also one among those within transformative nurturing, with respect to Heaven and Earth must also have something to rely on in order to govern them. The manner of governing, moreover, cannot but accord with the proper way of Yin-Yang.

The fundamental Dao (the Way) of Heaven and Earth originally has nothing on which to rely, and so there is no way to govern it. Only the transformative nurturing of Heaven and Earth necessarily depends on Yin-Yang and cannot be without a basis; only then can the sage follow what it relies on and govern it. Being able to accord with Yin-Yang without violating the natural nature of all things, all things each follow their Dao and rectify their nature and life. All things obey creative transformation and, receiving the sage’s guidance, can then each rectify nature and life. Therefore creative transformation is merely the object that the sage accords with and governs. Being able to accord with Yin-Yang without violating the natural nature of all things, all things each follow their Dao and rectify nature and life. All things obey creative transformation and, receiving the sage, then each rectify nature and life; thus creative transformation merely follows the sage’s arrangements. If this is not saying that the sage can govern Heaven and Earth, then what else could it be? This only says that when this point is raised, everything follows from it.

Taking an analogy from one’s own body: the head and feet are like Heaven and Earth, and breathing is like Yin-Yang. If one cultivates by the upright Dao without causing harm, then the Qi (vital energy) throughout the whole body becomes vast and fills the space between Heaven and Earth. If no one cultivates it, Qi moves recklessly and in turn disturbs the spirit (Shen); if one cultivates it but not by the correct Dao, then through excessive pursuit of nourishing life one invites misfortune. Therefore one who governs a body must root himself in his own upright cultivation; the governing of Heaven and Earth lies in the sage’s ability to accord with Yin-Yang.

Therefore, although the creative transformation of Heaven and Earth remains unchanged from ancient to modern times, when the sage is in a high position he can make Yin-Yang harmonized year-round, the sun and moon bright year-round, government affairs stable, and popular customs peaceful. Thus the divine person of Shegu Mountain can keep all things free from plague and make the five grains abundant. When the Yellow Emperor wished to take the essence of Heaven and Earth to assist the growth of the five grains, did he use some other method? It was nothing but according with Yin-Yang.

Alas, in human birth, all model their bodily form on Heaven and Earth and receive Qi from Yin-Yang. Even the sage is no different from ordinary people. Yin-Yang is the force that drives us, and the sage can accord with it; Heaven and Earth is the root that gives us birth, and the sage can govern it. From this one knows that even a chaff-like sage is enough to mold and cast figures like Yao and Shun; this is certain beyond doubt.

Notes on terms: Yin-Yang is a basic concept in Daoism and ancient philosophy, referring to the two mutually opposed and mutually dependent forces in the universe, such as cold and heat, day and night, movement and stillness. The sage here refers to a person whose virtue and wisdom have reached the highest level and who can accord with nature and govern the world. Upright cultivation (zhiyang) means cultivating body and mind by the upright Dao without causing harm, an extension of the idea in Mencius of “nourishing the vast Qi.” The divine person of Shegu is a legendary figure said to live on Shegu Mountain, not eat the five grains, inhale wind and drink dew, and be able to keep all things free from plague. “Molding and casting Yao and Shun” is a metaphor for producing sages like Yao and Shun through education and cultivation.

If things with form arise from the formless, then where do Heaven and Earth come from? Therefore the scripture says: there is Taiyi (the initial state of cosmic evolution, when Qi has not yet been seen), there is Taichu, there is Taishi, there is Taisu.

The commentary says: bright things emerge from the dark, ordered things emerge from the formless, and the myriad things are all generated and nurtured by Heaven and Earth. Although Heaven and Earth can give birth to the myriad things, they have still not escaped the category of “having form.” Since they already possess form, one cannot say they have no origin; but if they too arise from something, then whence do they arise? No one knows where they come from, and so to claim that formed things originate from the formless is also hard to believe. Heaven and Earth are the greatest among “being,” and the principle of their generation cannot be exhausted. One cannot say they have no source; it is only that people cannot see their source. If one can investigate within one’s own body the principle of ceaseless generation, one will understand that Heaven and Earth were born together with me—what then remains unknowable? Even so, as for the “Nonbeing” before Taichu, it cannot be discussed in words; what can be spoken of is only the state of “being but not yet formed.” Therefore, beginning with Taiyi, their sequence is explained in order. What exactly are Taiyi, Taichu, Taishi, and Taisu? They are merely based on the process by which Dao (the source of the myriad things) generates Being from Nonbeing; according to their sequence, descriptive terms are borrowed to name them provisionally.

Taiyi is the state in which Qi has not yet been seen; Taichu is the beginning of Qi; Taishi is the beginning of form; Taisu is the beginning of substance. Qi, form, and substance are all present but have not yet separated from one another, and so this is called Hundun (a chaotic, undivided state). Hundun means that the myriad things are blended together and not yet separated. Looked at, it cannot be seen; listened to, it cannot be heard; grasped, it cannot be touched—and so it is called “Yi.” “Yi” is without shape and without boundary.

Tai is the ultimate expression of “great.” Things that have form and name are insufficient to compare with its vastness, and so the term Tai is used to designate it. “Yi” (Change) means transformation that penetrates and is inexhaustible. Therefore, when Qi has not yet manifested, it is called Taiyi (Great Change).

The myriad things are identical with Taichu (Great Beginning); only afterward does each acquire its own beginning. Once there is a beginning but as yet no form, the beginning of Qi is called Taichu. The myriad things manifest in heaven as qi-phenomena and congeal on earth into bodily form. The character shi (“beginning”) is composed of the elements nü (“woman”) and tai; a fetus is in a woman’s womb, and from this its meaning can be known. Tai (“fetus”) is the beginning of form, and so the beginning of form is called Taishi (Great Commencement).

As for Su, in terms of color it is still in an undyed state. Although it may be called Su, color has not yet attached to it, and so it is called Taisu (Great Simplicity), which refers to the beginning of material substance. Although the beginnings of Qi, form, and substance are all present, and their order can be inferred, the Dao has not yet clearly differentiated. Heaven, Earth, the sage, and the myriad things all share the same plain and uncarved essence and have not yet separated; this is called Hunlun (the state of undifferentiated chaos).

It has form yet is formless—how can it be seen with the eyes, or sought by following sound? It has sound yet cannot be heard—how can it be heard with the ears, or known through perception? Even so, since the beginnings of Qi, form, and substance are already present, it is far from Taiyi. Yet it remains undifferentiated chaos, not yet departing from the state of Yi; therefore, although it cannot be called Taiyi, it can still be called Yi.

Yi changes and becomes One; One changes and becomes Seven; Seven changes and becomes Nine. Nine is the limit of change, and so it returns again to One.

Explanation: “One” is the generative number of water (in the Hetu, “Heaven generates water with One”). “Seven” is the completing number of fire (“Heaven completes fire with Seven”). Once Jing (essence) and Shen (spirit) are present, fire rises upward and water descends downward; Kan (water) and Li (fire) intermingle and complete each other, and the transformations of the myriad things become manifest through this. Seven again changes into Nine; Nine is the end of change, and so it returns to One. Daoist cultivation often uses “the mutual assistance of Kan and Li” as a metaphor for water and fire assisting each other and the heart and kidneys interconnecting—that is, the harmonious balance of the two Qi of Yin-Yang.

Number Principles and Water and Fire

This commentary begins with the meaning of numbers. “One” is the generative number of water, meaning that water takes One as its starting point and generates the myriad things; “Seven” is the completion number of fire, meaning that fire takes Seven as its number of completion. After a person’s Jing (essence) and Shen (spirit) are both complete, fire rises and water descends; Kan (water) and Li (fire) intersect and mutually assist, and the transformations of the myriad things become manifest from this. Seven further changes into Nine, and Nine is the limit of heavenly numbers (the ancients regarded nine as the extreme of yang numbers). When things reach their extreme, they change; therefore Nine changes back into One, cycling without end. This is the fundamental principle of the creation and transformation of Heaven and Earth.

The commentary also says that water is spoken of in terms of its “generative number,” and fire in terms of its “completion number.” Water is the position from which the myriad things are generated; fire is the position in which the myriad things flourish. Fire’s generative number is Two, because Two occupies the secondary position and cannot itself change again, so it can only take Two as its generative number.

The One Generates Two, Two Generates Three

The commentary cites Laozi’s Daodejing: “The One generates Two, Two generates Three, Three generates the myriad things.” Water is One; fire is Two, occupying the next position. Jing comes first, and Shen follows. Heaven begins from One in the north; Earth pairs with Two in the south; Humanity dwells in the center and becomes Three. When Heaven, Earth, and Humanity—the Three Powers—are complete, the myriad phenomena differentiate.

Laozi discusses the generation of the myriad things; Liezi discusses their transformation. Although the numbers differ, both begin from “One” and rely on the function of water and fire. From this we know that in the sages’ teachings, “One” is the starting point and “One” is the conclusion; they illuminate one another, all in order to explain the great Dao (the Way).

The One Is the Beginning of the Transformations of Form

Here “One,” as a number, has already departed from the Dao but has not yet combined with concrete things; therefore it is the beginning of the transformations of form. Heaven’s One generates water, which is where Jing and Qi (vital energy) are stored. In the human body, the Heavenly One is stored within; this is the root of life. The transformation and generation of the myriad things all originate from the Jing and Qi contained in Heaven and Earth; “One” therefore becomes the beginning of the transformations of form. Zhuangzi says, “Penetrate the One and all affairs are completed.” This probably means that when one penetrates the beginning of the transformations of form, all affairs are brought to completion.

Heaven and Earth Contain Jing, and the Myriad Things Transform and Are Born

The clear and light Qi rises to become Heaven; the turbid and heavy Qi sinks to become Earth; the harmonious Qi becomes Humanity. Therefore Heaven and Earth contain and conceal Jing and Qi, and only then do the myriad things transform, nurture, and come to life.

When Heaven obtained the “One” (the unified source of the Dao, the Way) and gathered it into Qi (vital energy), it became clear and light and thus able to cover the myriad things. When Earth obtained the “One” and gathered it into solid masses, it became turbid and heavy and thus able to bear the myriad things. The clear and solemn Qi issues from Heaven, while the bright and vigorous Qi issues from Earth; the two unite and communicate to form harmonious Qi, and what condenses this harmonious Qi—the balanced Qi formed by the blending of Yin-Yang—is the human being.

The transformation and generation of the myriad things all depend on obtaining the “One,” and they must ceaselessly generate and transform. Thus it is said that Heaven and Earth contain Jing (essence) and Qi, and only then can the myriad things be transformed and generated. It does not say “generation and transformation” (sheng-hua) but “transformation and generation” (hua-sheng), indicating birth upon birth, and thereby showing that generation and transformation are inexhaustible.

Humans and the myriad things all receive the harmony of Yin-Yang and thereby complete life and form. It is specifically said that “the harmonious Qi becomes the human being” because, although life shares a single source, the myriad things differ as birds, fish lurking in water, beasts, grasses and trees, and other categories, and they also differ in species: feathered, scaled, shelled (crustacean), and naked (animals without feathers, scales, or shells). They inevitably have some partiality in Yin-Yang; only humans receive the harmonious Qi, without bias or leaning.

Liezi (a Warring States Daoist figure; the book Liezi is attributed to him) said: Heaven and Earth do not have all-capable functions, sages do not have all-capable abilities, and the myriad things do not have all-complete uses. Therefore Heaven’s responsibility is to generate and cover, Earth’s responsibility is to bear and give form, the sage’s responsibility is to teach and transform, and the responsibility of the myriad things is for each to attain what is fitting. Seen in this way, Heaven has its deficiencies, Earth has its strengths, the sage has things he does not comprehend, and the myriad things have things through which they connect. Why is this? What can generate and cover cannot bear and give form; what can bear and give form cannot teach and transform; what can teach and transform cannot go against what is fitting to each; and once what is fitting is settled, it cannot exceed its own position. Therefore the Dao of Heaven and Earth is either Yin or Yang; the teaching of the sage is either benevolence or righteousness; what is fitting for the myriad things is either softness or hardness. All of these follow their respective fittingness and cannot exceed their proper station.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (True Scripture of Complete Emptiness and Perfect Virtue) is the Liezi; this is the annotation by the Southern Song scholar Jiang Yu.

When discussing the Dao of Heaven, Earth, and the sage, it omits nothing and is present everywhere. But when discussing the functions of Heaven, Earth, and the sage, they have already flowed from the root to the branches, are confined within the transformations of form, and each has its own office. Thus Heaven can only do Heaven’s work and cannot do Earth’s work; Earth can only do Earth’s work and cannot do Heaven’s work. The sage ought to penetrate all affairs, and yet there is that which he does not penetrate; the myriad things ought to have their obstructions, and yet there is that in them which penetrates.

