《冲虚至德真经解(江遹)》Vol. 2

Interpretation of the Text

Whomever the powerful man of Jin favored, Jin granted a rank; whomever he disliked, Jin removed from office. He had a son named Zihua (the son of a Jin powerful man), who excelled at gathering retainers and cultivating reputation, and the whole state respected and deferred to him. He was deeply favored and trusted by the ruler of Jin; although he held no official post, his position was above the three chief ministers (the highest-ranking ministers of Jin). His retainers often received protection at court.

Zihua had the knightly retainers under his household compete in cleverness and strength, bullying one another for amusement. If someone was injured or defeated, no one took it to heart. Day and night they made this a game, and it nearly became a custom in the state.

There were two retainers named Hesheng and Zibo, both honored retainers of the Fan clan (a great clan of Jin and Zihua’s faction). Once, when the two left the city and passed through the outskirts, they spent the night at a farmhouse where an old man named Shangqiu Kai lived. At midnight, Hesheng and Zibo discussed Zihua’s power, saying that he could make the living die and the dead live, make the rich poor and the poor rich. Shangqiu Kai, suffering from hunger and cold, hid north of the window and eavesdropped. So he borrowed some grain, carried a basket (a straw basket for carrying earth) on his back, and went to join Zihua’s household.

Interpretation of the Commentary

Hesheng and Zibo were both honored retainers of the Fan clan, so their understanding of the Fan clan’s power was necessarily very accurate. Their midnight discussion of Zihua’s power was not meant to exaggerate before others. Shangqiu Kai’s eavesdropping shows that their words came from sincerity and were not false. Therefore words among fellow partisans were all taken as true, and they only feared that their belief in Zihua was not deep enough and their obedience not quick enough.

Zihua’s retainers were all sons of established families, dressed in white, riding ornate carriages, walking slowly with measured steps, and gazing arrogantly. When they saw Shangqiu Kai—old and weak, dark-complexioned, with disheveled clothes and cap—none failed to slight him. Then they teased and deceived him, pushed and shoved him, and beat him, stopping at nothing. Shangqiu Kai never showed anger. When the retainers had exhausted their tricks and grown tired of the sport, they stopped.

Zihua’s followers took pleasure in mocking and teasing Shangqiu Kai, hoping thereby to outdo and humiliate him. Shangqiu Kai also regarded this as absurd insult and resented it in his heart. Yet Zihua’s mind was calm and unobstructed, and Shangqiu Kai met him with sincerity, never once showing a look of anger. Although the followers had many tricks, they soon exhausted them; though their jesting was lively, it soon grew weary. In the end they could not make Shangqiu Kai feel humiliated. Looking back at those earlier mockeries and jokes, was it not wasted effort that only brought humiliation upon themselves?

Thereupon Zihua and Shangqiu Kai ascended a high terrace together, and among the crowd Zihua said casually, “Whoever jumps down by himself, I will reward with a hundred jin of gold.” (A hundred jin of gold refers to a hundred jin of gold, emphasizing an extremely generous reward.) The crowd vied to respond. Shangqiu Kai believed it to be true and jumped down first. His body was light, and he landed like a flying bird, and was not hurt at all. (The original text is unclear here; this is understood from the context.)

Explanation: When the heart holds no suspicion or worry, and sincerity is kept within, body and mind become empty, still, and unobstructed. Thus his body was light and buoyant, and he fell from the high terrace like a flying bird without being injured—just as a drunken person falls from a carriage and, because body and mind are relaxed, is harmed differently from ordinary people.

The partisans of the Fan clan (the faction that joined Zihua in mocking Shangqiu Kai) thought this was merely accidental and did not find it strange. Then Zihua again pointed to a deep pool at a bend in the river and said, “There are precious pearls inside; dive and you can get them.” Shangqiu Kai again followed and dove into the water, and when he came out he had indeed obtained the pearls. Just as everyone was feeling doubtful, Zihua ordered meat and silk garments to be prepared in advance as rewards.

Explanation: If one harbors doubt and does not believe his words, then diving into the water will not obtain the pearls. Because Shangqiu Kai trusted Zihua and had no suspicion, he was able to obtain them.

This passage is a commentary that uses a story to illustrate how sincerity can resonate with all things. Someone readily believed another person’s claim that “there is a precious pearl in the water,” dove into the deep water, and actually obtained the pearl—and was not drowned. The commentator therefore holds that a belief of utmost sincerity can indeed resonate with external things. The precious pearl (a metaphor for the Great Dao, the Way) has a subtle essence and a wondrous function; the deeper one probes, the more it manifests, and it is everywhere present. If one seeks it with clever intelligence (“Mingzhi”), or demands it through verbal disputation (“Chigou,” referring to the eloquent disputer whom the Yellow Emperor sent to find the pearl in the Zhuangzi), one instead grows farther and farther from it. Only by being as sincere and undivided as “Xiangwang” (the person without mind or form, wholly in Wuwei, non-action) can one obtain the precious pearl. Shangqiu Kai’s sincerity is the same as Xiangwang’s; then what difference is there between his obtaining the pearl and Xiangwang’s obtaining it?

Before long, a great fire broke out in the Fan family’s storehouses. Zihua (that is, Zihuazi, a Daoist figure of the Warring States period) said, “Whoever can rush into the fire and bring out the brocade will be rewarded according to how much he brings out.” Shangqiu Kai (a personal name) showed no sign of difficulty; he went in and out through the fire, yet not a speck of dust clung to him, nor was his body scorched. The associates of the Fan clan (a great clan of the Jin state in the Spring and Autumn period, here used generically for wealthy and powerful households) thought he possessed Daoist arts, and together apologized to him, saying, “We did not know that you, sir, possessed Daoist arts, and so we deceived you; we did not know that you were a divine man, and so we treated you rudely. Are you making fools of us, blinding us, and playing with us? May we ask what your Dao is?”

Shangqiu Kai said, “I have no Dao; even my own mind does not know why. Still, there is a principle here, and I will try to explain it to you. In the past, when you two guests were staying at my house, I heard of the power and influence of the Fan clan: it could make the living die and the dead live, the rich poor and the poor rich. I sincerely believed this, and so I came from a thousand li away. After I arrived, I felt that everything you associates said was true. I only feared that my sincerity was insufficient and my action not up to it; I paid no attention at all to where my body should be placed, nor did I consider gain and loss, harm and benefit. In my mind there was only one thing. Things did not obstruct me—that is probably how it was. Only now do I understand that you associates were deceiving me. I harbor doubts and misgivings within, while outwardly boasting of my own experience. Looking back, I count myself fortunate that earlier I was not scorched or drowned; right now my heart is hot and agitated, and I am so frightened that my heart pounds without stop. How would I dare to go near water and fire again?”

First Passage

This passage is the commentator’s explanation of the preceding story. The Fan clan’s partisans had seen with their own eyes Shangqiu Kai dive into the water and obtain the precious pearl, and already found it strange; they still suspected he had extraordinary powers. Only when they saw him enter and leave fire, with smoke and dust not touching his body and his body not scorched, did they conclude that he was a person who possessed the Dao (the Way), and regard him as a divine man. This was probably because he jumped into the water from a high place, with no rock to rely on, or succeeded by chance by following the water’s flow. To be able to swim out of the water is something that people who learn swimming can also do. But flames are fierce: no matter whether things are beautiful or ugly, soft or hard, once cast into smoke and flame they all turn to ashes. If his body and mind had not been united with Shen (spirit) and numinous clarity and become one with vacuity and nothingness, so that his physical form was like withered wood or stubborn stone, how could he approach the flames?

Shangqiu Kai said: “I have no Daoist arts at all; even I do not know why I am able to be like this. It is only because I forgot private feelings and had no discriminating mind, with my mind focused singly and without duality, so that external things could not harm me. If one harbors suspicion in the heart and delights in showing off what one has seen and heard, then one is inwardly agitated and has already burned up the harmonious Qi (vital energy) within the body; how then could one enter fire without feeling heat? If the heart is frightened and trembling, one has already drowned one’s original nature within; how then could one enter water without getting wet?”

Second Passage

After this, when the disciples of the Fan clan met beggars and horse doctors on the road, they did not dare insult them, and would invariably get down from their carriages and bow to them.

Commentary

The commentator says: Zihua (a man of reputation and power among the Fan clan’s followers) did not treat beggars and horse doctors with contempt because he understood that fame, position, and power are not the true Dao. The noble person cultivates himself with great De (Virtue/Power), and his outward appearance seems simple and foolish; therefore he can forget power, and even when the other person is lowly, he dares not insult him. This too is the result of being transformed by a heart of utmost sincerity.

The commentator also says that Shangqiu Kai treated things with sincerity and without duplicity; even a Perfected person (zhiren), a person of the highest moral cultivation, who guards himself with pure Qi, could not surpass him. As for those who harbor suspicion and show off what they have seen and heard, they remain deluded ordinary people. From this one knows that the ultimate Dao lies within oneself and need not be sought outside; when there is realization, there are also no gradual stages. The difference between a sage and a madman lies only in whether one can restrain one’s thoughts, and the interruption or continuation of a thought is but a matter of an instant. How can one not be cautious?

Zai Wo heard about this matter and told Confucius. Confucius said: “Do you not know? A person of true sincerity can move all things, shake Heaven and Earth, communicate with ghosts and spirits, and range through the four quarters with no one opposing him. How could this be merely a matter of braving danger and treading through fire?”

This passage explains: if one merely takes what is right as a matter of keeping faith, that is only a small faithfulness that has not yet reached true sincerity. Perfect trust is trusting without deliberately seeking, like “pijin” (the original uses this to illustrate the perfect trust that “trusts without expectation”). A person of perfect trust does not doubt himself within, and the outside world does not doubt him either; his state of mind is utterly empty, he is not at odds with things, and he is utterly pure and free of distracting thoughts. Therefore he can participate in the vastness of Heaven and Earth and assist in their transforming and nurturing work. He can go even to the lands of the Man and Mo (ancient designations for peoples of remote regions), and he can affect even pigs and fish (tiny creatures; the Zhongfu hexagram of the Zhouyi contains the phrase “pigs and fish: auspicious”). This is what is meant by “moving Heaven and Earth, affecting ghosts and spirits, and extending across the six directions without opposition.”