If one investigates the Way of Heaven through Yin-Yang (the two basic forces by which the ancients summarized the unity of opposites in all things), then changes lasting a thousand years can be inferred while sitting at ease; if one investigates the sage’s teaching through benevolence and righteousness, then the achievements of emperors and kings can be discussed with hands folded; if one measures the myriad things through softness and hardness, then their complex transformations can be counted one by one. In general, once something has fallen into form, it necessarily cannot go beyond the position it ought to occupy. Even so, so long as they do not violate their respective allotments, even the smallest among the myriad things each has its wondrous function. If one seeks completeness, even the greatness of Heaven and Earth has no wholly perfect achievement. If each can constantly keep to its proper position and not violate its natural disposition, then every thing can share in the achievement of Heaven and Earth. Though their transformations are infinitely varied, none fail to merge into the same correct Dao.

Therefore, among living things there is that which causes them to live, the “life-producer”; among formed things there is that which causes them to take form, the “form-producer”; among sounding things there is that which causes them to sound, the “sound-producer”; among colored things there is that which causes them to show color, the “color-producer”; among flavored things there is that which causes them to have flavor, the “flavor-producer.” The things produced eventually die, but the “life-producer” that causes them to live never ceases; the forms that are completed are already full, but the “form-producer” that causes them to take form never appears; the sounds that are issued have already been heard, but the “sound-producer” that causes them to sound never issues forth; the colors that are displayed are already manifest, but the “color-producer” that causes them to show color never reveals itself; the flavors that are tasted have already been tasted, but the “flavor-producer” that causes them to have flavor never presents itself.

The scripture says: within Nonbeing there is Nonbeing, and within Being there is Being. The so-called “Being” and “Nonbeing” do not mean taking Being as concrete existence, nor taking Nonbeing as absolute empty nothingness. From “not-being” one can see Being, and from “not-nonbeing” one can see Nonbeing; therefore Being is Nonbeing, and Nonbeing is Being. The Being that can produce life itself also produces the principle of “endless generation” (sheng sheng), which enables life to multiply without cease. It is not that Being exists only because life exists, nor that Nonbeing exists only because there is endless generation. Formed life does not depart from the power that makes it live and generate without cease, and this power is not outside the formed. Being does not cling to being, and Nonbeing does not adhere to nonbeing.

Form, sound, color, and taste are likewise so. If there were no form, sound, color, and taste, the formless creative transformation—the transformation of Nonbeing—would have no way to manifest; if there were no power causing form, sound, color, and taste to be continuously generated and transformed, formed things could not operate. Therefore the principle of life cannot be delimited by words (jiao means boundary or exhaustion), and the mystery of “endless generation” cannot be fully expressed in words. Although form, sound, color, and taste are the coarsest aspects of the myriad things, they follow one another in succession, their vitality is never exhausted, and people’s use of them has no end.

Form, color, sound, and taste are originally one body and are in themselves sufficient to encompass one another. The reason they are spoken of repeatedly is that in the generation of the myriad things, some are more inclined toward sound, color, odor (smell), or taste. This is used to explain that all categories of living beings, as well as sentient and insentient things, are without exception accomplished through the operation of Wuwei (non-action—not deliberate contrivance, but according with nature).

The workings of Dao are such that it can be Yin and Yang, soft and hard, short and long, round and square, living and dying, hot and cool, floating and sinking, gong and shang (two of the ancient five notes, referring to the various transformations of sound), emerging and submerging, dark and yellow, sweet and bitter, mutton-odor and fragrant. It itself has no knowing and no ability, yet there is nothing it does not know and nothing it cannot do.

The essence of the Dao (the Way) is eternally wuwei (non-action), and yet there is nothing it does not do. Wuwei is the fundamental sovereign of the myriad transformations—what Zhuangzi calls the “Zhenzai” (True Master), the true sovereign that governs all things though it cannot be seen or touched. Precisely because it is wuwei, it is not constrained by Yin-Yang (the two fundamental forces that oppose and transform into each other), not limited by softness or strength, has no fixed shape or bodily form, knows no birth or death, is not bound by time, does not cling to particular things, does not depend on sounds or colors, and is not swayed by smells or tastes. It gives rise to the Qi (vital energy) and the forms and qualities of the myriad things; it encompasses both form and spirit; all things rely on it to function, and human beings have never departed from it. Therefore it knows all and can do all. Laozi’s phrase “its use cannot be exhausted” means that its function is never used up. Thus those charged with teaching and transforming others must take wuwei as their foundation.

Liezi was on his way to Wei and stopped to eat. His attendants saw a century-old dried skull by the roadside; parting the fleabane and pointing at it, one turned to the disciple Baifeng and said, “Only you and it understand the principle of no birth and no death.” Then he asked again: “Does this mean nurturing life, or does it mean taking delight in being alive?”

What follows is the sequence of transformations of the ten thousand things as described by Liezi. A frog becomes a quail; on meeting water it becomes “Ji” (an ancient name whose referent is difficult to determine). At the boundary of water and earth, it becomes “Wabin zhi yi” (a moss-like plant attached to the water’s edge). Born on high hills, it becomes “Lingxi” (a kind of grass); when Lingxi receives shade and moisture, it becomes “Wuzu” (a kind of grass). The root of Wuzu becomes “Qichan,” and its leaves become butterflies.

The butterfly transforms into an insect that lives beneath the stove; its shape resembles a sloughed skin, and it is called “Niao Gou Duo.” After a thousand days, Niao Gou Duo transforms into a bird called “Qian Yugou.” Qian Yugou’s saliva becomes “Simi,” which in turn becomes “Shixi Yilu,” “Shixi Huangkuang,” “Jiuyou,” “Maorui,” and “Fuquan”—most of these being strange names found in ancient books.

Other transformations include: sheep’s liver becomes Digao (a kind of fungus); horse blood becomes Zhuanlin (phosphorescence); human blood becomes wildfire (will-o’-the-wisp). A harrier becomes a sparrowhawk, a sparrowhawk becomes a cuckoo, and after a long time the cuckoo changes back into a harrier. Swallows become clams; field mice become quail; rotten melons become fish; old leeks become amaranth; old billy goats become apes; fish roe becomes insects.

There are also creatures born without mating: the Danyuan beast conceives by itself and gives birth, and is called “Lei”; birds in the marshes and pools give birth by looking at one another, and are called “Yi.” Those entirely female are called “Da Yao”; those entirely male are called “Zhi Feng.” A man whose thoughts are fixed on another can be stirred without taking a wife; a woman who longs for another can conceive without marrying. Hou Ji was born after his mother stepped on a giant’s footprint; Yi Yin was born in a hollow mulberry tree; Juezhao was born in wet ground; vinegar flies are born in wine.

The root of all this is “Ji”—the fundamental motive force of the workings of creation and transformation. Sheep, bamboo, Qingning, Cheng, horse, and human generate one another in successive stages, and human beings in the end return to “Ji.” All things emerge from Ji and all return to Ji. Life and death are merely transformations of form; therefore Liezi says that only one who understands this principle can attain no birth and no death.

This passage is Jiang Yu’s exposition of the “skull” parable in the “Tianrui” chapter of the Liezi; its main theme is the generation and transformation of the myriad things.

After the skull has undergone a hundred years of transformation, if its wandering soul transforms into a human, it likewise lives a full hundred years before dying. If it transforms into other kinds of things, then it dies and is born again, is born and dies again, with transformations too numerous to calculate. That skull, with only an empty skeleton left, still displays the form of dry bones; thus one can see that the wandering soul has already undergone many transformations. Liezi—a Daoist figure of the Warring States period to whom the book Liezi is traditionally attributed—alone grasped the mystery of a single life, and this skull had already passed through a hundred years of transformation. Therefore Liezi said to it: “Only you and I know that we have never truly lived and have never truly died.” Liezi then used things he had seen and heard to ask the century-old skull about the origin of its kind, in order to elucidate the transformations of the myriad things.

Some of the myriad things arise from “feeling” (qing), and some come into being through “thought” (xiang). Those born by relying on moisture arise from the union and resonance of Yin-Yang; those formed through transformation arise from separation and mutual response. The aggregation and separation of feeling and thought alternate and transform into one another. Some transform from beings with feeling into things without feeling, as when a frog transforms into lingxi (a herbaceous plant); some transform from things without feeling into beings with feeling, as when maorui (a small insect) is born from decaying matter. Some go from small to large, and some from large to small. A swallow transforms into a clam: the flying becomes submerged; a rat transforms into a quail: the walker becomes a flyer. Some transform and are born by gazing at one another, like the birds in the marshes and lakes; some conceive and give birth by themselves, like beasts of the zhan and yuan kind. Some of the same kind transform into different forms, as when a bird’s foot becomes a qichan, becomes a butterfly; a frog becomes a ji, becomes the “garment of the wa and bin” (a type attached to things in water), and becomes lingxi—such is the extent of their differences. Among these, Houji (ancestor of the Zhou people), born from a giant’s footprint, is an especially extraordinary case of transformation; it is praised in the Book of Songs and is a verifiable example.

In sum, beings with feeling and things without feeling, the large and the small, all exit and enter in the operation of the mechanism (ji), equally follow the ultimate principle, and cannot replace one another. What, then, is the so-called mechanism? How do the myriad things exit and enter the mechanism? The Suwen says: “When exit and entry are abolished, the divine mechanism of transformation is extinguished.” It is probably that the success and failure, flourishing and decline of the myriad things are mutually dependent and all originate in movement; when movement does not cease, transformation follows, so without exit and entry there would be no growth, maturation, and aging. Yet although exit and entry differ, their mechanism is one; although exit and entry are evident, their mechanism is exceedingly subtle. The mechanism appears through exit and entry, and exit and entry operate by relying on the mechanism. One cannot say that exit and entry are the mechanism, nor can one seek the mechanism apart from exit and entry. Between one exit and one entry, the wondrous trigger operates silently. The Zhouyi (Book of Changes) regards “knowing the mechanism” as wondrous; perhaps this is also its meaning. An ancient book attributed to the Yellow Emperor says: “Heavenly nature is man; the human heart is the mechanism.” This book discusses the myriad things’ exiting from and entering the mechanism, and it particularly mentions that humans remain long immersed in the mechanism. Is this not because humans are the most intelligent among the myriad things? That is why it uses humans to encompass the myriad things.

The Book of the Yellow Emperor says: When a form moves, it does not directly produce a form but produces a shadow; when a sound vibrates, it does not directly produce a sound but produces an echo; when the formless moves, it does not produce non-being but produces being.

The commentary says: The state of silent stillness—“constant non-being,” observing from the perspective of non-being—is used to observe “subtlety” (miao), the subtle essence of Dao; “constant being,” observing from the perspective of being, is used to observe “boundary” (jiao), the boundary of Dao, namely the myriad things as they appear. “Subtlety” and “boundary” must be observed together before one can understand that the two are not unrelated. Once it is stirred by a stimulus and moves, there is nothing it cannot do. But “constant non-being” inevitably turns into “being,” and “being” cannot remain “being” forever either; it inevitably returns to “non-being” again. This is the operation of nature, and no one can stop it.

Form and sound, compared with shadow and echo, are not truly “non-being.” Yet if they are placed in darkness, shadows and echoes cease; after a long time, sound too disappears, and in the end they must return to “non-being.” “Non-being” cannot be directly described in words as to what it can produce, so perceptible things—form, sound, shadow, and echo—are borrowed to convey an explanation of “non-being.” Zhuangzi says, “The myriad things generate one another through form.” This means that what cannot produce form will ultimately return to “non-being.” Although forms generate one another, in reality it is not that form can generate itself; rather, there is a root that causes the myriad things to generate without cease, and it is merely from “non-being” that the myriad things are produced.

Physical forms necessarily have an end. Then will heaven and earth end? Heaven and earth end together with me. After the end, will there be further advance? This cannot be known. The “end” of Dao has from the outset no beginning; the “advance” of Dao is from the outset not long-lasting.

The explanation says: Where there is a beginning, there is an end; therefore, anything with form must inevitably come to an end. Heaven and Earth and I are all confined within form. Since we already understand where they come from, we should also understand whether they will ultimately end. One who embodies the Dao (“tidao,” personally attuning to the Dao) says that Heaven and Earth arise together with me; then when they end, they must also end together with me. Will the end then arrive? He says he does not know, and this is precisely to say that it has never had an end. Because Heaven and Earth and I have still not escaped form, their words stop only at “I do not know.” As for the great Dao, it transcends the arising of form and has neither beginning nor end. Beginning and end are relative concepts; the Dao fundamentally has no beginning, so where could its end be observed? Long duration and brevity are also relative concepts; the Dao fundamentally does not speak of long or short duration, so where could its exhaustion be observed?

What is born returns to non-arising; what has form returns to formlessness. The so-called “non-arising” does not mean that originally there was no arising; the so-called “formless” does not mean that originally there was no form. Things that are born inevitably end according to principle. The end is unavoidable, just as birth is an unavoidable arising. Yet some people wish to prolong life and postpone the end; they are deluded by “shu” (the natural allotments and patterns of Qi).

The explanation says: That which is originally unborn has from the outset no birth and extinction; that which is originally formless has from the outset no gathering and dispersal. Once there is birth, it necessarily returns to non-arising; once there is form, it necessarily returns to formlessness. Waxing and waning, fullness and emptiness, are the natural Qi-allotment. When birth comes, the Qi-allotment rises, and one cannot but be born; when death comes, the Qi-allotment is exhausted, and one cannot but end. The coming and going of life and death are not under my own control. Deluded people, however, cling to a body attached to the dusty world (“yuanchen zhi ti,” meaning being immersed in worldly physical form) and believe they should seek long life and avoid death; this is failure to recognize the inherent principle of things.

Spirit belongs to Heaven and is the portion bestowed by Heaven; the skeleton belongs to Earth and is the portion bestowed by Earth. What belongs to Heaven is clear and light, and so it easily disperses; what belongs to Earth is turbid and heavy, and so it easily gathers. When spirit leaves the body, each returns to its original truth; this is why the dead are called “gui.” “Gui” means “return,” meaning to return to one’s true home. The Yellow Emperor said: When the spirit enters that gate (the gate of life and death) and the skeleton returns to its root, what then remains of me?

From birth to death, the hundred bones (the joints of the whole body), the nine orifices (the nine openings of the body), and the six viscera come together to form the body. These are merely a temporary gathering of Qi and are not originally the true body of “me.” Among them, the clear and light portion returns to Heaven, and the turbid and heavy portion returns to Earth. At death, the spirit leaves the body, body heat dissipates, and the body’s movement stops; the clear Qi returns to Heaven and the turbid Qi returns to Earth, each returning to its original truth. At this point, what remains of the so-called “me”?

Therefore, what the Daoists value as “being good at death” is precisely that when the ten thousand things each return to their original truth, one still does not lose one’s own nature. If one can at this point preserve that in which the “I” consists, then one can master life and death oneself, and the transformative forces of creation cannot make one sink or fall. Confucius said, “If one hears the Dao in the morning, one may die in the evening.” Mencius said, “Long life and short life do not make one twofold” (one’s resolve is not shaken by the length of one’s lifespan). Yan Hui said, “I have sat and forgotten” (sitting-forgetting, zuowang, is the state of forgetting body and mind and losing both self and things; it comes from the Zhuangzi). These all speak of the same principle.

A person’s life generally passes through four stages: infancy, youth and vigor, old age, and death. In infancy, the primordial Qi is undivided and the mind is simple; this is the most harmonious state. External things cannot harm the child, and De (Virtue/Power) needs no external embellishment. In youth and vigor, blood and Qi are abundant and overflowing; desires and thoughts surge up one after another, external things come to intrude, and De accordingly diminishes. In old age, desires and thoughts gradually soften, the body gradually rests, and external things no longer intrude first. Although this is not as complete as infancy, compared with youth and vigor there is some return. As for death, it is the stopping of breath, a return to the ultimate state of life.

Human life is the coalescence of primordial Qi (vital energy). This passage discusses how life changes with the transformative workings of Nature, and how those who embody the Dao (the Way) transcend such changes.

Gist of the Original Text and Interpretation

The author first says that a person’s life is governed by zaohua—the transformative operation of Heaven and Earth—with its metabolism and thought-by-thought shifting, and can roughly be divided into four stages. This order is natural and is neither increased nor diminished by noble or lowly status.

He then discusses the relation between De (Virtue/Power) and form: De—here referring to a person’s inner virtue, Jing (essence), and Qi—and the physical body are not mutually entangled. Why, then, do the flourishing and decline of a person’s De rise and fall together with the physical form? The author holds that this is because human life is fundamentally a coalescence of Qi.

Qi is most concentrated and undivided in infancy, full in youth and prime, declining in old age, and dispersing after death. If a person cannot be self-mastering, and will and intention are insufficient to govern Qi, then how much De can remain within, without being pulled and swept along by external things? Therefore, while alive, everything is in bondage to the transformative process; after death, one merely follows its changes, not knowing when the end will come.

Only those who embody the Dao—those who truly realize the Dao—can transform external things without being transformed by them. Although they likewise accord with the changes of the transformative process, they do not drift along with them.

In infancy they are concentrated and pure just like ordinary people; in youth and old age they never lose the heart of the newborn infant. Even death simply perfects their constant joy within stillness; this is what is meant by “returning to rest and returning to the ultimate”—returning to stillness and returning to the root of life.

Explanation of Key Terms

Zaohua refers to the natural transformative process of Heaven and Earth, the overall process by which all things are generated and transformed. De here refers to a person’s inner virtue, Jing, and Qi, the inner foundation valued by cultivators. Embodying the Dao is the state of cultivation in which one personally realizes and unites with the Dao. The heart of the newborn infant is an infant-like state of purity and concentration, which Daoists regard as the fundamental state cultivators should maintain. Rest means stillness and cessation; it refers to the subsiding and return of Qi, as opposed to “life” or “generation.”

Confucius was traveling on Mount Tai when he met Rong Qiji in the fields of Cheng. Rong Qiji wore a deerskin garment with a rope tied around his waist, and he was playing the qin and singing. Confucius asked, “Why are you so happy, sir?” Rong Qiji replied, “I have many reasons to be happy. Heaven and Earth give birth to and nourish the myriad things, and among them human beings alone are most precious; that I can be a human being is my first joy. There is a distinction between male and female; in the understanding of the time, the male was honored and the female was lowly, and I am already a male—this is my second joy. Among people, some never see the light of the sun and moon in their whole lives and cannot avoid dying in swaddling clothes, while I have already lived to ninety—this is my third joy. Poverty is the normal condition of scholars, and death is the end of life. To be at peace with the ordinary and able to die a good death—what is there to worry about?” Confucius sighed in admiration: “Well said! This is a man who can console himself.”

The expositor says: As for “Rong Qiji,” rong is like a flower in full bloom but not bearing fruit; qi means opening and being able to receive external things. He plucked the radiance of the Great Dao, and his bodily form was open, able to respond to the myriad things; therefore he sought to grasp the joy of present existence, but he had not reached what the Great Dao has deeply planted at its root. This is precisely why he could be at peace with the ordinary, die a good death, and find joy in himself. From this we can see: what the Dao values—could it be merely for the sake of enjoying the joy of existence for oneself alone? It is probably by this means to treat one’s death well. As for ordinary people, although they do not sink into the muddy road of profit and harm, nor die young along the way, and are already different from the vulgar, yet when it comes to hearing the Dao, they are still far from it. This is what is meant by “being good at consoling oneself and considering that joy”; it is not truly being able to have nothing that is not joy.

Lin Lei was nearly a hundred years old. In early spring he wore a fur jacket and gathered up ears of grain left behind by others in the old field ridges, singing as he went. Confucius was on his way to Wei and saw him from afar in the countryside. Turning to his disciples, he said, “That old man is worth speaking with. Go and try questioning him.” Zigong asked to go. He walked to the end of the field ridge, approached Lin Lei, and said with a sigh, “Are you not regretful, sir? To be singing while gathering ears of grain!” Lin Lei kept walking his way and singing his song without the slightest pause. Zigong pressed him again and again, and only then did he raise his head and reply, “What is there for me to regret?”

Zigong said, “In your youth, sir, you did not diligently practice the Dao (the Way); in your maturity you did not contend with the world. Now in old age you have no wife or children, and death is near. What joy can there be, that you should pass your days gathering ears of grain and singing as you walk?”

Lin Lei laughed and said, “The reason I feel joy is a joy that everyone has, but they turn it into sorrow instead. It is precisely because in my youth I did not diligently practice the Dao and in maturity did not contend with the world that I have been able to live to such an advanced age; it is precisely because in old age I have no wife or children and death is near that I can be joyful to this degree.”

Zigong said, “Longevity is what people commonly desire, and death is what people detest. Yet you, sir, take pleasure in death. Why is that?”

Lin Lei said, “Death and life are a going and a coming, a cycle of return. Then how do we know that one who dies here is not born there? Therefore I know that death and life are not the same; and how can I be certain that those who bustle about all day in pursuit of life are not deluded? How do I know that my death now will not be better than my former life?”

When Zigong heard this, he could not grasp its meaning. He returned and told this to Confucius. Confucius said, “I knew he was someone with whom one could speak, and so it is. But he has only obtained one part of the Dao; he has not yet fully understood.”

Note: This passage comes from the story of Lin Lei in the “Tianrui” chapter of the Liezi. The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing Jie is the Song-dynasty scholar Jiang Yu’s commentary on the Liezi (that is, the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing, the True Scripture of Original Simplicity and Ultimate Virtue). In the Daoist view, Lin Lei’s “joy” is a transcendent state of mind: following nature, at ease amid the transformations of life and death, not rejoicing in life and not grieving over death.

In youth, one diligently cultivates and takes reputation as the standard that leads the way; in later years, one chases the trends of the times, drawn by profit and outwardly losing one’s original nature. If one does not envy reputation, one’s conduct will not waver on that account; if one does not yield to wealth, one will not contend and compete with the worldly. With no inner entanglement in fame and profit and no outer burden of wife and children, one rests peacefully in old age, understanding death to be merely a temporary departure and regarding the pursuit of survival as delusion. This is precisely the truth in which Lin Lei (the recluse in the Liezi) took delight. Zigong (a disciple of Confucius), however, clung to life and feared death—how could he truly move such a person?

That said, Lin Lei took pleasure in the approach of death, yet this still does not count as the true Dao (the Way). One who attains the Dao is detached and has no mind for life and death; toward life and death, one simply follows nature and lets their transformations be—how could worries and joys still entangle the heart? Confucius’s saying, “attaining it but not exhausting it,” probably refers to this. Those who bustle and strive for survival are certainly deluded, but those who regard the pursuit of survival as delusion have only some realization and have not exhausted it; to think that death today is better than life in the past is likewise not to have fully understood.

As for the name “Lin Lei,” “lin” means open country, meaning that he kept distant from affairs and avoided crowds, dwelling in the vast, boundless wilderness, and yet drew near to the Dao of the sage. Thus his taking pleasure in death shows that what he had attained was still incomplete.

Zigong grew weary of learning and said to Zhongni (Confucius), “I hope to have a time of rest.” Zhongni said, “While a person lives, there is no time for rest.” Zigong said, “Then is there no place where I may rest?” Zhongni said, “There is.”

The commentator says: Zigong was skilled in speech. When he heard Confucius say that only someone like Lin Lei (a recluse of the Spring and Autumn period) was worth conversing with, he realized that being good at argument was not valuable. He wished to pursue the realm of “in pursuing the Dao, one daily decreases,” and so he asked Confucius (Zhongni), hoping to find a place where he could rest. But he did not understand that human life follows the workings of nature’s creative transformations, and that its order cannot be disrupted. People toil in the world for their livelihood—where could there be true rest? Yet Zigong was in fact quick to grasp the point: as soon as he heard Confucius’s words, he understood the difference between the gentleman’s “rest” (stability, cessation) and the petty person’s “hiding” (submission, dormancy). Therefore Confucius praised him: “Ci, you have understood.”

Looking from afar at a grave, its shape may be flat and broad, tall and steep, raised like a mound, or sunken like a li (an ancient cooking vessel). Viewed in this way, one knows what rest is.

The commentator says: The four terms—flat and broad, tall and steep, mound-like, and li-like—indicate that the shapes of graves differ, because people have ranks of noble and base, and burial specifications differ accordingly. But as for returning to rest, they are all the same.

Zigong said: “How great death is! The gentleman rests here; the petty person hides here.” Confucius said: “Ci, you have understood.” People all know the joy of life, but not the hardship of life; they know the weariness of old age, but not the ease of old age; they know the dreadfulness of death, but not the rest of death. Yanzi (Yan Ying, a famous minister of Qi during the Spring and Autumn period) said: “How fine was the ancients’ view of death! The benevolent rest here; those without benevolence hide here.”