As for Weisheng, who clung to a pillar and drowned, and Bao Jiao (an ancient recluse who held to his own intent until death), who embraced a tree and was burned—these are not faults of sincerity. This is stubbornly mistaking rigidity for sincerity; it is not perfect trust.

Shangqiu Kai (a personal name; the original uses him as an example), even though what he trusted was false, still was not opposed by external things—how much less so when both sides are sincere? My young disciples, remember this.

The explanation states: sincerity lies within oneself; even if external things are false, they become real through it. Delusion resides in the mind; even when circumstances are favorable, one still feels them to be adverse. One who cultivates himself should only devote himself to his own sincerity, while the sage’s benevolent relief must wait until both parties are sincere before it ceases. As the “Tangwen” chapter of the Liezi says of “the seeds of immortals and sages” (in legend, the seeds of immortals and sages, able to travel among the immortal mountains), they go back and forth among the five immortal mountains (the five immortal mountains said in legend to lie in the sea) in a single day and night—this is probably the condition of mutual sincerity.

Tell young people to remember this: the Great Dao exists in people and does not differ according to youth or age. This is precisely where you should strive; why wait until old age to hear the Dao?

As for the so-called Zihua (a Daoist figure of the Warring States period, whose book is the Zihua Zi), he took empty honor and lack of real accomplishment as his reputation, and was inherently one to rely on fame and power to show off before others.

“Shang” is the gathering-in of sound, “qiu” is ground rising in the middle, and “kai” is the opening and arising of the myriad things; together they form “Shangqiu Kai.” Therefore, at first he could enter water and fire without being harmed, but in the end he believed that water and fire could no longer come near him.

Interpretation of the Scripture

Among the subordinates of King Xuan of Zhou’s pasture supervisor—the official in charge of livestock—was a laborer named Liang Yang, who was skilled at taming wild birds and beasts. He kept them in a park, and even fierce birds and beasts such as tigers, wolves, eagles, and ospreys became gentle. Males and females paired, bred, and formed flocks; animals of different species lived together without fighting or biting one another. King Xuan of Zhou worried that this skill would be lost when Liang Yang died, so he ordered Mao Qiuyuan to study it with him.

Liang Yang declined, saying: “I am only a lowly laborer; what skill do I have that I could tell you? I fear only that the king may think I am hiding something, so I will briefly speak of my method for raising tigers.”

He continued: In general, when one follows an animal’s intentions, it is pleased; when one opposes them, it becomes angry. This is the innate nature of every creature with blood and Qi (vital energy). Yet joy and anger do not arise without cause; they are all provoked by human opposition. Therefore those who raise tigers dare not feed them living creatures, for fear that the act of seizing and killing will stir their anger; nor do they dare feed them whole dead creatures, for fear that tearing them apart will stir their anger. One must grasp the timing of their hunger and fullness and understand their shifts of mood. A tiger is not of the same kind as man, yet it draws close to the one who rears it because he follows it; and it injures people because they oppose it. That being so, how would I dare deliberately provoke its anger? Nor do I deliberately curry favor with it. For after joy there is often a turn to anger, and after anger there is often a turn back to joy; both depart from centeredness and harmony. Now in my mind there is no longer any distinction between opposition and compliance, and the birds and beasts regard me as they regard their own kind. Thus the birds and beasts that come into my park no longer long for the high forests and broad wilds; those that nest in my courtyard do not wish to return to the deep mountains and secluded valleys. This is simply how things are.

Interpretation of the Commentary

The commentary explains “the nature of blood and Qi” from the perspective of human physiology: in the human body, blood is what the heart stores, and Qi is what the lungs govern; when Qi moves, blood flows along with it. This uses the principle of the movement of blood and Qi in the human body as an analogy for the principle that all things possess blood and Qi and all possess an innate nature.

Humans, like all things, possess a nature of blood and Qi. In the human body, blood is stored by the heart and Qi is governed by the lungs; when Qi moves, blood follows. Over a day and a night, a person breathes approximately 13,500 times (one exhalation and one inhalation make one breath). Blood and Qi circulate throughout the body: when awake they move over the body’s surface and through the four limbs; when asleep they move through the internal organs, never pausing for a moment. The circulation of blood and Qi has its proper measure; if it is too fast or too slow, illness results—in mild cases sickness, in severe cases death. From this it is clear that blood and Qi can only be followed, not opposed.

Once there is the nature of blood and Qi, there are circumstances of the favorable and the adverse; hence the emotions of joy and anger arise, and resentment and gratitude, the giving and taking of life, reach every extreme. Yet what makes a human human is that, although one cannot oppose one’s own Qi, one can command it; although one cannot depart from one’s own nature, one can regulate it. This is precisely why humans are said to possess the Dao. Although humans have feelings of joy and anger, when they arise they can be exactly appropriate and accord with due measure.

As for flying birds and submerged scaly creatures, those with feathers on their bodies, horns on their heads, sharp teeth in their mouths, and sharp claws—whether they fly aloft or crawl along the ground—they know the benefits of survival and only obey the promptings of blood and Qi. Thus when a bird is driven to extremity it strikes, and when a beast is driven to extremity it fights. If one wished to make them docile and let them live mixed with humans without fighting and biting one another, would that not be very difficult?

Yet tigers, wolves, eagles, and ospreys are the fiercest among birds and beasts. They share with humans the same blood and Qi, and their minds and intelligence do not differ far from those of humans. If only one can satisfy their desires, feed them on schedule and let them eat their fill, accommodate what they are compliant toward, and avoid what they resist, there are none that cannot be tamed. To satisfy and accommodate their joy and anger, however, is merely the method of rearing them. The reason they can pair as male and female, mate and reproduce, gather in flocks and live together, and mix with other species without fighting or devouring one another lies chiefly in the human mind making no distinction between the compliant and the resistant. How can this be known? Satisfying their joy and anger does not make them forget joy and anger. The alternation of joy and anger is like the coming and going of Yin-Yang: to oppose their nature and forcefully offend them is, to be sure, impermissible; but to follow them blindly and delight them is likewise not the middle way. Even if for a time one can comply with them and make them joyful, that joy and anger still remain.

The alternation of joy and anger is like the coming and going of Yin-Yang; it is originally a principle of nature. If one intentionally goes against it or offends it, then of course one cannot have things go as one wishes and rejoice; even if one occasionally follows it and feels glad, there will eventually be times when it is offended and anger is stirred, so this is not the proper middle way. Only when neither joy nor anger is displayed outwardly, and one neither courts nor resists external things, will external things no longer be divided, in relation to me, into the adverse and the favorable.

For this reason birds and beasts look upon me as one of their own kind. The reason birds and beasts startle and scatter, flee and hide, and run only to high forests and great marshes, deep mountains and secluded valleys, is to avoid harm and stay with their own kind. Now that they regard me as their own kind, they sport in my garden and roost in my courtyard; dwelling together with people and walking alongside them, they are already quite happy—how would they have leisure to rush off to deep mountains and secluded forests, or envy the steep streams and valleys? To have no thought of adverse or favorable in the mind—this is the subtle wonder of wordless Wuwei (non-action); it secretly accords with the nature of birds and beasts and makes even beasts that are originally strong and combative become gentle and tame. One may call it exceedingly subtle.

King Xuan of Zhou knew how to cherish this method of Liang Yang (traditionally a man skilled at taming wild birds and beasts) and handed it down, but when it came to governing the state, he merely concerned himself with counting the population (liaomin, taking a census) and did not understand how to apply this method—he was truly poor at reflection. If he could use this principle to govern the people, causing everyone under Heaven to dwell in Zaiyou (letting things follow their nature without disturbance) and bringing about settled and joyful customs, it would have been easy.

In the text, the name “Liang Yang” is explained in the commentary as follows: yang is a kind of water bird that goes in pairs, gentle in disposition and matching one another; “Liang Yang” refers to the manner in which they come to rest in places such as roof beams, each finding its proper place. “Mao Qiuyuan” refers to a hill-garden where feathered birds gather, have abundant food and drink, and are glad to roost. This is precisely why Liang Yang was able to tame wild birds and beasts, and also why King Xuan of Zhou had Mao Qiuyuan (here either a personal name or a person who took this as his sobriquet) transmit and practice this method.

Yan Yuan asked Confucius, “I once crossed the Shangtan Deep—a dangerous, deep stretch of water—and the ferryman there handled the boat with truly marvelous skill. I asked him, ‘Can this skill of piloting a boat be learned?’ He said, ‘Yes. One who can swim can be taught; one who is good at swimming masters it quickly. As for those naturally skilled at diving (the “submerged ones”), they have never seen a boat and yet can handle one.’ I asked him again, but he would not tell me. May I ask what this means?”

Confucius said, “You and I have studied these words for a long time, and yet you have not penetrated their substance—do you really think you can simply put it into words? When it is said that ‘one who can swim can be taught,’ it means that such a person can make light of water and does not regard it as dangerous. When it is said that ‘one who is good at swimming masters it quickly,’ it means that he has already forgotten the water. As for those naturally skilled at diving, who have never seen a boat yet can handle one, it is because they look upon the deep abyss as level ground and regard a capsizing boat as no more than a cart backing up. Even if every kind of overturning and capsizing were laid out before them, it could not enter their minds; wherever they go, they are calm and at ease.”

Explanation: Water is what bears up the boat; one who learns to pilot a boat should first understand this fundamental point.

First Paragraph

Water is what bears boats, and those learning to steer boats should understand this fundamental principle. If one learns only the ferryman’s technique of rowing but not his cultivation as a ferryman, then even if one learns his superior points, one can transmit only his technique and cannot fully bring his skill into play. (Jinren: a ferryman at a ford.)

Some people are familiar with the nature of water and skilled at swimming; even without having learned to steer a boat, they can reach the ferryman’s high level. The reason is this: those unfamiliar with water, when they see a ford by the water, are frightened and trembling, worrying only about drowning—how could they even speak of steering a boat? Therefore, those who do not make water a matter of concern can be taught; those who forget water often achieve success. As for those skilled at diving (meiren), they have never seen a boat, so they need not rely on a boat to swim; they even forget the boat, and thus wherever they go they are calm and free.