The commentator says: Xi is like the outgoing and incoming of breath—gone and then returning. Fu is being subdued by external things and lying dormant; both its movement and stillness are governed by some force. The gentleman’s “rest” passes through transformation without perishing; the petty person’s “hiding” obscurely drifts with the current. The gentleman is one who has perfected benevolent virtue; the petty person is the opposite. Therefore Yanzi also said: “The benevolent rest here; those without benevolence hide here.” Of the three treasures cherished by Laozi (the Old Master), “compassion” is first. To transcend the boundary of life and death, nothing is more important than being able to practice benevolence and universal love; hence what is spoken of here is the gentleman’s benevolence.

Death is the boundary and endpoint of life (De, Virtue/Power). The ancients called the dead “returners,” meaning those who have returned to their destination. Since the dead are “returners,” the living are merely “travelers”—people walking along the road. To walk without knowing where one is to return to is to be someone who has lost their home. When one person loses their home, the whole age will criticize them; but when the whole world loses its home, people instead fail to notice that anything is wrong.

People living in this world are like guests lodging in an inn; in the end there must be a destination, and this has been so from ancient times to the present, impossible to change. In the world there are many who cling to life and turn away from constant principle, but few who awaken early to this truth. The side with more people overwhelms the side with fewer; wrong conduct is taken as the right way, and people never become aware of it. Liezi says these things not to condemn an entire age because of one person’s fault, but to make people regard life and death as the same principle and return to a single consistency.

There are those who leave their hometown, abandon the six relations, neglect the family estate, and wander about without returning—what kind of people are these? The world will certainly call them wild and dissolute. There are also those who consider themselves worthy and superior to the world, display their skills, pursue reputation, and show off ostentatiously among others, yet do not know their true situation—what kind of people are these? The world will certainly regard them as clever and resourceful. Both kinds have lost their original nature. The world sometimes approves and sometimes rejects them, and only the sage understands what should be accepted and what should be discarded.

The wild and dissolute lose themselves because they leave their native place and neglect the family estate; the clever and resourceful lose themselves because they pursue reputation and show off before the world. What both kinds do is loss. The world approves or rejects them inconsistently, and only the sage understands what may be taken and what should be removed.

The commentary says: Unrestrained and unconventional people often leave their native places and let their family fortunes go to ruin; clever and resourceful men, on the other hand, use self-cultivation to build a reputation and show off in the world. The vulgar crowd sees wild behavior and calls it “the petty person”; seeing the pursuit of cleverness, it calls it “the noble person.” They do not realize that while the wild person leaving home and discarding family property is certainly a loss, the person who plays with schemes wears out his life and injures his nature—equivalent to departing from the “dwelling of nature” (the place where one’s original nature resides). Both have losses; how can one distinguish noble from petty? Zhuangzi says that the two shepherds Zang and Gu—one holding bamboo slips and reading, the other playing bo (an ancient gambling game) for amusement—both lost their sheep (the “losing the sheep” allusion comes from Zhuangzi’s “Webbed Toes”). This is precisely saying that both kinds of people have lost their original nature.

The Liezi (traditionally attributed to Lie Yukou, a Daoist of the Warring States period) then expounds the principle of valuing “emptiness”: take empty stillness as one’s dwelling place, and take giving and receiving as losing one’s proper position. From this one can know what the sage draws near and what he discards.

Someone asked Liezi, “Why do you value emptiness?” Liezi answered, “Emptiness means taking nothing as precious.” The other said, “This is still not an appropriate name; it would be better to say ‘stillness,’ better to say ‘emptiness.’” Empty stillness is where people find their dwelling; taking and giving are losing one’s proper position. Once things have been split open and carved like stubborn stone, losing their original authenticity, afterward even if someone uses benevolence and righteousness as a banner to show off, they cannot be restored to their original state.

The void and the still are the root of all things. Because it is void, it is sufficient to receive the realities of the various things; because it is still, it is sufficient to respond to their various movements. (Here the word wei is interchangeable with wei, “to go against”; in this context it may be understood as “various.”)

“Void and stillness” are the root of all things. Only when the mind is empty and clear can it contain the reality of external things; only when the mind is quiet can it respond to changes in the outside world. If one can maintain void and stillness within oneself, then even when ten thousand changes occur, the mind remains settled; even when the forms of all things differ, the mind remains clear and bright. This is the fundamental way of responding to external things. Therefore it is said: “There is nothing better than stillness, nothing better than emptiness.” Only when the mind is empty can it be inclusive; only when the mind is still can it remain constantly secure and peaceful. Moving amid the changes of worldly affairs without leaving the dwelling place of one’s original nature—this is “attaining its dwelling.”

If there is something to seek, the mind is no longer void; if there is something to give, the mind is no longer still. Between taking and giving they contend with one another; the ears and eyes pursue outward things like a raging fire rushing forth and never turning back. This is “losing its place.” “Place” is the dwelling place of nature and life, and it has the same meaning as Laozi’s saying, “One who does not lose his place endures.”

Since they have already lost their original dwelling, and yet after the ten thousand things have withered and become defective they loudly promote benevolence and righteousness—this is probably a device by which clever schemers show off to the world. Their own nature has already been injured; how can they help others recover their original beginning?

Yuxiong said: The movement of all things never stops; between heaven and earth there is a hidden shifting—who can perceive it? Therefore, when one thing is diminished here, it must be increased there; when one thing is completed here, it must be deficient there. Increase and decrease, success and failure, arise and perish with the times. Coming and going connect with one another; not a single moment can be omitted between them—who can perceive it?

Generally, a single qi does not suddenly increase, and a physical form does not suddenly diminish; people therefore cannot perceive its arising, nor can they perceive its decline. It is like a person from youth to old age: countenance, expression, bearing, and posture never a day without change; skin, nails, and hair fall away and are replaced with the years. It is not that in infancy there was ever a moment of staying still without change. The intervals of change cannot be perceived; one must wait until afterward to know them.

Things change with the creative transformations of Nature, and bodily form shifts along with them. Within a hundred years, the Great Transformation has four stages, and it is within these that the seasons alternate and the years move on, with changes day by day and transformations month by month. Even in the briefest interval of a single breath, before and after are already different; there is the distinction between old and new. It is like wind blowing over water: the wave in front is not the wave behind. It is like a lamp flame burning in its vessel: the flame of the previous moment is not the flame of the next. In the space of a bow and a lift of the head, one’s own bodily form has already undergone ten thousand transformations.

The foolish do not perceive the hidden movement of creative transformation; they see only the old traces of their bodily form and do not know that the Great Transformation secretly operates. When something succeeds, they rejoice in its success, unaware that the principle of decline is already at work; when something declines, they see only the decline, unaware that the principle of success is already advancing. Yangzi says in the Yuanjing: “The moon, after waning, becomes full again; it is not like Kaiming ...” (Kaiming is a divine beast of the West, here used to refer to the brightness of moonlight) ... (the original is repetitive here and is omitted). Yangzi’s statement is intended to explain the hidden movement of creative transformation and the successive advance of completion and deficiency.

Turning back to examine oneself: amid the changes of a hundred years, countenance, intellect, demeanor, skin, nails, and hair—not one place remains unchanged. This is already very obvious; why can one still not awaken oneself? This is precisely the principle of Zhuangzi’s “hiding a boat in a ravine” (hiding a boat in a valley, yet at night someone still carries it away on his back; it means that things are always changing imperceptibly). Confucius by the river said, “It passes on like this, never ceasing day or night!” This says exactly the same principle.

In the state of Qi, a man worried that heaven would collapse and earth would split open, leaving him with nowhere to take refuge, so he could not eat or sleep. Another man, anxious on his behalf, went to enlighten him, saying: “Heaven is merely accumulated Qi (vital energy; in Daoist thought, the primal Qi from which all things are generated), and Qi is everywhere in heaven. You bend and stretch, breathe in and out, and all day long walk and pause within heaven—why worry that it will collapse?” The man asked: “If heaven really is accumulated Qi, won’t the sun, moon, and stars fall down?” The one enlightening him said: “The sun, moon, and stars are only the luminous parts of accumulated Qi; even if they fell, they could not hurt anyone.” The man asked again: “Then what if the earth is destroyed?” The enlightener said: “Earth is merely accumulated clods of soil, filling the four quarters and the void; there is no place without clods. You step and tread, and all day long walk and pause upon the earth—why worry that it will be destroyed?” The man was suddenly enlightened and very happy. The one who enlightened him was likewise suddenly enlightened and very happy.

A man named Changlu Zi heard this and laughed, saying: “Rainbows, clouds and mist, wind and rain, and the four seasons are all formed in heaven by accumulated Qi; mountains and peaks, rivers and seas, metals and stones, fire and wood are all formed on earth by accumulated forms. Since we know that heaven is accumulated Qi and earth is accumulated clods, how can we say they will not be destroyed? In the void, heaven and earth are but a tiny thing, yet they are the largest among formed things. That they are hard to exhaust and hard to fathom is certainly a fact; but to worry that they will be destroyed is a great mistake, and to say that they will never be destroyed is also wrong. Heaven and earth ultimately cannot escape destruction; in the end they will come to ruin. When the day of destruction arrives, how can one not worry?”

Liezi (a pre-Qin Daoist figure to whom the book Liezi is traditionally attributed) heard this and laughed, saying: “Those who say heaven and earth will be destroyed are wrong, and those who say they will not be destroyed are also wrong. Whether they are destroyed or not, I cannot know. Even so, one view has its grounds, and the other view also has its grounds; both alike cannot be verified. Therefore, the living do not know what death is, and the dead do not know what life is; when they come, they do not know where they are going, and when they go, they do not know where they come from. Whether heaven and earth are destroyed or not, why should I trouble my mind over it?”

"When the number of things is totaled, it is called the One; this is the 'One.' Therefore the living do not know death, and the dead do not know life; those who come do not know going, and those who go do not know coming. Whether things perish or do not perish, why must I trouble my mind over it?"

This passage says: all things taken together can be called the "One." Humans, situated among the myriad things, are as tiny as a hair attached to a horse's body. A person's body, lodged between heaven and earth, is truly insignificant. Moreover, the heavenly vault is high above, with the sun, moon, and stars suspended in it, and all things are covered by it; the earth is broad and thick and firmly placed below, congealing into mountains and converging into rivers, and all things rely on it for support. The length of Heaven and the endurance of Earth are not something humans can casually measure.

In the state of Qi (an ancient state, around present-day Qi County, Henan), there was a man who worried that his body had nowhere to be placed, to the point of neglecting sleep and food. Was it that the greatness of heaven and earth could not contain his body? It was simply that this man could not settle himself. Why did he not consider that, from the formation of heaven and earth down to today, things have died and been born one after another in numbers beyond counting—why was it only in his case that he had to worry about this? That worried man was grieving over his own loss of self; to go on to worry over what others worry about is, in turn, to lament those who grieve over others' grief. After worrying, they again enlightened one another with shallow reasoning, and then suddenly became greatly delighted. Alas, heaven is long and earth endures—what distinction of more or less is there in this for such people? Why should people use a deluded mind to grieve and rejoice within it?

Changluzi (a figure in the Liezi) heard of this and laughed at him, and he seems also to have been right. He said that heaven and earth are merely a tiny thing within the void, yet among things with form they are the greatest; this principle cannot be changed. But he also said: when it comes to their perishing, how can one not worry? This is to have grasped the principle but not fully understood it. Generally, where the principle lies, wherever one goes it is the "One"; whether that or this, in the end there is no difference. If one seeks the One by means of two, one will get another besides the One—this is mistaken. Once one understands the "One" and does not split it into two, then life and death, coming and going, each do not know one another. Lodging one's body between heaven and earth, drinking Heaven's harmonious Qi (vital energy), eating Earth's abundant De (Virtue/Power), and calmly living out one's life is enough—what need is there to know whether it perishes or not? This is why Changluzi was in turn laughed at by Liezi (a pre-Qin Daoist figure, the traditional name associated with the book Liezi).

Shun asked Cheng (an ancient personal name; in the text, the person from whom Shun sought instruction): “Can the Dao (the Way) be possessed?” Cheng said: “Your body was never yours to begin with—how then could you possess the Dao?” Shun said: “If my body is not mine, whose is it?” Cheng said: “The body is a form entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth; life is not yours—it is the harmonious Qi (vital energy) entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth; nature and life are not yours—they are the principle of compliance entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth; descendants are not yours either—they are transformed things entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Therefore, when people walk they do not know where they are going; when they dwell they do not know what they rely on; when they eat and drink they do not know why. The vigorous, moving yang Qi between Heaven and Earth is originally the Qi of nature—by what right could it be possessed by you?”

Dao (the Way) and I differ in name but are identical in substance: the Dao is myself, and I am the Dao; there is no difference between the two. In the two realms of “being” and “nonbeing,” emptiness and fullness manifest each other. What seems possible to obtain and possess can likewise be lost and return to nothingness. The Dao never leaves me—why, then, would there need to be another “Heavenly Dao” apart from this? If one says the Dao can be obtained and possessed, that is to treat the Dao and me as two separate things.

Shun asked Cheng (Cheng: in ancient times, a minister who assisted the ruler by means of the Dao), presumably wanting to monopolize the Dao, take it as his own, and place it within himself. Yet this body of mine is merely a temporary coalescence of the Yin-Yang Qi (vital energy) between Heaven and Earth; after coalescing, it will disperse again. It was never truly mine to possess—how, then, can one speak of possessing the Dao?

Look closely at oneself: what Heaven confers becomes human nature (xing); only with nature is there life; only with life is there a body. Nature and destiny issue from the compliant transformation of Heaven and Earth; life issues from their harmonious conjunction; the body issues from the forms produced by their creative transformation. As for descendants, they are even more remote—merely transformations left behind by Heaven and Earth. Thus, whether people walk, dwell, eat, or drink, they constantly rely on external things without being aware of it. To know oneself, one may look at it as one looks at a shadow: the relation between the body and me is like that between a shadow and a form. If the form is bright and strong, the shadow likewise becomes bright and strong. How, then, can this bright and strong shadow be considered something one possesses?

Lord Lao (that is, Laozi) says, “The reason I have great affliction is that I have a body.” This is meant to make people return to the state before birth, when there was no body, and thus become one with the Dao.

Shun was a great sage of antiquity, yet he still asked Cheng about the Dao. This is because he had no choice but to rule the world and inherit Yao’s imperial throne; although his bright virtue arose from this, he had already deviated from the Dao. Therefore he put forward such words, using Cheng as a pretext to ask about the Dao.

In Qi there was a man of the Guo clan whose family property was extremely abundant; in Song there was a man of the Xiang clan who was very poor. Mr. Xiang came from Song to Qi to ask Mr. Guo about the way to become rich. Mr. Guo said, “I am skilled at being a thief.” He said that when he first began thieving, within a year he had enough food and clothing; within two years he was well off; within three years he was greatly wealthy, and afterward he even benefited his village and neighborhood. Mr. Xiang was delighted. He understood the term “thief,” but he did not grasp the principle of being a thief. So he climbed over walls, broke through holes, and took whatever he saw; there was nothing he did not seek out and seize. Before long, he was caught with the stolen goods and punished, and even his former property was confiscated. Mr. Xiang thought Mr. Guo had deceived him and went to complain. Mr. Guo asked, “How did you go about being a thief?” Mr. Xiang explained what he had done. Mr. Guo sighed and said, “Alas, have you lost the principle of thievery to such an extent? Now I will tell you. I have heard that Heaven has the order of the four seasons and Earth has the bounty of the myriad things. I steal the seasons and bounty of Heaven and Earth: by borrowing the moisture of clouds and rain and the produce of mountains and marshes, I make my seedlings grow and plant my crops, build my walls and construct my houses. On land I steal birds and beasts; in water I steal fish and turtles—there is nothing I do not steal. Grain and crops, earth and wood, birds and beasts, fish and turtles are all produced by Heaven; how could they be mine? Yet when I steal from Heaven, I meet with no calamity. As for gold, jade, precious treasures, grain, silk, and goods, these are accumulated by people—are they bestowed by Heaven? If you steal these and are punished, whom can you blame?”

Mr. Xiang remained confused, thinking Mr. Guo was mocking him again, so he went to ask Master Dongguo. Master Dongguo said, “Is not your own self also stolen? You steal the harmonizing Qi of Yin-Yang—the two vital energies of Heaven and Earth that both oppose and harmonize each other—to complete your life and sustain your bodily form. How much more so with external things: how could they not be stolen? Indeed, Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things cannot be separated from one another. If one stubbornly believes that something is one’s own, that is delusion. Mr. Guo’s stealing accords with public justice, so he has no misfortune; your stealing comes from selfishness, so you incur punishment. Those who make distinctions between public and private are also stealing; those who do not make such distinctions are also stealing. Public and private coming and going in alternation—this is the De (Virtue/Power) of Heaven and Earth. For one who understands the De of Heaven and Earth, who is a thief, and who is not?”

The Book of the Yellow Emperor says: Heaven and Earth are the “robbers” of the ten thousand things, the ten thousand things are the “robbers” of humans, and humans in turn are the “robbers” of the ten thousand things. (Here “robber” does not mean thief; it refers to obtaining from other things what one needs. The Book of the Yellow Emperor is a Daoist classic attributed to the Yellow Emperor.) When these threefold “takings and uses” each find their proper place, the Three Powers—Heaven, Earth, and Humanity—all become stable. (The Three Powers refer to Heaven, Earth, and Humanity.)

Heaven bestows and Earth grows; the forces that drive the ten thousand things transform into one another. The growth of the ten thousand things relies on human effort to complete their reproduction, and human survival in turn relies on the ten thousand things for support. Heaven and Earth do not possess fully complete functions; the sage does not have all-capable skills; the ten thousand things do not have fully complete uses. Since things are themselves incomplete, they must rely on external things—is this not a kind of “robbery”? Therefore, whatever takes what is not its own may be called “robbery”; why wait until everything within reach of hand and eye has been seized before counting it as robbery?

Yet the process by which Heaven and Earth transform and give life is inexhaustible, and the generation of the ten thousand things between Heaven and Earth is boundless. When humans forcibly take by private intent, what they possess is very limited. The Guo family “robbed” Heaven and Earth out of public-mindedness, and so could bring great order to the world and extend it to the provinces, commanderies, townships, and villages. The Xiang family “robbed” people’s accumulations out of private motive. Since he gathered goods from private motive, and you then compliantly make use of them, he ought to be held guilty and, together with the property he had previously accumulated, be confiscated. (The Guo and Xiang families are two figures cited as examples in the scripture; their lives are unknown here.)

Even so, if one judges robbery by the presence of a distinction between public and private, then when there is no such distinction, it would not count as robbery. But once a person has a body, the body is not truly one’s own; where can one flee and not be “robbing”? Even if one has no intention regarding public and private, how can one escape the bondage of bodily form? It can be seen that “robbery” is the same, but robbery from public-mindedness and robbery from private motive differ; the former can avoid the calamities of the human way. The “robbery” that has no distinction of public and private, though it has not forgotten the bodily form, is also different from those who value public-mindedness and treasure life and cherish the body.

As for the De (Virtue/Power) of Heaven and Earth, it does not intentionally accomplish the “public”; it lets the ten thousand things naturally tend toward the public. Nor does it intentionally seek “selflessness”; it lets the ten thousand things naturally tend toward the private. Speaking of this, are not the ten thousand things being “robbed” by humans, and humans being “robbed” by the ten thousand things, precisely the accumulation of this great “robbery” of Heaven and Earth? Heaven and Earth transform and generate the ten thousand things, always thus.

Let us try to discuss it: when a rabbit runs into the open field, a hundred people chase it, and people do not consider this wrong; when a boy obtains it, even a strong man who can match a hundred men only dares to fold his hands and not take it. Why is this? Because the claim has already been fixed. The multitude of living beings, with their many side branches and sundry thoughts, privately possess things within Heaven and Earth, like those who chase the rabbit: they draw a boundary on the ground and guard what they own; what they obtain comes by chance, yet they think it truly theirs; what they have not obtained, they also think truly belongs to others. Thus they are greedy for more and seek to obtain, accumulating fame and profit, rejoicing and savoring it all their lives, only fearing that others may peep at it, not knowing that our own selves are precisely also “robbing.”

Alas, Heaven and Earth give birth to and nourish the ten thousand things; this is not originally the original intention of the Dao of Heaven and Earth. It is only because their generation has no fixed direction and their transformation is inexhaustible, allowing people to “rob and take,” that every household can be enriched without calamity. Moreover, the Dao of Heaven and Earth is undifferentiated and vast; if one can obtain even one aspect of it, how could its abundance be fully described in words?

All Six Classics carry the Dao and transmit it to later generations. They lodge the subtleties of the spirit within ritual and music, names and objects, and institutional standards and measures.

The essential purport of Liezi is in harmony with that of the two books Laozi and Zhuangzi. The subtle profundity of Laozi lies in its discussion of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power); the strange and extraordinary rhetoric of Zhuangzi lies in its elaboration through fables. In interpreting these texts, one should grasp the central meaning of Laozi and need not be drawn along by the boundless expansiveness of Zhuangzi. The central purport of all three classics returns to Dao, and the teachings of Liezi stand precisely between them. Only by understanding this can one read Liezi.

Then what is Dao? It is something so subtle that it cannot be fully known by human beings. What is called “subtlety” does not mean that Dao is empty, void, and Wuwei (non-action), and is therefore mysterious; rather, it means that Dao operates above the myriad things and cannot be measured, and is therefore mysterious. It is vast and boundless, transforming and nurturing the myriad things. Its natural order necessarily gives priority to “generation and transformation” (birth and change), and its principle of formation necessarily takes Yin-Yang (the two mutually correlative forces) as its root. Therefore Liezi begins by expounding “Tianrui” (Heavenly Signs), namely the principle of generation and transformation between Heaven and Earth. “Heaven” refers to the natural Dao free of human contrivance, while “sign” refers to concrete things that can be verified; together they mean natural portents.

In investigating the Dao of generation and transformation, one cannot explain it apart from things, nor can one fully understand it merely by relying on concrete things. To look only at things is insufficient to explain generation and transformation, because generation and transformation do not all arise from human action; yet apart from things, generation and transformation cannot manifest, because they do not remain in Wuwei either. Liezi says: “There is that which generates but is not generated; there is that which transforms but is not transformed.” This means that some things give birth while not being born from another, and some things transform while not being transformed by another. The root of this “not being generated and not being transformed” lies in the naturalness of Heaven; while the phenomena of “having generation and having transformation” are like the verification of Tianrui. The entire principle of the Dao of generation and transformation lies precisely here.

From Taiyi (the primordial chaos in which no Qi or phenomena had yet appeared), traces began to emerge; then Taichu (the beginning of Qi), Taishi (the beginning of form), and Taisu (the beginning of substance) appeared in succession. Only after the beginnings of Qi (vital energy), form, and substance were all present could it be called “Yi” (Change). “Yi” changed and became “the One”; “the One” is the point at which bodily form begins to change. In the obscure darkness, the order within it no longer bore the slightest trace of plain simplicity. Once it entered into the transformations of form, the clear and the turbid separated into different streams; Heaven and Earth each fixed their positions; humans received the harmonious Qi of Yin-Yang; and the myriad things each harbored their own Jing (essence).

Though Heaven and Earth are vast, their operational Dao can be corroborated by Yin-Yang; though the sage’s Dao is subtle, his transforming instruction can be verified through benevolence and righteousness; though the myriad things are numerous, their transformations can be summarized as the two forces of softness and hardness.

All things between Heaven and Earth, regardless of size, cannot escape the transformations of creation. The birth and death of all things, the sentient and the insentient, transform into one another; the subtlety of change is truly exquisite. Once creation has fixed its patterns, no thing can disturb its original natural law.

Thus the qi-cao (the larva of beetles such as the scarab) can transform into a butterfly, but it cannot become anything else; the wa (frog) transforms into a quail, and then cannot change into other kinds of creatures. Such is the law of the principle of generation and transformation. The man of Qi who worried that the sky would fall looked only at the fact that things with form inevitably perish, and so worried without end. This takes the visible things before his eyes as eternal; it is a narrow calculation.

The so-called natural law must have, at its beginning, a source from which it emerges; in its growth, a place where it ought to abide; and at its end, a path by which it returns. A beginning must have an end, and when the end is reached, it begins again. Numbers such as “one, seven, nine” represent the various stages of change, cycling back and forth without end. This is precisely why the principle of generation and transformation has never ceased from ancient times to the present.

From this we can see that the myriad things, not knowing this principle, sink into creation and transformation; this is originally a natural outcome. As humans, the most intelligent of the myriad things, although we too cannot escape birth and extinction, we inherently possess the principle that is not born and does not transform. Why not turn back and look at ourselves, and face the original mind with sincerity? Why be willing to be trapped within the scope of creation and transformation, wandering and shifting together with the myriad things? The teaching of the Liezi is probably meant to let students of the Dao, within generation and transformation, realize the mystery of ceaseless generation and transformation, accord with the law of generation and transformation, and not be enslaved by it. Therefore this chapter ends with the story of Shun consulting Cheng about the Great Dao, in order to dispel the various entanglements of human life.