Crossing water is like crossing danger and hardship; those who govern worldly affairs are like one steering a boat to rescue the people from a place of danger. Only one who has attained the Dao (the Way) can easily forget worldly disturbances, enter and exit amid countless transformations without being troubled, and therefore always have ease and abundance when saving the world. Yan Hui’s advancing and retreating, taking and relinquishing, were the same as the sage’s; therefore Confucius appreciated both his outward brilliance and his actual cultivation. (Yongshe Xingcang: from the Analects, “When employed, act; when set aside, hide,” referring to entering office and withdrawing, advancing and retreating, taking and relinquishing.)

Second Paragraph

This paragraph repeats the first and has the same meaning: those who dwell in the world enter and exit amid myriad changes without being troubled; therefore, when saving the world, they have ease and abundance. Yan Hui’s advancing and retreating, taking and relinquishing, accord with the sage; for this reason Confucius both appreciated his refinement and recognized his substance.

Third Paragraph

Those who use tiles as stakes have the highest skill; those who use belt hooks as stakes become apprehensive; those who use gold as stakes become confused in mind. (Kou is interchangeable with zhu, meaning to place a bet or stake. This passage comes from Zhuangzi, “Dasheng”: “Those who stake tiles are skillful; those who stake hooks are apprehensive; those who stake gold are confused.”)

The skill itself is the same; only because one is restrained and values winning or losing—that is, values external things—does it become otherwise. Whoever values external things will inevitably have the inner mind constrained and find it difficult to bring his skill into play.

The more highly people value what they pursue, the more attached their minds become; once the mind is attached, wisdom grows dim and clever thought is lost along with it. Skill lies within oneself, while things lie outside. One may already be skilled, yet because of attachment one becomes clumsy. Why not first draw the boundary between inner and outer? If one looks upon gold as roof tiles, one will be at ease everywhere and skillful in all that one does, and what one pursues will no longer be able to bind one. Yet this ultimately cannot be forced; only one who has attained the Dao can do it naturally. Moreover, to begin with skill and end in clumsiness—this is “becoming clumsy through skill.” If cleverness is no longer allowed to remain, one will not weigh the relative importance of what one pursues, and when encountering affairs one may in fact not be unskillful. Then is what the world regards as “skill” not precisely the greatest clumsiness? That is why Laozi says, “Great skill appears clumsy.”

The heading at the beginning of the fascicle states that this fascicle is the fourth fascicle of the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing Jie (Explanation of the True Scripture of the Vast Void and Ultimate Virtue), composed by Jiang Yu of the Song dynasty—a work that annotates the Liezi—and that Jiang Yu was at the time an inner-hall student at the Hangzhou prefectural school. The two characters “Huangdi” are the title of the next chapter, namely the opening “Yellow Emperor” chapter of the Liezi.

Confucius was viewing the water at Lüliang. There the waterfall was thirty ren high, and the foam it churned up stretched for thirty li; even soft-shell turtles, alligators, fish, and terrapins could not swim in it. Confucius saw a man swimming in the water and, thinking he was in difficulty and meant to kill himself, had his disciples run along the current, ready to rescue him. After swimming several hundred paces, the man came ashore, his hair unbound, singing as he walked, until he reached Tanghang (which should be “Tangxia,” the low ground beneath the embankment).

Confucius caught up with him and asked: “The waterfall at Lüliang is thirty ren high, its foam stretches thirty li, and soft-shell turtles, alligators, fish, and terrapins cannot swim in it. Just now I saw you in the water and thought you were suffering and wanted to die, so I sent my disciples along the bank to meet and assist you. But when you came out with your hair unbound, singing as you walked, I thought you were a ghost; only after looking closely did I realize you were a person. May I ask whether you have some knack for moving in the water?”

The man said: “I have no knack. I begin with the nature I was born with, follow that nature as I grow, and reach completion through Heaven’s mandate. I enter the water together with the whirlpools and come up together with the surging current. Following the principle of the water without mixing in private intention—this is why I can be like this.”

Confucius asked again: “What do you mean by ‘beginning in gu, growing in xing, and completing in ming’?”

The man answered: “I was born among hills and uplands and am at peace among hills and uplands—this is gu (habit, the old environment). I grew up in the water and am at peace in the water—this is xing (the natural expression of one’s nature). As for why I am like this and can be so, I cannot say the reason—this is ming (the Heaven-determined principle that is so without one’s knowing why).”

Interpretation:

The commentator says: creatures that grow in water do not change their watery nature just because the water changes; human beings, by contrast, are born on land and simply find peace on land. The old man of Lüliang can swim in torrents where even soft-shell turtles, alligators, fish, and terrapins cannot swim because his nature contains a particular endowment for this. It is precisely because he has such a nature that he could grow up in water and be at peace in it. Although he can already be at peace in water, he has not yet reached the state of “being so without knowing why it is so.” This shows that he has not yet succeeded in following the principle of the water without mixing in private intention. Thus, although his skill is exquisite, it is not yet sublime, and so his words must ultimately come down to ming. As for ordinary people, they are like those Zhuangzi calls “those who obtain it and thereby swim the great river”: they refer to people who can cross a great river by relying on some external support or skill.

Zhuangzi Fable: The Hunchbacked Old Man Catches Cicadas

Confucius was on his way to Chu. Passing through a grove, he saw a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas with a pole. His movements were as effortless as reaching out to pick something up. Confucius asked him, “You are truly skillful—do you have some knack?” The old man replied, “I have a Dao.” He said: “During the fifth and sixth months…”

This passage first tells the story of “cheng tiao” (catching cicadas with a pole). In Zhuangzi’s “The Full Understanding of Life” (Dasheng), a hunchbacked old man catches cicadas with a pole, his movements as effortless as picking something up from the ground. He says that being able to stack several pellets on the tip of the pole without their falling shows that body and mind are settled, the arm is steady, and the will is focused. With such skill applied to catching cicadas, it is like picking them up at will. The cicada’s wings are light and swift, yet he can still obtain them in this way, showing that he has entered the realm of the Dao (the Way)—not through cunning or clever calculation—and so he says, “I have the Dao.”

When he stands, his body is motionless like a wooden post, and his arm is still like a withered branch; inwardly he can forget the self. He does not let the myriad things alter his concentration on the cicada’s wings, and external things therefore cannot disturb him—this is forgetting external things. When both things and self are forgotten, how could this be useful only for catching cicadas? Thus Confucius praised him for “not dividing his will,” that is, focusing the mind and will and concentrating it in the spirit. When the will is divided, the spirit is depleted; when the will is focused, the spirit is concentrated. This is what is called “guarding pure Qi (vital energy)”—the cultivation of maintaining the purity and oneness of Jing (essence) and Qi—and the principle is simply this.

That hunchbacked old man (Goulou Zhangren) only let his bodily form be broken and incomplete, and did not exert effort in external affairs. Confucius at that time, by contrast, wore broad-sleeved Confucian robes and promoted Confucian virtue in the state of Lu. The old man therefore had Confucius remove those adornments used for worldly purposes, and only then add this teaching on top of it.

The cicada, as a creature, abandons what is foul and tends toward what is pure and lofty; it cries out according to the season, eats nothing, and seeks nothing. One who can understand the way of the cicada’s molting and escaping the bonds of bodily form—this is why “catching cicadas” is used to convey this principle.

The next story tells of a man by the sea who loved seagulls (ou birds). Every morning he went to the seashore to play with the seagulls, and as many as a hundred or more gathered. His father said, “I hear the seagulls all play with you. Catch a few and bring them back, so I can play with them too.” The next day when he went to the sea, the seagulls only circled in the air and would not come down. Therefore it is said: the highest speech is not speaking, and the highest action is Wuwei (non-action). If one seeks to understand it through worldly cleverness, what one gains will be shallow.

Commentary: The scripture says: Once deluded thoughts are present in the mind, the spirit is disturbed. Mind and spirit correspond to one another as outer and inner. If I disturb the spirit, external things will disturb me as well.

People by the sea played together with seagulls because in their minds there was no thought of opposing or welcoming. As soon as the thought of catching the seagulls arose in the mind, the spirit was disturbed, and so the seagulls only wheeled in the air and would not alight. Moreover, if one meets external things without resistance, all things will be so—why only seagulls? It was merely because that man’s fondness was entirely fixed on the seagulls that the seagulls drew near him.

To humans, seagulls are originally of a different kind, yet the unspoken and unmoving thoughts in a person’s mind were subtly detected by them. From this we may know that in cultivating myself and governing things, why should I need to rely on words to win trust or on actions to make myself known? What ordinary people can know through cleverness is truly shallow. In the Liezi, that the seagulls flew over first was precisely because that man’s mind had already alarmed them.

(Note: The “five beverages” are the five drinks mentioned in the Liezi; “first offered” means to present food first. Here the sentence “Liezi was first offered among the five beverages” is rather abbreviated in the original; its general meaning is that Liezi used this to explain that mental intentions are perceived before actions.)

Zhao Xiangzi led a hundred thousand men hunting in Zhongshan, burning the fields to drive out the game. The fire spread for a hundred li, with raging flames. Suddenly a man walked out from within a stone wall, drifting up and down amid the smoke, dust, and fire. Everyone thought he was a ghost or spirit. After the great fire had passed, this man slowly walked out, as if he had experienced nothing. Zhao Xiangzi found it strange and kept him there, observing him carefully: his form, complexion, and seven apertures were all those of a human; his breathing and voice were also human. He then asked him: How is it that you dwell in stone? And how did you enter the fire? The man said: What is called stone? What is called fire? Zhao Xiangzi said: The place you just came out from is a stone wall; the place you just passed through is fire. The man said: I do not know.

People are burdened by external things, and external things can hinder them, because physical form creates separation, making it impossible to merge with the myriad things as one. In reality, things and the self are originally no different; the distinction arises only because cognitions and discriminating minds (views and perceptions) come into being. Knowing that stone is hard, its hardness prevents one from penetrating it; knowing that fire is fierce, its blazing heat keeps one from approaching. Yet the burning of fire and the hardness of stone are not something the utterly unknowing person can eliminate. Only by using a mind free of knowing to realize that realm beyond knowing, making the mind clear and pure, leaving not a trace of attachment in the chest—then even bone and flesh can merge with the myriad things, joining in the Great Sameness (the state of undifferentiated unity with all things). Attaining the Great Sameness, one forgets the self, and so external things can no longer obstruct such a person. People today pass in and out through stone walls, drift up and down with smoke, flame, and ashes, yet when asked the way to pass through stone and enter fire, they say they do not know. Not only do they not know the principle behind it—they have forgotten stone and fire themselves as well. This is true not-knowing. That being so, how could stone and fire obstruct them?