The author still felt this was not enough, and went further: the human body originally exists by borrowing the creative transformation of Heaven and Earth. From the perspective of Heaven and Earth, humans steal the things of Heaven and Earth to take form, and so it is called “the thief of Heaven and Earth.” Even the generation and transformation of Heaven and Earth can be called a kind of “theft.” Theft is something people commonly despise, yet we rely on this “theft” to complete ourselves. Since we have life and bodily form, it is merely this one body; why then overvalue life, cherish oneself, and cling to it?

Interpreting the Scripture

Now that life and bodily form exist, what is the fundamental principle of being human? How could one, precisely because one cherishes life and cares for the body, instead do what everyone detests? That is why the chapter “Tianrui” concludes at this point.

Volume Title

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing is the Liezi, and Jiang Yu of the Song dynasty wrote a commentary on it. This passage marks the end of volume two and the title of volume three. The signature beneath it, “Presented by Jiang Yu, inner-hall student of the Hangzhou prefectural school, subject of the Song,” is the colophon with which Jiang Yu submitted this commentary.

The Story of the Yellow Emperor

In the fifteenth year after the Yellow Emperor ascended the throne, he rejoiced because all under Heaven supported him. He therefore devoted himself to cultivating upright Qi and nourishing his life and nature; his ears and eyes pursued the pleasures of sound and beauty, while his mouth and nose pursued the enjoyment of fine flavors. As a result, his complexion became dark and haggard, and his emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, pleasure, and the like—became disordered and confused. Another fifteen years passed, and he worried that the world was not well governed. He then exhausted the acuity of his ears and eyes, deployed his wisdom and abilities, and labored over the affairs of the people. The result was the same: his complexion became dark and his emotions confused. The Yellow Emperor therefore sighed deeply and said, “My faults have been excessive. When I merely nourished myself, the calamity was already like this; when I governed the myriad things, the calamity was also like this.”

Explanation of the Commentary

The commentary holds that human nature values following what is natural. If one intentionally sets out to nourish oneself, one necessarily goes against the natural Qi; the common people think that I follow what is natural, but if I intentionally set out to govern the myriad things, I will likewise necessarily fall into calamity. Therefore, to seek the pleasures of the ears and eyes and the delights of the mouth and nose and thereby give rise to joy is not to be tranquil and detached—at ease and free of attachment; to exhaust one’s intelligence and deploy one’s wisdom and thereby give rise to sorrow is not to be joyful. To be neither tranquil and detached nor joyful is not De (Virtue).

Although nourishing the body and governing things differ in content, and although sorrow and joy manifest differently, the harm they do to life and the injury they do to one’s nature are the same. Because life is harmed, the complexion becomes dark; because nature is injured, the emotions become confused. Fifteen years taken together make up a generation, and within them sorrow and joy each occupy half. Externally they leave the body emaciated; internally they injure one’s nature. What pleasure can there be in such a life? This is precisely why the Yellow Emperor lamented the depth of his faults and therefore sought the highest Dao.

The Yellow Emperor thereupon set aside the countless affairs of state, left his palace chambers and sleeping halls, dismissed his attendants and close ministers, removed the hanging bells and chimes, reduced his meals, and withdrew to live at leisure in the old residence of the Dating clan. He fasted and purified his mind, composed his bearing, and for three months took no part in government affairs. While dozing by day, he dreamed that he traveled to the land of Huaxu.

The commentary explains: “Setting aside the myriad affairs” means no longer coming into contact with worldly matters; leaving the palace chambers, dismissing attendants, removing the suspended bells, and reducing meals means cutting off the pleasures of the ears, eyes, mouth, and nose. “Dwelling at leisure in the hall of Dating” means abiding freely and at ease in a vast place. “Fasting the mind and subduing the body” means causing cleverness and ingenuity to cease operating, so that the heart-mind and Shen (spirit) are utterly still and unmoving, and do not change as time flows on. “Sleeping by day and entering a dream” indicates that the body no longer comes into contact with external things, while the heart-mind and Shen clearly meet with spiritual brightness.

The land of Huaxu is a realm in which the spirit finds its lodging. It is only a name reluctantly assigned, and it has no actual location. Unless one truly realizes the original nature and embraces the primordial Shen, one cannot wander there in spirit. Thus what the Yellow Emperor visited in his dream was precisely this realm.

The scripture says that the land of Huaxu lies west of Yanzhou and north of Taizhou; both are names of extremely distant places in ancient legend. This country lies tens of millions of li from here, and cannot be reached by cart or boat or by the strength of one’s legs; one can arrive there only by wandering in spirit.

The commentary further says: The northwest is the profound and hidden place of Heaven and Earth, and also the gateway of inward contemplation that illumines the mind; therefore the location of the land of Huaxu is used as a metaphor. Although a direction has been assigned to it, in reality it cannot be limited by any physical direction, nor constrained by number. Hence it is said that this country is tens of millions of li from here and can be reached only by wandering there in spirit.

Vernacular Interpretation

In that country there were no rulers or officials; everything simply followed its own nature. The people there had no greed or cravings, and they too simply accorded with nature.

They did not know to cling to life or to hate death, so they had no sorrow over premature death. They did not know to draw close to themselves or to keep distant from other things, so they had neither love nor hatred. They did not know to oppose or to comply, so they had neither profit nor harm. They begrudged nothing to anything, and they feared nothing and observed no taboos. Entering water, they did not drown; entering fire, they were not burned. Whipped or struck, they felt no pain; flicked or pricked by a finger, they did not itch. They could walk through the void as though treading on solid ground; lying down within the void, they were as secure as if sleeping in a bed. Clouds and mist could not obscure their sight, thunder could not confuse their hearing, beauty and ugliness could not stir their hearts, and the perils of valleys and gorges could not trip their steps. Their spirit came and went freely—that was all.

An ancient saying goes: If people do not greedily seek food, clothing, and enjoyment, the way of contention between ruler and subject will cease. When the state has no teachers and elders (referring to the ruler’s control and moral instruction), and the people have no cravings or desires, the principle is no more than this. That the state can be “without teachers and elders” is not because the people have no desires and have been transformed by a governance of desirelessness, but because it arises from naturalness. That the people can be “without cravings and desires” is likewise not because the ruler has good government, but because it arises from naturalness.

When cultivation of the Dao reaches the realm of accord with naturalness, the worldly distinctions of like and dislike, closeness and distance, favorable and contrary, love and fear are all forgotten. This being so, what remaining worry of premature death, emotions of love and hatred, or choices of benefit and harm could there be? Such a person can enter water and fire without being harmed, forgets pain and itch, walks through the air as if treading on solid ground, and dwells amid actual circumstances as if nothing were there; seeing and hearing are penetrating and clear, the mind is unobstructed, and actions do not stumble.

The saying “true emptiness is not empty” means that when one walks by relying on emptiness, it appears real but is not actually real; hence it is said, “as if treading on solid ground.” “True void is not void” means that when one lies down within emptiness, it appears void but is not truly void; hence it is said, “as if lying on a bed.” If not for the supremely spiritual person in the world, who could accomplish this?

The True Persons of antiquity (those who attained the Dao) slept without dreaming and awoke without anxiety. The Yellow Emperor was one who, in ancient times, could distinguish waking from dreaming; thus the story of the “Journey to Huaxu” is merely a dream within a parable. The book’s use of a dream to expound its teaching may precisely be to accommodate a truth that pertains only to the brief moment.

After the Yellow Emperor awoke, his mood was joyful. He summoned his ministers Tian Lao, Li Mu, and Tai Shan Ji (all assistants to the Yellow Emperor) and said to them: “I lived in leisure for three months, fasting and purifying my mind, regulating and nourishing my body, and pondering the principles of nourishing life and governing the state, yet I could not find the method. When I grew weary, I fell asleep, and what I dreamed was just such a scene. Now I know that the ultimate Dao cannot be sought through emotions and desires. I understand it, and I have realized it, but I still cannot tell it to you.” Thereafter, for twenty-eight years, the world was greatly governed, almost like the country of Huaxu (the ideal land in the Liezi that the Yellow Emperor visited in his dream, where there is no rule by ruler and minister, and the people, without desires, dwell naturally at peace).

The commentary says: “Tian Lao” symbolizes the Wuwei (non-action) that embodies and realizes the Heavenly Dao.

The commentary says: Tianlao represents the Wuwei of the heavenly Dao; Limu is the master who governs human affairs; and Taishan Ji is the most exalted within the earthly Dao. (Tianlao, Limu, and Taishan Ji were all ministers of the Yellow Emperor.) One who can attain the Dao may command the Three Powers—heaven, earth, and humanity—and drive the forces of creation. Therefore, after the Yellow Emperor had attained ease and contentment, he summoned these three ministers and told them of it.

The Dao has both reality and verification, yet the ultimate Dao cannot be sought through desire. This is because the Dao does not discard feeling and nature; it contains reality within itself. It is only that one cannot seek the Dao with a seeking mind. What is called the ultimate Dao is the Dao that does not depart from truth. How could there be a method by which it can be obtained through thought? If one uses deliberation to seek the ultimate Dao, one will in the end not obtain it. Therefore one must become weary and fall asleep, dream of such a scene, and only after waking be filled with ease and contentment. This is presumably because when one is weary and asleep, the limbs relax, and cleverness and mental effort are no longer employed; in the dream, then, true nature comes into contact with spiritual consciousness.

Only after obtaining the ultimate Dao can the world be ordered without being governed. Thus, after another twenty-eight years, the world was greatly ordered, almost like the country of Huaxu (a legendary ideal realm in which the Yellow Emperor once dreamed he wandered). Twenty-eight is the number four times seven. Seven times seven is forty-nine, the number of tiangui (the marker of reproductive essence in the human body; the ancients took a woman’s forty-nine years as the time when tiangui is exhausted). Here it exactly reaches the center and arrives at its fullest flourishing. The Yellow Emperor’s governance had still not departed from youwei, and so his rule could not exceed the patterns of number. Moreover, seven times seven belongs to the yin numbers; the Yellow Emperor was then withdrawing his outward brilliance and returning to the origin, and so the text especially cites the flourishing of a yin number to explain this.

Furthermore, if the Dao has not reached the realm of truth, there is no person who does not dream—why can they not reach the realm of Huaxu? And after waking, can they not also be at ease and content? Presumably, what one delights in by day one dreams of by night. If one fasts and purifies the mind and regulates the body as the Yellow Emperor did, delusive thoughts and miscellaneous dreams naturally disappear; even if the Yellow Emperor also dreamed, that dream must have been only of the realm of Huaxu. If one cannot unify the mind and subdue the body, one will be enslaved by deliberation and constrained by Yin-Yang. One who drinks in a dream weeps upon waking; one who weeps in a dream goes hunting upon waking. People are upside down within dreams and imaginings; gain and loss, sorrow and joy originally have no fixed standard, yet they do not know that they are departing from Huaxu and from the constraint of Yin-Yang.

Those who drink in dreams weep when they wake, and those who weep in dreams go hunting when they wake. People are tossed to and fro in dreams and imaginings, with no fixed standard for gain and loss, worry and joy, and yet they do not know that they have already departed tens of millions of li from the land of Huaxu (the legendary ideal realm of no contention and no desire; see Liezi, “Yellow Emperor”). What one thinks by day, one dreams by night—this is ordinary. The text specifically says that he “entrusted it to a daytime nap and dreamed” because daytime is the time of day when distractions and busyness are greatest and contact with worldly affairs most frequent. That the spirit wanders abroad while still joined to the body shows that spiritual consciousness never for a moment departs from the body.

Again, the achievements of emperors and kings are but the leftover business of the sage. The sage acts only when he has no choice; even when he acts, he hands affairs over to the myriad things and lets the myriad things act for themselves, and so he could avoid the entanglement of purposeful action. Yet once there is action, and the achievements of emperors and kings are completed, the Great Dao becomes hidden. Liezi wishes to clarify the sage’s principle of “responding to emperors,” never departing from the ultimate Dao, and so he begins with the Yellow Emperor, pointing out that the Great Dao had already reached its utmost at the time of the Yellow Emperor. When the Yellow Emperor ascended the throne and responded to the world, the beginnings of disturbance had already arisen; order or chaos, joy or worry, were inevitably hard to avoid.

Nevertheless, the Yellow Emperor, as the embodiment of the “Great Ancestor” (the source, the manifestation of the ultimate Dao), emerged to respond to things while always preserving the inexhaustibility of his original substance and roaming in a realm without obstruction. He therefore used the Huaxu dream to erase the traces of his responding to the world. When he unified his mind and withdrew his form, gathering up the traces of responding to the world and returning to the ultimate Dao, he came close to the rule of Huaxu; and then the so-called Yellow Emperor could no longer be seen by the people of the world. The people of the world could only vainly cling to his old traces and yearn for the teaching of Wuwei (non-action). That is why this chapter ends with Jixian physiognomizing Huzi, until Huzi reveals, “I have never yet emerged from my ancestral source”—precisely to explain this meaning.