Marquis Wen of Wei (ruler of the state of Wei during the Warring States period) heard of this and asked Zixia (a disciple of Confucius): What kind of person is that? Zixia said: I have heard the Master (Confucius) say that one whose heart is harmonious and attuned, communicating with the myriad things, cannot be harmed by external things—such a person can roam among metal and stone, walk through water and fire, all without difficulty. Marquis Wen asked: Why do you not do so yourself? Zixia said: To cast off the calculating mind and remove cleverness—this I am not yet able to do. However, I can try to explain the principle to you. Marquis Wen asked: Then why does the Master not do so? Zixia said: The Master is one who is capable of it but does not do it. Marquis Wen was greatly pleased.

The commentary says: When can and cannot complete each other, this is called "harmony." To cling rigidly to "being" means one cannot achieve harmony; to hide away in "non-being" also cannot be called harmony. Roughly speaking, "non-being" means doing nothing yet failing to accord with principle; "being" means having entanglements and failing to accord with the Dao.

Only when things can complete one another is it called “harmony.” If one clings obstinately to “Being,” it cannot be called harmony; if one hides away in “Non-being,” it likewise cannot be called harmony. To cling to “Non-being” is to become inactive and turn away from the nature of things; to cling to “Being” is to be obstructed by things and deviate from the Great Dao (the Way). Only by neither discarding the respective functions of “Being” and “Non-being” and by dispelling attachment to both at once can one attain Great Harmony with all things. What is called “Great Harmony” is to bring differences into accord through difference itself. When what is different is thus brought into accord, things do not injure one another: stone does not reject the fierceness of fire on account of its hardness, and therefore fire cannot harm it; nor will I be obstructed.

Zixia heard this principle from Confucius. Although Zixia had not yet been able to cleanse his cunning mind and remove cleverness, he still had leisure to discuss this Dao—how much more so Confucius! Confucius did not do this, not because he was unable to do it, but because he did not wish to. Those who are unable to do it simply do not do it; those who are able to do it but cannot keep from doing it are driven by their own capacity and inevitably cannot do this. Only one who can do it yet does not do it, or who does it without knowing why he does so, is truly omnipotent.

I once conjectured that the legendary man of Zhao could enter stone and fire without being injured because he did not know danger. Yet plants and trees are also without knowledge—why can they not escape being burned or drowned by water and fire, or blocked by metal and stone? It is because they are attached within the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water): wood is soft and bends, water is weak, metal is hard, fire is fierce, earth is level. Among the Five Phases there is mutual generation, mutual completion, mutual overcoming, and mutual control—how could plants and trees escape such transformations? Humans are the most intelligent of the myriad creatures, formed by the coalescence of the harmonious Qi between Heaven and Earth; they can communicate above with Heaven and accord below with Earth, and can belong to Yin as well as to Yang. The “not knowing” spoken of is not the dull ignorance of plants and trees; it is to contain and nurture harmonious Qi, guard primal Qi, and fuse completely with all things, without feeling that one differs from others. Such a person may move among metal and stone and tread upon water and fire—where could he not go?

Viewed among other creatures, there are birds that fly in the sky, fish that dive in the depths, insects that hide in wood, and rats that move through fire—all these are brought about by the transformations of Yin-Yang. Having received only one side of Yin-Yang, they can still do such things; how much more so the sage, who is in Great Harmony with Yin-Yang and in whom the power of creation resides personally? Wherever he enters, he finds joy in himself—why must he wait until he has personally tried it before believing?

Summary of the Original Text

A spirit shaman came from Qi to Zheng, named Jixian. He could determine a person’s life and death, survival and ruin, misfortune and fortune, and length of lifespan, down to the year, month, ten-day period, and day, like a god. When the people of Zheng saw him, they all fled in fright. After Liezi saw Jixian, his mind was overwhelmed; returning, he told his teacher Huqiu Zi (Huzi): “I had thought the Master’s Dao was supreme; now it seems there is something higher.”

Annotation One: On the Spirit Shaman and Jixian

In ancient times, when people’s spirit was single-minded and pure, the divine could descend upon them. Men who practiced this kind of communication with spirits and divination were called “wu” (shamans); Jixian is called a “spirit shaman,” indicating his great refinement in this art. The name “Jixian” means that even in youth he had a strong capacity to sense things. He could see through others because he discerned their hearts; he could foreknow their fortune and misfortune because their circumstances could not be hidden from him. All who are bound by bodily form are deluded by fate—life and death, survival and ruin, misfortune and fortune, longevity and early death—and Jixian could know the outcome in advance. This is precisely what the ignorant call “the ultimate.”

Huzi’s Response

Huzi said: “I have only shown you the outer pattern (wen), not yet revealed the inner substance (shi). How could you conclude that I have attained the Dao? With only the female and no male, how could eggs be hatched? You use the Dao to contend with the world, so you are bound to be seen through; that is why Jixian can read your physiognomy.”

Annotation Two: On “Wen” and “Shi”

“Wen” is the outward manifestation of things; “shi” is the true core of the Dao. To have only outward manifestation and no inner substance is like having only the female and no male: how could one stand before the ten thousand things and transform and nourish them? Liezi contended with the world by means of the Dao, and so Jixian could judge his fortune and misfortune and see through his destiny. This shows that Liezi had learned only Huzi’s outer “wen” and had not obtained his inner “shi.” From what, then, could he escape the bonds of bodily form?

One day, Liezi again brought that spirit-medium (Jixian) to visit Huzi. After the medium came out, he said to Liezi: “Alas, your master is about to die; he cannot live; within ten days he will be gone. I saw an uncanny portent, like sodden dead ashes.” Liezi went in, wept until his tears soaked the quilt, and told Huzi. Huzi said: “Just now what I showed him was ‘Earthly Patterns’ (Diwen)—the state in which the earth is still and the myriad things do not move, meaning the mind is utterly quiet like dead ashes. What he saw was my appearance of ‘sprouting, yet neither shaken nor still.’ This is probably his seeing my ‘Du De Ji’—the blocking of the De (Virtue/Power) mechanism; the state in which vitality is closed and stored, not exposed.”

After some days, Liezi brought the spirit-medium again. The medium came out and said: “Fortunately your master met me; he is saved! Dead ashes have reignited; vitality has appeared; I saw the stirring of life.” Liezi went in and told Huzi. Huzi said: “Just now what I showed him was ‘Heavenly Terrain’ (Tianrang)—the realm between heaven and earth that is empty and penetrating, not constrained by names and forms. Neither names nor realities entered my mind, and vitality sprouted from my heels. This is called ‘Du Quan’—a slight disclosure within the closed store of vitality. This is probably his seeing my good vitality.”

After several more days, the spirit-medium came again. After he came out, he said: “Your master’s mind is not still; I cannot read his physiognomy. Wait until he has fasted and purified body and mind, and I will come again tomorrow morning to examine him.” Liezi went in and told Huzi. Huzi said: “Just now what I showed him was ‘the Great Vastness without trace’ (Taichong Mo Zhen)—the Great Void, harmonious and balanced, with no trace to be found. This is probably his seeing my ‘balanced Qi’ (vital energy)—the Qi of Yin-Yang that is peaceful and harmonious, centered and unbiased.”

The “Nine Abysses” (Jiuyuan) that the spirit-medium saw refer to the places where various water currents swirl and gather: the spot where the salamander-fish coils, still water, flowing water, overflowing water, Wo water, Wan water, blocked water, Gui water, and so on. Each gathering of a current can form a deep pool; hence they are called the “Nine Abysses.”

After another day, the spirit-medium came again. Before he had steadied himself, he fled in panic. Huzi said: “Go quickly and chase him!” Liezi could not catch up, returned, and reported: “He has already vanished, already disappeared; I cannot catch him.” Huzi said: “Just now what I showed him was ‘not yet emerging from my ancestral source’ (Wei Shi Chu Wu Zong)—never departing from the fundamental source, that is, returning to the origin and making no distinction between self and other. I was empty, still, and traceless with him, following along and yielding (weiyi)—bending and stretching with things, without attachment. He had no way to fathom who I really was; to him I seemed to bend with the grasses and trees and drift with the waves—and so he fled.”

This passage discusses the story of Ji Xian (a spirit medium from the state of Zheng who could read a person’s physiognomy and determine life, death, misfortune, and fortune) and Huqiu Zi (Liezi’s teacher) in the “Huangdi” chapter of the Liezi. Jiang Yu uses it to explain the principle of “showing” and “seeing”: the act of showing lies with the one who shows, while whether it can be seen lies with the other. When the display reveals something, the observer can see something.

Huqiu Zi first showed “Earthly Pattern” (diwen; the state of the earth at rest), which inclines toward Yin and softness. It does not shake, does not flow, and is utterly still, so Ji Xian saw only that vital life was closed and stored, and judged that this person “was about to die and was not alive.” Then he showed “Heaven and Earth” (tianrang; the state in which vital life issues outward between heaven and earth), which inclines toward Yang and hardness. Names and actualities were both dissolved, yet there was still a mark of self; although the Qi-mechanism radiated outward, the breathing was deep, so Ji Xian saw vitality surging forth and judged that this person “had life.” The so-called “Duquan” (blocking the expedient) means that at first, when he saw the Earthly Pattern, he did not know that it was closed and stored vitality; only when he saw Heaven and Earth did he understand that the mechanism of closure and storage was merely a temporary expedient, changing with circumstances.

When it came to “the Great Thoroughfare Without Sign” (Taichong Mozhen; the state of utmost emptiness in which no trace can be seen), it was entirely different. Within it the Qi of ultimate harmony dispersed in all directions, unfathomable; vitality was balanced and filled heaven and earth; while externally responding to the myriad transformations, it remained throughout undisturbed. This deep and still state was like the nine abysses within water. Therefore Ji Xian had no way to see it in this realm.

The nine abysses refer to the depths of water. Water by nature has no fixed form: it bends according to the lay of the land, becomes square or round according to the vessel; it may swirl, stop, rush, or overflow; it may gather from below or branch off from the side; it may wind back and re-enter, or surge forward; it may proceed from the same to the different; though it undergoes nine transformations, it remains deep and self-possessed. When the Dao reaches this state, it transcends life and death. What Ji Xian could know was only matters after birth—how could he read people’s destinies?