The summary at the end of this chapter says: when Jixian (a diviner skilled in physiognomy and in judging people’s fortunes and misfortunes) read Huzi’s physiognomy, Huzi revealed to him the state of “never having left my ancestral source” (never departing from my root). Jixian could then no longer read his physiognomy and fled in panic. The principle expounded in the Liezi, “Ying Diwang,” is precisely meant to explain this. When the Way of emperors and kings is cultivated to this point, it reaches its utmost; that is why the Zhuangzi, “Ying Diwang,” also uses this as the ending of its whole chapter.

The scripture says: Mount Liegu Ye stands on a river islet in the sea, and on the mountain dwells a spirit-person. He inhales the wind and drinks the dew, does not eat the five grains; his mind is as calm as a deep pool, and his outward form is like an unmarried maiden. He neither draws near to nor cherishes anyone, yet immortals and sages are willing to serve as his subjects; he does not fear or become angry, yet the sincere, generous, loyal, and upright are willing to exert themselves for him. He does not give alms or bestow favors, yet the myriad things are naturally abundant; he does not amass or store up, yet he himself has no fault. Yin-Yang are harmonized, the sun and moon shine bright, the four seasons keep their order, wind and rain come at the proper times, the hundred grains grow according to season, the harvest is abundant, the land suffers no calamities, people are free from premature death and serious illness, the myriad things have no blemishes or plagues, and ghosts produce no eerie sounds or anomalies.

The commentary explains: gu means “for the time being”; ye means “to reject.” Mount Guye is where those who are weary of and detached from the world’s troubles and burdens, and who only reluctantly and temporarily respond to the world, dwell. “Water is nearly like the Dao” means that the sea is where the river waters converge; because Mount Guye lies on a river islet in the sea, it shows that the spirit-person dwells at the center of the Dao—who but one who has attained the Dao could reach such a state? Not eating the five grains, inhaling the wind and drinking the dew, means that his taste is as bland and flavorless as the Dao. His mind being like a deep abyss means he is quiet, concentrated, and unmoving. His form being like an unmarried maiden means he complies with the myriad things without taking the lead. “Not drawing near and not cherishing” is to regard the myriad things as straw dogs (in ancient sacrifices, straw dogs were discarded after use and not treasured); “not fearing and not becoming angry” is to guard the pure primal Qi. “Not giving alms or bestowing favors, yet things are naturally sufficient” means that no one suffers the loss of a single hair; “not gathering or storing up, yet he himself has no fault” means that no one profits from the world on his account. From “Yin-Yang are always harmonized” through “ghosts make no numinous sounds” is precisely the state Laozi calls “peace and great tranquility.”

The final sentence explains Liezi’s relationships with teachers and friends: he took Lao Shangshi as his teacher and Bo Gaozi as his friend.

Shang is one of the five notes and corresponds to the metal sound. Its tone is clear and penetrating yet restrained, symbolizing autumn and the qi of solemn decay. The so-called “Lao Shang” means that the musical pitch has become restrained to the utmost, a metaphor for people returning to their original nature and recovering their heavenly mandate, doing nothing and following nature. Bogaozi was a man whose virtue became more conspicuous as he grew older. Liezi took such a person as teacher and friend.

Liezi (a Daoist figure of the Warring States period, named Yukou) once studied under Huqiu Zi and befriended Bohun Maoren. The great Dao is everywhere—where could there be a fixed, unchanging teacher?

Liezi received the Daoist arts of these two masters and returned riding the wind. Yin Sheng (Liezi’s disciple), upon hearing of this, followed Liezi and lived with him, not returning home for several months. Taking an opportunity, he asked Liezi to transmit the method to him; he asked ten times, and Liezi did not tell him even once. Yin Sheng felt resentment and asked to resign; Liezi did not detain him, and he left. After several months, Yin Sheng still could not let it go in his heart and came back to follow Liezi. Liezi asked: Why do you come and go so frequently? Yin Sheng replied: Earlier Zhang Dai asked you on my behalf, but you would not tell me, and so I harbored dissatisfaction against you. Now the resentment has subsided, and so I have come again. Liezi said: I originally thought you understood things; has your vulgarity now reached this point? Very well, I will tell you the Daoist method I learned from my teacher.

Zhuangzi says: “If the Dao could be told to others in words, there would be no one who did not tell it to his brothers.” Yet someone explained it ten times, and the other party failed to understand ten times. This was not because he was unwilling to tell him, but because the Dao itself cannot be directly transmitted in words, and the other did not understand that the Dao must be realized through one’s own experience.

Nie Que (a figure in the Zhuangzi) sought instruction from Wang Ni (an adept who had attained the Dao), asking four times; four times Wang Ni said, “I do not know.” Zhi (a personal name, not the “knowledge” denoted by the word zhi) asked Wuweiwei (one who had attained the Dao), asking three times; three times Wuweiwei gave no answer. These repeated questions may appear frequent, but in fact the other party was simply unable to answer in words.

People of the sort represented by Zhang Dai (a personal name; the person is otherwise unknown) regard achievements in literary composition and rhetorical elegance as honorable and place them foremost. How could they be worthy to be told of the Dao of Wuwei (non-action) as expounded by Lao Shang (a figure in ancient legend who had attained the Dao)?

Hence this person at first followed Liezi (Lie Yukou, a Daoist figure of the Warring States period), but because of resentment he took his leave. Several months after departing, he returned with a sense of release. His coming and going was inconstant, and he harbored resentment several times. So shallow and without penetration into the Dao, he could never draw near to it; therefore, only as a last resort was the Dao told to him.

I studied the Dao under my teacher, practicing together with a fellow disciple. For the first three years, I did not dare let thoughts of right and wrong arise in my mind, nor dare speak of benefit and harm with my mouth; only then did my teacher occasionally give me a sidelong glance. After five years, I was still thinking about right and wrong in my mind and still speaking of benefit and harm with my mouth, and only then did my teacher show a faint smile. After seven years, I thought whatever I wished to think, with no longer any division into right and wrong; I said whatever I wished to say, no longer weighing benefit and harm; only then did my teacher pull me to sit beside him on the same mat.

After nine years, I let my mind think whatever it thought and my mouth say whatever it said; I no longer distinguished what was my own right and wrong, benefit and harm, from what was others’ right and wrong, benefit and harm, nor did I remember that my teacher was my teacher or that that man was my friend. Within and without, I had made progress; and so my eyes were like my ears, my ears like my nose, my nose like my mouth—all the senses interpenetrated without distinction. My mind and spirit were concentrated and still, my bodily form dissolved, my bones and flesh melted away. I was unaware of what my body leaned upon or what my feet trod; I merely drifted east and west with the wind, like a withered leaf or an empty husk, and could not tell whether the wind was carrying me or I was riding the wind.

Now you have entered the Master’s gate, and in less than two hours you have already resented and complained several times. There is not a part of your body that even Qi—the vital energy of heaven and earth—is willing to receive; there is not a joint of your body that the earth is willing to bear. For someone like this, can one even speak of treading the void and riding the wind? When Yin Sheng (here referring to the listener) heard this, he was overcome with shame, held his breath for a long time, and did not dare speak again.

Right and wrong depend on whether something accords with principle; benefit and harm depend on the matter itself. What was considered right in the past may be rejected today, showing that right and wrong have no fixed standard; what I regard as beneficial others may regard as harmful, showing that benefit and harm likewise have no unchanging judgment.

The reason people distinguish right and wrong, benefit and harm is that they have a body; and with a body come love and aversion. Once desire is stirred, the seven emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, fear, love, aversion, and desire (the seven human feelings)—intertwine and become confused: the eyes chase colors, the ears follow sounds, the nose is absorbed in fragrances, and the tongue craves flavors. Within the same body, the various organs do not know one another. Although the ears and eyes both receive what is seen and heard, their left and right positions differ, so there are differences in light and dark; how much harder would it be to make them entirely uniform? From this one knows that right and wrong, benefit and harm all arise from the perceptions of the ears, eyes, nose, and mouth.

Perception arises by relying on the perfectly luminous nature (the Daoist innate nature of complete brightness). When original nature stands opposite external things and external things join with the self, various cognitions and forms come into being. Though forms differ, nature is ultimately one. This one nature divides into the seven emotions, which do not originally pertain to external things. If one can awaken amid sounds, colors, smells, and tastes and return to true nature, then all seven apertures will lie dormant unused, and ears, eyes, mouth, and nose will merge into one. Looking back at the myriad things of the world, bustling and chaotic, they are like snowflakes falling into water: all melt away and unite with the true Jing (essence)—how much more so this body of mine?

This is Liezi’s realm of “treading on emptiness and riding the wind” (as recorded in Zhuangzi’s “Xiaoyao You,” Liezi could ride the wind and travel through the void). Liezi had an innate awakening to this Dao and naturally attained it; how could he still need to learn? Yet in order to set an example for later generations, it must be conveyed through learning, guided step by step, and grounded in personal practice. When in the mind one dares not think of right and wrong, and in speech one dares not discuss benefit and harm, then cleverness and calculating mind can be removed. This is like cultivating a field for a year: only after three years can one achieve thorough understanding.

“Dare not” does not mean that such an intention is absent; it is simply that one has not yet reached the realm where a single meeting of the eyes is itself an awakening to the Dao. Thus one can only temporarily receive a flash of inspiration from a glance from Lao Shang (a figure in the text).

Plain-Language Interpretation

This passage from the Exegesis of the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing discusses how a cultivator of the Dao (the Way) gradually escapes the discriminative mind and ultimately becomes one with the Dao of nature.

Stages of Cultivation

By the fifth year of cultivation, the mind’s thoughts concerning right and wrong, benefit and harm, will grow more refined and mature. At this point one can already discard the calculating, clever mind and clinging fixed views. This is the time when, after passing from the preliminary cultivation of the “first year” into the period “after three years,” one can penetrate the great Dao.

At the beginning of cultivating the Dao, it is not that such thoughts are absent, but that one has not yet reached the state in which “a glance is made and the Dao is present” (seeing the great Dao with one’s own eyes, the great Dao naturally manifesting). Therefore one can only receive the benefit of a single glimpse, as Laozi and Shang Rong did.

The Naturalness of Mind and Speech

By the fifth year, the thoughts in the mind and the words on the tongue, even when they touch on right and wrong, benefit and harm, all arise from spontaneity, without self-conscious restraint or holding back. Dao and mind already communicate without obstruction. Thus one can “relax the countenance and smile”; thoughts and words need no deliberate choosing or rejecting.

The Seventh and Ninth Years

If one has not reached the seventh year’s state of “heavenly completion,” one still cannot let oneself go freely without losing what one guards. Such a person still cannot deal expediently with others, let alone keep pace with Liezi in the manner of Huzi.

Therefore the cultivator should follow his thoughts and follow his words, no longer clinging to right and wrong, benefit and harm. But this “following” is still only indulgence. Although there is no right and wrong, benefit and harm, that is merely “nonexistence”; one has not yet reached “no-nonexistence” (forgetting even the thought of “nonexistence”).

Thus one must enter the ninth year’s “Great Wonder” before one can “stand athwart” thoughts and words (transcend them and not be drawn along by them), no longer calculating right and wrong, benefit and harm, for oneself or others. Self and other are without distinction, and all returns to unity.

Self-Forgetting and Naturalness

At this stage, one no longer values the natural endowments on which one relies, nor does one regard teachers and elders as objects of affection. One does not know the teacher as “my teacher” or others as “my friends”; inner and outer have both entered a state of undifferentiated fusion.

In this way, the seven apertures withdraw and return to the one truth; the hundred bones of the body become one with the Great Void. Dwelling provisionally between heaven and earth, one is like a withered leaf drifting east and west with the wind, not knowing whether the wind is driving me or I am riding the wind.

If I say that I am riding the wind, then does the drifting of the withered leaf also intend to ride the wind? If I say that the wind is riding me, when has the wind’s blowing ever needed to wait for me?

Therefore one can ride the wind and travel, free and subtly light, yet without knowing why it is so—it is simply so of itself.

Since it is said that “bones and flesh are like wind,” do the tree leaves drifting with the wind also have a mind to ride the wind? If one says the wind is carrying me, when did the wind’s blowing ever need to depend on me? Thus, riding the wind and traveling, light and subtly natural, people do not know why it is so, and yet it is accomplished naturally.