Yet “the Great Thoroughfare Without Sign” still rested on Qi, so it was still necessary to reveal it through subtle, incipient workings. When it reached the state of “not yet emerging from my ancestral source” (weishi chu wuzong), although the person was still human, he was already united with Heaven. Although he responded to all things, he could always plant his root deeply and rest securely in the ultimate. Ji Xian therefore panicked and lost his composure, fled, and Liezi chased him but could not catch up.

The relation between the false and the true is like rain and snow melting upon meeting sunlight. Hence it says, “It is already extinguished, already lost.” As for the fact that “not yet emerging from my ancestral source” still had something shown, this is because the ultimate Dao, though profound and mysterious, is not without manifestation. For example, sunlight shines on all things, but a blind person cannot see it—is the fault then with the sun?

Huqiu Zi took emptiness as his substance and dwelt in a central and high place. Dwelling in the central and high, he seemed approachable; but taking emptiness as his substance, he never contended with the world. This is precisely why Ji Xian could not see through him.

Part One: Liezi Shuts His Door and Cultivates Himself

Liezi felt that he had not yet mastered the teaching, so he returned home and did not go out for three years. He tended the fire and cooked for his wife; when he ate, he simply ate, like any ordinary person who eats, without giving rise to discriminating thoughts. He no longer drew close to worldly affairs. He stripped away ornamentation and returned to plainness, whole and independent, existing only as his own bodily form. The profusion of external things and transformations all gathered back with it and no longer stirred him. In the end, he passed his whole life in this state.

The commentary means: “Not going out for three years” is being cut off from external things. “Cooking for his wife yet eating like an ordinary person” is forgetting the self. “Having no closeness to worldly affairs” is removing cunning and preconceptions. “Stripping away ornamentation, returning to plainness, whole and independent” is returning to the original state of life and causing the single true nature to reveal itself. The myriad transformations, vast and complex, ultimately all return to the constant Dao. “Using this one to the end” means penetrating ten thousand generations without change. When Liezi’s cultivation of the Dao reached this stage, he wished thereby to show the world the path back to original nature; hence he spoke as he did.

Part Two: Liezi Returns Because of “Fright”

Liezi set out for Qi. Halfway there, he turned back and met his teacher Bohun Wuren (Liezi’s master). Bohun Wuren asked: “Why have you returned midway?” Liezi said: “I was frightened.” Bohun Wuren asked: “What frightened you?” Liezi said: “On the road I went to ten shops that sold drinks, and five of them rushed to bring drinks and offer them to me.”

Bohun Wuren said: “If that is so, why should you be frightened?” Liezi said: “If the inner mind cannot preserve undivided sincerity and reverence, then outward traces will display a brilliant light, with which one overawes others, making people slight the noble and the elderly and instead occupy themselves only with responding to what worries them. Those drink-sellers merely make their living by selling food and drink, with little surplus and meager profit, and their station is low—yet even they are like this. How much more so a ruler with ten thousand chariots of war! Their bodies are worn out by affairs of state, and their intellects are exhausted by government. They will entrust affairs to me and demand that I establish achievements. This is why I am frightened.”

Human nature is like water: it congeals into ice, and when it melts it is water again. When congealed, its form is stable; when melted, its function is inexhaustible. The mind of the Perfected Person is like ice about to melt and return to a clear, limpid state; its original brightness naturally appears. How could it still need to flaunt its brilliance outward and be constrained by external things?

If a person inwardly boasts of intelligence and cleverness and cannot dissolve his attachment to external things, then once that attachment congeals, he will deliberately put his skills on display and let his sharp edges show, and everyone will be able to see through to his true measure. This is like those petty drink-sellers, whose power is slight and whose profit is meager. They made light of the principle of “honoring Laozi” (Guilao: taking stillness and non-contention as precious), and so invited the very troubles they feared. The commentary says that chi means disorder, referring to the troubles he worries about arriving one after another. Qi was a great state in the Central Plains, a place for establishing achievements and serving in office. Therefore, when Liezi went to Qi, midway he was alarmed by gifts from five drink-sellers and turned back. However, being alarmed by this matter is not the same as what Laozi calls “favor and disgrace are both like alarm” (remaining alert whether favored or disgraced, and not treating them as gain or loss).

Bohun Maoren (Liezi’s teacher) said: “Excellent, your observation! If you settle yourself, others will come to protect you.” Before long, Liezi went again, and shoes were already piled up outside the door.

The commentary says: Being alarmed because he had first received gifts from five drink-sellers was a sign of skill in inward examination. “Settling oneself” means not losing one’s own form and spirit and preserving one’s original authenticity; this is precisely why the shoes outside the door were piled full.

Bohun Maoren stood facing north (the ritual in ancient times for a minister or disciple visiting a teacher), propped his chin on his staff, stood for a while, said not a word, and left. The guests told Liezi about this. Liezi, carrying his shoes, ran out barefoot, caught up with him at the gate, and asked: “Since you, Master, have come, would you refuse to leave me your instruction?”

Standing facing north was to distinguish the boundaries between things. Tapping his chin with his staff, he forgot himself. Leaving without speaking is the state of forgetting words, and it is also a kind of discrimination. Liezi picked up his shoes and ran barefoot, which shows that he still could not silently grasp the teaching of “not speaking”; he was so eager to seek the Dao that he forgot his own feet. Moreover, running barefoot is already different from dwelling at ease. Zhuangzi’s “The Sign of Virtue Complete” mentions people crippled by the loss of their toes several times; this is probably what it means.

The Master said: “I told you long ago that others would protect you, and now indeed someone has protected you. It is not that you can make others protect you; it is that you cannot make others refrain from protecting you. Why use such a moving manner? Once the mind is stirred, one reveals an appearance different from ordinary people. Moreover, since there is something that stirs you, shaking your body is meaningless. Those who associate with you will not speak the truth to you; and when petty people discuss you, you will be wounded by their poisonous words. No one perceives it, no one awakens—so why compare yourselves with one another?”

Such a person can keep from losing De (Virtue/Power), but has not yet attained the state of “the highest De does not [deliberately] appear as De” (the highest virtue does not intentionally manifest as virtue); such a person knows that the Dao (the Way) can be spoken of and has traces to follow, but has not yet reached the point of the “constant Dao” (the eternal Dao), where there is no-mind and Wuwei (non-action). Such a person cannot make others entirely free of guardedness toward them. To worry over “being unable to make others wholly unguarded” is fundamentally different from “letting others naturally trust and rely on one.”

The so-called ganyu means actively giving and being the first to move others. Liezi never deliberately sought to be novel or unconventional in order to move external things; the reason people drew close to and trusted him was that he had already transformed them without self-conscious intent. But once one intentionally sets about transforming others, one consumes Shen (spirit) and unsettles Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy). What benefit is there in arguing all day with people who come to the gate, shoes in hand, to seek instruction? Hence it is said: “To shake the root of body and mind is utterly meaningless.” Those who associate with you are all sunk in the gaspings of the worldly human path, so no one knows how to guide them. How can those trivial words become the good medicine of the supreme true teaching? Such people are like those walking together on a lost road; neither external things nor the self comes to fulfillment. Hence it is said: “No one perceives, no one awakens—how can one tell who is who?”

Yang Zhu (a Daoist figure of the Warring States period) went south to Pei; Lao Dan traveled west to Qin; they met in the outskirts and then went on to Liang.

Nothing on the human body reveals one’s nature more than the eyes. The eyes cannot conceal evil thoughts in the heart. In the Zhouyi (Book of Changes), the Li hexagram symbolizes the eyes; its middle yin line is like the pupil, the place where Shen (spirit) is lodged. When those who have attained the Dao (the Way) meet, as soon as their eyes touch, their minds are already in communication. Those skilled at judging people often discern the signs from the eyebrows and eyes. Thus when Yang Zhu (a Warring States thinker who advocated “for oneself”) glanced sidelong with an improper gaze, Laozi (Lord Lao) judged him incorrigible. The ancient Huang-Lao text The Book of the Yellow Emperor says, “The mechanism lies in the eyes”—both the workings of the mind and the crux are in the eyes.

“Great whiteness seems disgraced” means that when clarity and penetration reach their utmost, they instead appear to have suffered disgrace, just as “the lower one goes, the more it becomes evident” (Zhuangzi’s words: the further downward one goes, the clearer the Dao appears). “Abundant De (Virtue/Power) seems insufficient” means that a person of great De is humble and empty, never self-satisfied. Such a person’s gaze is calm; meeting others, he seems as if not seeing them—how could he still have the fault of sidelong peeping?

Yang Zhu’s expression changed solemnly, and he said, “I respectfully receive the teaching.” When he went to Pei, the innkeeper came forward and brought out a mat from the house; the host’s wife offered a towel and comb; the people in the inn yielded their seats; and the fire-tender yielded his place by the stove. When he returned, the same inn people contended with him for seats.

This shows that yielding a seat is more than merely not contending, and contending for a seat is more than merely not yielding. After hearing the teaching and returning, those who had previously yielded of their own accord now contended. The two places were not far apart; the innkeeper was still the same innkeeper, and it was not that there was another Yang Zhu. Yet the treatment he met with was so different. Thus the ultimate Dao is hidden and subtle yet ordinary; people use it daily without knowing it. Broadly speaking, going south to Pei was to move toward a place where external things gather; returning was to come back to the root of life. Whether yielding or contending lay merely in the coming and going.

Yang Zhu was passing through the state of Song and lodged at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines, one beautiful and one ugly, yet the innkeeper valued the ugly one and slighted the beautiful one. Yang Zhu asked the reason. A young servant at the inn replied, “The beautiful one considers herself beautiful, but I do not find her beautiful; the ugly one considers herself ugly, but I do not find her ugly.” Yang Zhu said, “Disciples, remember this: one whose conduct is worthy and good but who does not regard himself as worthy and good—where would he not be loved?”

Interpretation: To value the beautiful and slight the ugly comes from personal likes and dislikes; that the ugly is valued and the beautiful slighted instead accords with the impartiality of the great Dao. Beauty and ugliness alike arise from deluded views, and valuing or slighting are likewise not the truth. The innkeeper’s concubine was disliked not because she was beautiful, but because she relied on her beauty to slight others; the innkeeper valued her not because he could be indifferent to beauty, but because he did not know she was beautiful, and so accepted her. If this concubine too did not rely on her beauty and did not do things while considering herself worthy and good, then wherever she went she would be loved. Lord Lao (that is, Laozi, the founding ancestor revered in Daoism) said, “When all under heaven know beauty as beauty, ugliness arises.” This is not a dislike of beauty, but a dislike of the fixation of “knowing oneself as beautiful.”

In the world there is a principle that can always prevail, and a principle that cannot always prevail. What can always prevail is softness and yieldingness; what cannot always prevail is hardness and strength. People in fact all know these two principles, but few truly understand their deeper meaning.

Thus the ancients said: The hard and strong first overpower those who are inferior to themselves; the soft and yielding willingly place themselves behind others and let others stand above them. If they meet an opponent equal to themselves, the hard and strong are in danger. One who puts himself behind others is without danger. To use this method to overcome one’s own private desires and to use it to undertake the affairs of the world seems easy. This means that by not contending for victory, one naturally wins; by not contending to take on responsibility, one is naturally able to bear it.

Yuzi said: If one wishes to be hard and strong, one must guard it with softness and compliance; if one wishes to be great and powerful, one must preserve it with weakness and smallness. Accumulating softness and compliance necessarily leads to hardness and strength; accumulating weakness and smallness necessarily leads to greatness and power. By observing what a person accumulates, one can know where fortune and misfortune will tend. Hardness and strength can only overcome those inferior to oneself, and when they meet an equal they are thwarted; softness and yieldingness can overcome those above oneself, and their power cannot be measured.

Laozi said: Weapons that are too hard are destroyed; trees that are too hard are broken. Softness and yieldingness belong to the category of life; hardness and strength belong to the category of death.

The commentary says: Softness and yieldingness are the root of Dao (the fundamental law of the universe). Guarding the root of Dao is conquering oneself. One who can conquer himself will be invincible wherever he goes. Using it to restrain oneself and using it to bear the affairs of the world, one can be secure without danger, blessed without disaster. Although he never takes precedence over others, no one can surpass him. This is precisely the way by which one skilled in nurturing life can endure as long as Heaven and Earth.

The Yijing says, “Xun (xùn, compliance) is used to act with expediency,” that is, to respond flexibly through soft compliance. The fishing metaphor in Zhuangzi also accords with this meaning. Therefore this thought is reflected everywhere in the books of Laozi and Yuzi. Their quotations of ancient sayings precisely show that this principle has existed since ancient times and endures forever.

Things are not necessarily alike in outward appearance, yet they may be alike in wisdom; they are not necessarily alike in wisdom, yet they may be alike in outward appearance. What the sage values is sameness in wisdom; he does not care whether outward appearance is the same. Ordinary people, however, like to draw close to those whose appearance is the same and to keep at a distance those whose wisdom is the same. Those whose appearance resembles their own, they approach and love; those whose appearance differs from their own, they distance themselves from and fear.

A creature seven chi tall, with four limbs like a human’s, long hair on its head, teeth in its mouth, and walking on two feet is called a “human.” But a human is not necessarily without the heart of a beast. Even if it has a beast’s heart, because its outward form is the same, it is still approached. One with wings, horns on its head, sharp claws and fangs, that flies upward with head raised or runs crouching on the ground is called a “bird or beast.” But a bird or beast is not necessarily without a human’s mind. Even if it has a human mind, because its outward form is different, it is still kept at a distance.

Fuxi, Nüwa, Shennong, and the Xia Hou clan (that is, Yu the Great) all had snake bodies and human faces, ox heads and tiger noses; their forms did not resemble ordinary people, yet they possessed the virtue of great sages. Jie of Xia, Zhou of Yin, Duke Huan of Lu, and King Mu of Chu had outward appearances and seven apertures like those of ordinary people, yet they had the hearts of birds and beasts. And if ordinary people merely cling to outward form in seeking wisdom, it is impossible for them to attain it.

Commentary: Those said to have “non-human forms” had physical appearances close to those of ordinary people, as in descriptions recorded in historical works such as “bee eyes and a jackal’s voice” or “tiger head and swallow’s jaw,” which can be verified. These words accord with the mysteries of creation and transformation; it is only that the people of the world are deluded by shallow understanding and cannot grasp the profundity of “the sameness of wisdom.” Liezi (author of the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing and a pre-Qin Daoist figure) devoted himself to elucidating the highest principle; therefore he spoke directly and without concealment, taking only the truth and paying no heed to whether the multitude would be astonished.

The Yellow Emperor and the Yan Emperor fought at Banquan. The Yellow Emperor used bears, brown bears, wolves, leopards, chū, and tigers as his vanguard, and eagles, hawks, falcons, and kites as his banners: this was driving birds and beasts by military force. Yao commanded the music official Kui to strike the stone chimes, and all the beasts danced to the music; when the nine sections of Shun’s Xiaoshao were performed, phoenixes too flew in response to the sound: this was summoning birds and beasts by sound and music. That being so, why should the minds of birds and beasts differ from those of humans? It is only that their bodies and voices differ from those of humans, and people do not know the way to get along with them. The sage knows all and penetrates all; therefore he can guide and employ them.

A commentator says: When one sees that the Xiaoshao was performed to completion and the phoenix came in attendance, one knows that the business of driving birds and beasts by force was not fabricated.

In some respects the intelligence of birds and beasts resembles the innocent simplicity of humans. To sustain their lives, they need not rely on human intelligence: males and females pair, mothers and young are attached; they avoid level ground and rely on dangerous terrain; they shun cold and seek warmth; they dwell in flocks and travel in ranks; the young stay within and the strong remain without; when drinking they assist one another, and when foraging they call and answer one another. In remote antiquity they lived together with humans and walked alongside them; only in the age of emperors and kings did they begin to be startled and scatter; in later ages they hid and fled to escape harm. Today the people of the land of the Jieshi clan in the east can often understand the language of the six domestic animals; this is presumably within reach of a wisdom confined to one corner. The holy sages of highest antiquity understood the dispositions of all things and fully comprehended the voices of other species. They gathered them together, instructed them, and made them like ordinary people. Thus they first assembled ghosts, spirits, and chimei; next they established communication with the peoples of the four quarters; and finally they gathered birds, beasts, insects, and moths. This shows that among beings with blood and Qi, their minds are not far apart. The holy sages understood this truth, and therefore the edification they carried out omitted no kind.

This passage says that as the world declines generation after generation, the great Dao becomes ever narrower. From the August Ones and the Emperors down to the Youyu clan (Shun), Shang Tang, and King Wu of Zhou, the later the age, the worse the way of governance. In remote antiquity, birds and beasts lived alongside people and walked together with them without mutual suspicion. Only after the world declined and the great Dao became narrow did birds and beasts begin to take fright, scatter, flee, and hide. That creatures of different kinds could live and walk together with humans—even if this was so only in the most ancient times—was because the sages of highest antiquity could gather them and educate and tame them. Ancient and modern circumstances differ, but the essential nature of the sage is no different. Later ages also had sages, yet we never hear of their being able to gather birds, beasts, insects, and moths and train them. Why is this? Probably because the world had already declined, and creatures of different kinds had long since been frightened into scattering and hiding, so they could no longer be gathered. Even if there were a sage ruler, he could only let flying birds, running beasts, fish, and turtles each find its place and remain at peace with one another. Therefore one must understand the circumstances in which the sages lived before one can discuss the Dao of the sage.

In the state of Song there was a monkey keeper named Monkey Keeper Gong. He loved monkeys very much and raised a large troop of them. He could understand the monkeys’ minds, and the monkeys could also grasp his intentions. To satisfy the monkeys’ desires, he took the grain from his household stores and fed it to them. Later, when food grew scarce, he planned to restrict the monkeys’ rations. Fearing that the troop would no longer obey him, he first deceived them, saying: “I will give you taro—three in the morning and four in the evening. Is that enough?” The whole troop rose up in anger. After a moment, he said: “I will give you taro—four in the morning and three in the evening. Is that enough?” The whole troop lay down and rejoiced.

In all things, cleverness and crudeness check and constrain one another, and all cases are like this. The sage uses cleverness to draw in and control the ignorant multitude, just as Monkey Keeper Gong used cleverness to draw in and control the troop of monkeys. In name and in reality nothing was reduced, yet he made them feel anger and joy on that account—this is precisely the principle.

The deployment of joy and anger is in neither case in accord with the Middle Way. After joy there is inevitably a turn to anger, and after anger there often returns joy. The monkey keeper who raised monkeys distributed acorns to them and restricted their food. First he made the monkeys bow down and be pleased; then he deliberately tricked them into rising up and becoming angry; in the end he still won the monkeys’ joy. If he had said directly at the outset, “Three in the morning and four in the evening,” the monkeys would not only have failed to be pleased but would immediately have become angry.

The monkeys’ joy and anger were not false, and the total of “three” and “four” neither increased nor decreased; but what the monkeys calculated in their minds was whether it was better to eat more in the morning and less in the evening, or less in the morning and more in the evening. How could their joy and anger fail to be governed by the greater or lesser quantity between morning and evening?

According to the Liezi, the time when the cosmos had not yet any qi or phenomena is called Taiyi (the Great Change, the initial state before primordial qi had differentiated, as stated in the Liezi, “Tianrui”). Thereafter one divided into seven. Heaven is three and Earth is four; one odd and one even, they generate and complete each other, and the ten thousand things cannot escape the patterns of these numbers. One who does not understand these numbers will be enslaved by them; one who is not deluded by them can use them.

This was not only so with the monkeys’ joy and anger. The hegemons’ pleasing, gratification-style governance was regarded as shameful before the gate of the sages because they used their abilities to oppress and to win over others. Even the sage’s governance of “Responding to Emperors and Kings” did not avoid treating all under Heaven as something within a cage; only the degree of subtlety in their use of numbers differed, and so the results of governance differed in depth.

Extending this further, even the transformations of Heaven and Earth—one day and one night, one waking and one dream, one cold and one heat, one death and one life—cannot go beyond the rule of “seven times seven with one left empty” in the Dayan numbers of the Zhouyi (the base numbers used for divination). Therefore, if one says the monkeys’ joy and anger are delusion, then all things are delusion; if one says human joy and anger are correct, how could the monkeys’ joy and anger alone be wrong?