It also says that “bones and flesh have all melted away,” and yet still uses tree leaves and dry husks as a metaphor. This is because the Qi of life and the condition of having form can only be made empty, not made entirely nonexistent. Although there is physical form, there is no entanglement with physical form; this can be called “empty.” But it is still as light as tree leaves and dry husks, and has not completely left the state of having things. This is why Zhuangzi says it “still has something on which it depends.” This is precisely the profound mystery of the Dao. If it were to return completely to nothingness, why would one still value the Dao?

As for this man Yin Sheng, he harbors resentment in his heart and uses pent-up, angry Qi to contravene the Great Harmony (the harmonious primal Qi between Heaven and Earth). His whole life is nothing but a superfluous tumor in Heaven and Earth. He entered the Master’s gate (referring to Guan Yin) and in less than a day harbored resentment several times. Thus he accumulated this deluded emotion until the end of his life, merely drowning in it. Even the deep earth cannot bear the sinking and falling of a single thought of his. Alas, the lives of all beings receive their endowment from transformation; only because their emotions and thoughts differ does the distinction between high and low reach such an extreme. This is why Liezi pays particular attention here.

Liezi (a Daoist figure of the Warring States period; the book Liezi is traditionally attributed to him) asked Guan Yin (Guan Yinxi, a Daoist scholar and Liezi’s teacher): “The Perfected Person (one whose moral cultivation has reached the highest realm) dives into water without suffocating, treads through fire without feeling heat, and walks above the ten thousand things without fear. May I ask how they can reach such a state?” Guan Yin replied: “This is the result of guarding pure Qi; it does not rely on cleverness, courage, or the like.”

The commentary says: The Zhiren (the perfected person) is one who does not depart from Zhen (the true/authentic). If Zhen is stored within, how can the myriad things change him? This is precisely why the Zhiren enters water without getting wet, enters fire without feeling heat, and climbs high places without fear.

Guan Yin (Laozi’s disciple, whose name was Yin Xi) held that those who can reach this state are engaged in the “guarding of pure Qi” (chunqi zhi shou), that is, single-mindedly guarding pure and correct Qi. What is called “pure” means not depleting one’s Jing (essence) and Shen (spirit). Not depleting Jing and Shen is Zhen.

Those who pride themselves on cleverness and boldness, who show off their strength, always want in their hearts to surpass the myriad things. They conceal suspicion and doubt within, while outwardly assuming an overbearing manner. Not even any part of their bodies can find a place between heaven and earth; how much less could water and fire come near them?

Only when pure Qi is guarded within can wisdom and insight return to their source, and seeing and hearing be drawn inward, without deliberate contrivance. Then water and fire become one with him; this is why he is at ease and safe wherever he enters.

Laozi said: “One who deeply contains Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue/Power) is like an infant.” This is what is meant by “guarding pure Qi.” Therefore poisonous insects do not sting him, fierce beasts do not pounce on him, and birds of prey do not attack him.

Ji, let me, Yu, tell you: whatever has form and appearance, image, sound, or color is a thing. Among things, how could there be any distinction of far and near? But relying only on these formed things, how could one reach the realm prior to the myriad things? They are all merely “se” (the appearance of form).

The commentary says: appearance, image, sound, and color are all called “se.” All things arise from nonbeing into being; they necessarily begin with movement and then produce form and color. When Taisu (Great Simplicity, the primal matter not yet formed) is present, form and substance first become manifest. Yet Taisu still falls short of Taishi (Great Beginning, the earliest beginning of the universe); how then could it reach the “prior” (the origin)? Only one who transcends the myriad things and does not himself become a thing is sufficient to reach the “prior.” To reach the state of the “prior” is probably what Laozi meant by “something formed indistinctly and complete” (you wu hun cheng). (This phrase comes from Chapter 25 of the Daodejing and refers to something formed indistinctly, prior to heaven and earth.)

In this way, things reach the realm of the formless and come to rest where there is no change. If someone attains this Dao and exhausts it, how can one say that he has attained the true Dao?

Everything that has form is subject to creation and transformation (the natural generation and change of heaven and earth). Only the formless Dao (the Way), which gives rise to the myriad things, is not bound by creation and transformation. If one can attain the Dao and comprehend its principle, one can transcend form and transformation, return to the state before the myriad things arose, and obliterate all distinctions of right and wrong. Even if such a person alone maintains uprightness, it is still difficult to name him in words. This is precisely why the Utmost Person (one whose cultivation has reached its utmost) is called “true.”

He rests securely in the measure of not delving deeply (not violating natural patterns, not deliberately seeking profundity), hides within the order of no beginning (the Dao’s order, whose beginning and end cannot be seen), and roams amid the beginning, end, and transformation of the myriad things.

This principle is very easy to understand and very easy to practice: so long as one does not violate the patterns by which the myriad things naturally move, that is “not delving deeply.” Laozi’s saying, “Meet it and one does not see its head; follow it and one does not see its rear,” means precisely that the Dao’s order has no visible head or tail; this is the “order of no beginning.” The Dao operates within the myriad things, and the myriad things rely on it as they wax and wane, become full and empty; the Dao’s borders are endless. This is “roaming through the beginning and end of the myriad things.” To be able inwardly to rest and hide, and outwardly to roam among the myriad things—this is the person whose Dao and De (Virtue/Power) are complete and whose penetration leaves nothing untouched.

Concentrate one’s original nature into oneness, nourish one’s primal Qi (vital energy), contain the De of one’s nature, and thereby penetrate to the source of the creation and transformation of the myriad things.

When the original nature is concentrated in oneness, no second mind arises; when primal Qi is nourished, it is not depleted; when the De of one’s nature is contained, it does not scatter. One who can do this may wander above with the Creator (the fundamental Dao that gives rise to the myriad things); this is “penetrating to that by which things are created.”

For one who can do this, heavenly innocence is preserved, and Jing (essence) and Shen (spirit) are not lost. How then could external things intrude upon such a person?

Scripture One

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing—that is, the Liezi, an honorific title conferred during the reign of Tang Xuanzong—explains: Where do the myriad things come from? From where does the upright qi of heaven and earth emerge? One who can roam between the beginning and end of the myriad things and comprehend their patterns of change can penetrate the root from which things are generated. Having understood the principle by which the myriad things are generated, one can become one with the heaven of spontaneity; being one with heaven, the spirit reaches a wondrous realm. This state of “heaven” consists in guarding purity and wholeness, and the reason the spirit does not scatter or become partial and deficient is precisely that it is not dragged about. Since the spirit is complete and without lack, the pure primordial qi is firmly guarded, and external things cannot intrude.

Scripture Two

A drunkard falls from a cart. Although the fall is severe, he does not die. His bones and joints are the same as other people’s, but the condition of his injury is different from theirs. This is because his spirit is preserved intact. He is unaware while riding, and unaware while falling; the terror of life and death does not enter his breast. Thus, when he comes into contact with external things, he is not afraid.

(This passage comes from the Liezi, “Dasheng” [Understanding Life]. The story of “the drunkard falling from the cart” is often used to illustrate that external injury cannot injure the spirit of a person whose spirit is whole.) If he can be preserved through wine and still be like this, how much more one who is preserved by the Dao of Heaven? Therefore the sage hides himself within the Dao of Heaven, and external things cannot harm him.

Annotation

The commentary explains: The spirit governs the body, and the body brings the spirit to completion. If the body is separated from the spirit, it cannot grow of itself; if the spirit loses the body, it cannot complete itself. The spirit wishes to preserve its wholeness; it suffers loss because a discriminating mind and perception arise. The body wishes to remain unharmed; it is harmed because it conflicts with external things. Yet the spirit is the root that generates and nourishes the body. If a person cherishes the body but does not guard the mind-spirit, the mind-spirit will scatter, and external things will be able to impinge upon it. The drunkard knows neither when riding nor when falling from the cart, and this is precisely why his spirit is preserved. Once the spirit is preserved, the fear of life and death cannot shake his inner being. Even if he falls from the cart, only the body can be injured; the spirit cannot be harmed. This is what is meant by “the harm he suffers is different from that of others”; therefore, although he is injured, he does not die.

However, the drunkard’s preservation is only because he is sunk in wine, which dims his mind; it is not truly a case of one who has awareness yet forgets the passions. When he becomes sober, his perceptions become active, and his mind-spirit is easily disturbed.

If a person loses this “knowing,” then he has knowledge but has forgotten feeling, and has not truly awakened to the Dao. As for being able to be “not intoxicated”—not confused by external things—that awareness is clear and distinct and is not lost even for a moment; therefore, although he will not die, he still has the affliction of being troubled. If one can be “knowing” yet “not knowing”—aware but not attached to what is known—then even if he enters water or fire, he will not be scorched or drowned, let alone merely fall from a carriage. This is precisely the person who has preserved the truth endowed by Heaven; external things cannot harm him. The sage peacefully abides in this state, and for this reason it becomes the principle of cultivating the Dao known as “long life and enduring vision” (long survival and prolonging life).

Lie Yukou (that is, Liezi) studied archery with Bohun Wuren (Liezi’s teacher). He drew his bow to the full and placed a cup of water on his elbow. When he released the string, the first arrow (the di arrow) had just left the string and the second (the fang arrow) was already nocked, one following another without interruption. At that moment his posture was like a wooden dummy, utterly motionless. Bohun Wuren said: “This is only the shooting of someone who has the intention to shoot, not the shooting of someone who has forgotten shooting. Suppose I and you climb a high mountain, stand on a perilous rock, and look down into a hundred-zhang abyss—could you still shoot?” Thereupon Bohun Wuren climbed the high mountain, stood on the perilous rock, and looked down into the hundred-zhang abyss. His body shrank backward, with two-tenths of his foot hanging beyond the rock. He clasped his hands and bowed to Lie Yukou, inviting him to come forward. Lie Yukou, however, lay prostrate on the ground, sweat flowing down to his heels. Bohun Wuren said: “The Perfected Person (a person of the highest cultivation), above can peer into the blue sky, below can…”

This passage is Jiang Yu’s explanation of the stories “Ji Chang Learns Archery” and “Bohun Wuren” in the “Yellow Emperor” chapter of the Liezi.

“Drawing it to full bend” means drawing the bow to the full; “drawing it to the utmost arrowhead” means aiming the arrowhead (di) to the utmost point. “Placing a cup of water on his elbow” means placing a cup of water on his elbow without spilling it, describing an extremely steady arm. “The first arrow has just left and another follows in quick succession” means that no sooner has one arrow left the string than the next is already loosed after it; “while the arrow is in flight, another is already lodged on the string” means that while an arrow is flying through the air, the next has already been nocked. Both describe the refinement and agility of archery. The reason one can reach such a level is that the mind is single-minded and undistracted by external things, so that shooting an arrow is treated as an action wholly integrated with oneself.

However, there is a fundamental difference between this “shooting of shooting” and the “shooting of not-shooting.” The former has its target outside; whether one hits depends on the object, and so there is something that can be shot and something that cannot. The latter is rooted in oneself; when the mind has nothing on which to depend, there is nothing that must be affirmed and nothing that must be denied. The ability to remain “still like a wooden image” — unmoved by external things, like a clay statue or a wooden puppet — comes from there being nothing outside to inspire fear. If one lies prostrate on the ground, sweating profusely with fright, it is because in the mind there is still something cherished and guarded, something obstructing.

The height of mountains, the peril of rocks, and the danger of deep abysses carry no harmful intent in themselves, and those who climb or approach them do not necessarily meet disaster. What truly brings disaster is people themselves: they crave life and cling to things, are enslaved by external things, and let a mind of self-importance and grudging attachment reach every extreme, until in the end they lose their lives without even realizing it. The perfected person, by contrast, does not depart from the true. In climbing mountains and approaching abysses he is no different from ordinary people, except that his spirit and Qi are guarded within, so he does not perceive height or depth as fearful. Thus he can gesture freely across the eight farthest directions while his spirit remains unchanged. Liezi could ride the wind and move, so this principle was naturally not difficult for him to understand. These words are meant to keep learners from thinking, because of momentary praise, that all the beauty in the world resides in themselves; instead, they should strive to preserve their original truth, like Confucius, who “did not dwell in his sagehood.” The so-called Bohun Wuren — one who attained the Dao in the Liezi — is someone who stands as the elder among the myriad things, yet turns his illumination inward and appears instead dim; he treats others without a calculating mind. Therefore he can climb high and approach the deep without fear. This is precisely the lesson Liezi received.

The Fan family had a son named Zihua, who was skilled at cultivating a private reputation, and the whole state respected and submitted to him. He was favored and trusted by the ruler of Jin; although he did not take office, his position was above the three ministers, the governing ministers of Jin.