People laugh at the monkeys when they see them shut in cages by the monkey keeper, yet they do not know that they themselves are in a cage without realizing it—this is the same delusion. For humans to laugh at monkeys is exactly what Mencius called “laughing at a hundred paces because one has retreated fifty.”

Moreover, monkeys as creatures like to display their cleverness and rely on their own agility; their minds are difficult to tame and control, and yet they are still deluded by the alternating numbers “three” and “four” without awakening—how much more so other creatures? This may be precisely why Liezi deliberately took up the story of the monkey keeper distributing chestnuts.

That said, the monkey keeper, because he had distributed too much food and reduced his household to want, had no choice but to restrict the monkeys’ rations. From this one can know that the sage’s use of wisdom to bind the ignorant multitude was also because the way of the world had declined and there was not enough capacity to practice the great Dao, and so he did it only as a last resort.

Ji Shengzi was an expert chicken raiser and trainer in the time of King Xuan of Zhou, and he once raised fighting cocks for the king. After ten days, King Xuan asked: “Can the chicken be taken to fight now?” Ji Shengzi said: “Not yet. It still bluffs and puts on an empty show of strength, relying on a burst of blood and Qi to assert itself.”

Another ten days passed, and King Xuan asked again. Ji Shengzi said: “Not yet. As soon as it hears a sound or sees a shadow, it still reacts.”

Another ten days passed, and King Xuan asked again. Ji Shengzi said: “Not yet. Its gaze is fierce, and its aura is very aggressive.”

Another ten days passed, and King Xuan asked again. Ji Shengzi said: “It is almost ready. Although other chickens crow, it no longer reacts. Seen from a distance, it looks like a chicken carved from wood, and its De (Virtue/Power) is complete. When other chickens see it, they do not dare to challenge it and turn and flee.”

Note: The quality of a fighting cock lies not in outward ferocity but in inner steadiness. Daoists often use the “wooden chicken” as a metaphor for a state undisturbed by external things and complete in inner virtue.

In the “Da Sheng” chapter of Zhuangzi, the story of Ji Shengzi raising a fighting cock for the king provides the background for this scriptural passage. Among the Five Phases, chickens belong to Wood; when Wood rubs against Wood, Fire is generated, and so chickens are naturally pugnacious by nature.

If there is pride in the heart, the exterior reveals a demeanor that looks down on all things; if one relies on blood and Qi, thoughts of bullying others arise. Such a cock, even before meeting an opponent, will seek provocation everywhere and reach everywhere. It is merely fearless—how can that guarantee certain victory? So when someone asks whether it can fight, it says, “Not yet.” This is because it still responds like a shadow following form, merely reacting in the direction of the shadow, and has not truly escaped the pull of external things. If its gaze is fierce and its momentum abundant, it will be swayed by the illusion of the shadow; seeing the other move, it immediately responds.

When a true opponent arrives, it need only gather its brave and resolute Qi and quietly wait. Yet if its gaze is fierce, its spirit is not at peace; if its momentum is abundant, its heart is not harmonious. Although it has not yet fought the other, inwardly it is already agitated, and its spirit has already been thwarted externally; it is merely forcing itself to hold back and not erupt. Therefore it says, “Not yet”; one must wait until its condition approaches maturity.

When its cultivation is complete, even if other chickens crow, it has no reaction at all, and at a glance it looks like a chicken carved of wood. Its De is then complete. This is because inwardly it has forgotten blood and Qi, and outwardly it has forgotten form and appearance. Though other chickens ruffle their feathers and crow loudly, it seems not to hear them—what difference is there between it and withered wood? The De of non-contention has no greater expression than this, and so it is called “complete.” No chicken under heaven can match it; they can only turn and retreat, convinced in heart and submissive.

This is like Taishang Laojun (Lord Lao, the Daoist honorific for Laozi) descending into the world to transform the customs of the Hu lands, and also like Confucius causing his disciples to submit in their hearts. Daoists regard the chamber of the human heart within the body as the Crimson Palace (the place where the heart resides); among birds it corresponds to the Vermilion Bird (the spirit bird of the south and Fire; the heart belongs to Fire). The sage is good at nourishing the inner, making the heart content without greed and full without contention, and so no one under heaven can contend with him.

Ordinary people only care for nurturing the external, causing the Vermilion Bird often to go hungry and soar to the farthest reaches of the eight directions, seeking only profit. Without greed, there is not enough to fill the heart; without contention, there is not enough to satisfy desire. Only at death do they stop. How lamentable!

Hui Ang went to visit King Kang of Song. The king stamped his feet, coughed, and said impatiently: “What I like are men of bravery and strength; I have no interest in those who talk of benevolence and righteousness. What do you, sir, intend to teach me?” Hui Ang replied: “I have a method by which, even if a man is brave, he cannot pierce the other with a thrust; even if a man is strong, he cannot strike the other. Would Your Majesty not want this?” The King of Song said: “Good—this is exactly what I want to hear.”

Hui Ang continued: “To be unable to pierce and unable to strike is still a lower method. I have another method by which, even if a man is brave, he does not dare to stab; even if he is strong, he does not dare to attack. Their not daring is not because they lack the thought, but because they simply have no such thought at all. If a person has no such thought, then no intention to harm others will arise in his heart. I have yet another method by which all men and women, old and young, throughout the world may be joyful, all willing to love others and seek benefit for others. This is several levels higher than bravery and strength. Would Your Majesty not want it?”

The King of Song said: “This is exactly what I wish to obtain.” Hui Ang said: “This is precisely what Confucius and Mozi achieved. Though Confucius and Mozi had no land and did not become rulers, and held no office and did not become leaders, throughout the world there was no man or woman, old or young, who did not stretch out their necks and stand on tiptoe, hoping that they might bring stability and benefit. Now Your Majesty is the ruler of a great state with ten thousand chariots. If you truly had this aspiration, then all within the four borders could receive benefit, and such virtue would far surpass that of Confucius and Mozi.” The King of Song had no reply, and Hui Ang quickly withdrew. The King of Song said to those around him: “This guest’s argument is truly exquisite; he has persuaded me with words alone.”

Commentary: This passage is the annotator’s comment. King Kang of Song admired bravery and strength; Hui Ang did not contend with him over strength or fierceness, but began from “making people have no mind for strife” and advised him with the principle of loving and benefiting the world. The annotator holds that this transformation through virtue surpasses bravery and strength, and also surpasses the benevolent and righteous teachings of Confucius and Mozi.

King Kang of Song delighted in feats of bravery and strength. When Hui Ang came to have an audience with him, the king was arrogant: his legs kicked about restlessly, he coughed without pause, and his speech was rapid and rude. He disliked Hui Ang’s attempt to move him with the doctrine of benevolence and righteousness, and he looked as though there was no way to argue with him. So Hui Ang followed the king’s inclinations, beginning with feats of bravery and strength and advancing his advice step by step, until at last he steered the conversation to the teachings of Confucius (Kong Qiu) and Mozi (Mo Di). If the king of Song considered his words reasonable, that would run counter to his own tastes; if he considered them unreasonable, he could not see where they departed from reason. Thus, after Hui Ang withdrew, those in attendance merely said that he was skilled in argument.

Let us try to assess this: within the sphere of what can be debated, there is no absolute right and wrong to begin with. What can be accepted and put into practice is upheld as a doctrine; what is not accepted can only be relegated to the last place. For example, Zhang Yi and Su Qin (famous strategists of the Vertical and Horizontal alliances in the Warring States period) studied the persuasive rhetoric of vertical and horizontal alliances and traveled among the states of the Warring States, leading the rulers of the six states all to regard them as eloquent, yet in the end they could never make those rulers submit to their doctrines. Nevertheless, the rulers of the six states still granted them offices and employed them, keeping the Central Plains (here meaning the Central Plains states) stable for more than ten years. How, then, should the right and wrong of debaters be judged? Even the book of Liezi (Lie Yukou, a Daoist figure) is not free of a disputatious coloring. Those who expound this principle merely each write books and set forth one side of it.

Zhuangzi regarded the achievements of emperors and kings as the “leftover business” of the sage. This is not to say that imperial achievements are unworthy of pursuit, but that the sage’s Dao is broad and profound, and imperial achievements are merely its dregs and remnants. The reason the sage is a sage lies precisely in his having imperial achievements; the reason the people under Heaven revere the sage lies precisely in his having imperial governance. Therefore Zhuangzi said: there is nothing more numinous than Heaven, more fertile than Earth, or greater than emperors and kings. Heaven’s numinosity and Earth’s fertility must manifest in the generation and transformation of Heaven and Earth. The sage is utterly still and unmoved, yet can resonate with all things under Heaven; how, then, could he cease to accord with the imperial position in this way? This is the reason the “Huangdi” chapter came into being.

In former times, after Shennong passed away, Huangdi, Yao, and Shun arose in succession. The Dao manifested as De, and the Three Sovereigns gave way to the Five Emperors. As the beginning of emperors, Huangdi already had actions for responding to worldly affairs, but he had not yet reached Yao’s “Fangxun”; though he had the De of saving the world, he had not yet reached Shun’s “Mingde.” However, once he understood the causes of all under Heaven, thoughts and intentions to deliberate and act arose, and the changes of good and ill fortune followed. Thus at first he delighted in the people under Heaven supporting him, and afterward he worried that all under Heaven might not be well governed. The five emotions deluded him within, and his countenance grew haggard without. Had he not, through fasting and purification, made his spirit and De clear, how could he have responded to the greatest upheavals under Heaven and undertaken its most difficult affairs without falling into misfortune, blame, regret, and disgrace?

Only Huangdi could fast his heart and discipline his body, never departing from the Ultimate Dao; therefore, although he stood amid honor and disgrace, benefit and harm, honor and disgrace, benefit and harm could not injure him. All under Heaven was greatly governed, almost like the land of Huaxu (Huaxu is the ideal state of Wuwei depicted in the Liezi). What the divine man of Mount Guye did was precisely the proof of Huangdi’s governance; Liezi riding the wind embodied the Ultimate Dao that Huangdi had attained.

The Perfected Person holds fast to pure Qi, and the sage hides himself in the Heavenly Dao. Shangqiu Kai had no conflict with the myriad things, and Liang Yang’s mind made no distinction between adverse and favorable; these are the foundation for inspiring all things. The ferryman handling a boat, the man of Lüliang treading the water, the hunchbacked old man catching cicadas, and the man of Zhao dwelling in stone and entering fire—all are manifestations of the achievement of resonating with all under Heaven and becoming one with Heaven.

By this he resonated with all under Heaven—what could burden him? By this he inspired all things—what could disturb him? The Dao by which Huangdi could become emperor was exactly this. Therefore, when Liezi discoursed on the Dao, he repeatedly cited the Huangdi Shu as his fundamental tenet.

This passage is the concluding remarks of Volume Four, pointing out that the main purport of the “Ying Diwang” chapter of the Liezi also lies here. Although Liezi wrote the “Huangdi” chapter, later in the text he quotes Yang Zhu—the Warring States thinker who advocated “for oneself”—arguing that the deeds of the Five Emperors are like a dream: whether wise or foolish, all ultimately come to extinction. He even says that Yao and Shun, like Xia Jie and Dao Zhi, will all decay. The author holds that, from the perspective of Dao, Huangdi’s governance originally did not depart from the Great Dao; but from the perspective of imperial achievements, the substance of the Great Dao instead became concealed. How long can those traces of fame and achievement be preserved? In the end they cannot endure the changes of the times and will likewise come to complete extinction. Is Liezi’s quotation of Yang Zhu’s words not a way of discarding Huangdi’s achievements and reputation while preserving the Great Dao within them?

The title of Volume Five is “Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing Jie” (an explication of the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing, the Daoist honorific title of the Liezi), Volume Five, presented by Jiang Yu, an inner-house student of the Hangzhou prefectural school in the Song dynasty. This volume is divided into upper and lower sections; the present passage is “King Mu, Part One.”

During the reign of King Mu of Zhou, a wondrous man capable of transformations (huaren) came from a country extremely far to the west. He did not get wet when he entered water, was not scorched when he entered fire, could pass through metal and stone, and could make mountains and rivers turn about and cities shift their places. He rode through the air without falling and touched objects without obstruction; his transformations were endless, for he could both alter the forms of things and change people’s thoughts. King Mu revered him as a god and treated him as a lord and father. He built a Dew Terrace for him to live on, offered him the three sacrificial animals—ox, sheep, and pig—and selected beautiful women to sing and dance for his amusement. But the Huaren said: “The king’s palace chambers are crude and unfit for dwelling; the food is rank and foul and hard to swallow; the concubines have a rank odor about them and are not fit to approach.” King Mu therefore ordered reconstruction; the construction work and the ochre, white, red, and blue-green pigments were all executed with the utmost ingenuity. The five state treasuries (wufu) were drained, and only then was the Central Heaven Terrace completed. The terrace was a thousand ren high (an ancient unit of length, about eight chi) and overlooked the Zhongnan Mountains (in present-day Shaanxi); it was called the “Central Heaven Terrace.”

King Mu then selected young women from Zheng and Wei, dressed them in red, anointed them with fragrant oils, adorned their eyebrows and eyes, had them wear hairpins and earrings, draped them in A-xi and Qi-wan (fine silks), powdered their faces and blackened their eyebrows, hung jade rings on them, and filled the terrace with them and with fragrant herbs such as angelica and ruo. He also had ancient music such as “Zhengyun,” “Liuying,” “Jiushao,” and “Chenlu” performed to entertain him. Each month jade garments were offered to him, and each day fine food was presented. The Huaren was still not satisfied, and King Mu had no choice but to go in person to the Central Heaven Terrace. Before long, the Huaren invited King Mu to journey with him; King Mu grasped the Huaren’s sleeve, and the two rose into the air, not stopping until they reached the Central Heaven Terrace, and then arrived at the Huaren’s palace.

The Huaren’s palace was built of gold and silver, adorned with pearls and jade, and rose above the clouds and rain; one could not tell what supported it below, and from afar it looked like gathered clouds. What his eyes and ears saw and heard, what his mouth and nose tasted and smelled, were all unlike anything in the human world. King Mu thought this must be Qingdu, Ziwei, and Juntian (legendary dwellings of the Heavenly Emperor) and Guangyue (heavenly music). Looking down, he saw the palaces, pavilions, and towers below as so many piles of clods and crumbs of pastry. King Mu lived there for several decades and, unexpectedly, no longer longed for his own country.

The realm beyond the square (fangwai, the transcendent realm beyond the mundane world) and the realm within the square (fangnei, the mundane world) do not communicate with each other. Qingdu, Ziwei, Juntian, and Guangle are the places where the Heavenly Emperor dwells. When King Mu of Zhou looked down at the human world, he saw his own palaces and towers as nothing but piles of clods and stacks of dry straw. He stayed there for several decades and did not think of his own state again.

The realm beyond the square and the realm within the square are separated by an immense distance. King Mu belonged to those within the square, while the transformed man (huaren)—a divine being who has attained the Dao and can transform all things—belonged to those beyond the square. The west corresponds to Metal; since the nature of Metal is to transform in accordance with circumstances, the transformed man must have come from a place far away in the west. All things originally have no substantial form; the transformed man originates from the Great Void (Taixu) and is the master who creates and transforms all things. The six directions cannot confine him, nor can the Five Phases (wuxing) command him. Thus he can gather heaven and earth into a single grain of millet and compress a long kalpa into a single instant, and still have room to spare. As for entering fire and water, penetrating metal and stone, reversing mountains and rivers, moving cities, altering the forms of all things, and changing people’s thoughts—to him these are ordinary trifles.

King Mu, in his old age and benightedness, saw all things as if endowed with consciousness, yet his own body and mind could not become empty; therefore he marveled without end, revered the transformed man as a god, and served him as a ruler. He only wished to please the transformed man with the Luqin Palace, the three sacrificial animals (ox, sheep, and pig), and female musicians, but he did not understand that what the transformed man enjoyed was true joy—the joy of no joy. The transformed man, however, found his offerings crude and rank and would not give them another glance. King Mu then rebuilt the Terrace of Mid-Heaven on Mount Zhongnan, a thousand ren high, filled it with beautiful women chosen from Zheng and Wei, had them perform pieces such as Zhengyun, Liuying, Jiushao, and Chenlu, presented robes of jade, and offered fine foods. Yet he did not know that the transformed man dwells in the dwelling of no dwelling, tastes the flavor of no flavor, sees the color of no color, and hears the sound of no sound—how could he delight in what the human world delights in?

The transformed man saw that King Mu was earnest and reverent and seemed capable of being taught, but since he could not transmit the highest Dao all at once, he proceeded gradually and led him into the lower path. The transformed man took King Mu by the sleeve and journeyed with him, rising into the midst of the heavens until they reached the transformed man’s palace. This palace was built of gold and silver and adorned with pearls and jade, rising beyond the clouds, with nothing above to climb and nothing below to stand on, like a cloud suspended in the blue sky without falling. What their ears and eyes saw and heard, what their mouths and noses tasted and smelled, were all things not found in the human world. King Mu thought he had arrived at Qingdu and Ziwei, at Juntian and Guangle, at the palace of the Supreme God. Only when he turned his head and looked down from that height did he see that his former palace in the human world was merely piled earth and stacked firewood—what difference was there between it and a beehive or an anthill? Thereupon he abandoned the base and defiled and turned toward the high and pure, unwilling to return to his old capital; and so several decades passed.

Alas, King Mu was also an old companion of the Dantai (the immortal realm), banished to the mortal world; the dust and vulgarity of the world had not yet deeply stained him, and so he could dwell securely in the sacred realm. Although this is a state that can be reached by the lower path, how could it be reached by ordinary humans born of womb and flesh? Even if they could reach it, their souls would be startled and their spirits scattered, and they would certainly seek some way to return.

King Mu of Zhou paid another visit to the Huaren and asked him to travel with him. Wherever the Huaren (a spirit-man capable of transformations and illusions) went, when one looked up one could not see the sun or moon; when one looked down one could not see rivers or seas. When light and shadow shone forth, King Mu was dazzled and could not see clearly; when sounds came, his ears were filled with clamor and he could not distinguish them. His whole skeleton and five viscera trembled and could not settle; his heart-spirit became confused, and his Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) scattered. He therefore asked the Huaren to send him back. The Huaren gave a wave of his hand, and King Mu felt as though he had fallen into empty space. When he awoke, the place where he sat was just as before, and the attendants were still the same people. He looked before him: the wine was not yet cold, and the dishes were still hot. King Mu asked where he had just been, and the attendants on either side said, “The king was merely sitting silently.” King Mu was thus dazed and absent-minded for three months before he recovered.

King Mu asked the Huaren again, and the Huaren said, “The king and I traveled in spirit; when did the body ever move? Moreover, the place where we just stayed—how could it be the king’s palace? The place where we just roamed—how could it compare with the king’s parks and gardens? The king’s heart-spirit was calm as usual; you merely lost awareness temporarily in your confusion. As for the utmost of transformation, between its swiftness and slowness, how could it be fully described?” King Mu was delighted to hear this. From then on he ignored state affairs, no longer took pleasure in his attendants and concubines, and gave himself over to distant travels.

King Mu ordered the eight fine horses to be harnessed—the famous eight steeds of King Mu of Zhou: on the right he harnessed Hualiu, on the left Lü’er; the right side horse was Chiji, the left Baiyi; Zaofu drove, and Benrong guarded. In the other chariot, on the right he harnessed Qihuang, on the left Yulun; the left side horse was Daoli, the right Shanzi; Bo Yao drove, and Can Bai was the charioteer. They galloped a thousand li and arrived at the Jusou clan. The Jusou offered the blood of a white swan for King Mu to drink, washed his feet with the milk of cows and horses, and entertained those who accompanied him. After drinking, they continued on, and that night they stayed at the foot of Mount Kunlun, on the north bank of the Red Water.

The next day, King Mu climbed a hill of Kunlun, visited the palace of the Yellow Emperor, and set up a marker there to be handed down to later generations. Afterward, at Kunlun, King Mu visited Xi Wangmu (the Queen Mother of the West, the goddess who dwells on Kunlun in myth) and drank beside the Yaochi (Jade Pool, the immortal pool on Kunlun). Xi Wangmu sang for King Mu, and King Mu sang in reply; the words were deeply mournful. King Mu also gazed at the place where the sun sets and sighed that in a single day he could travel ten thousand li. Then he sighed, “Alas! I alone lack De (Virtue/Power), yet I indulge in pleasure; later generations will likely hold me to account for my faults.” King Mu might almost be counted a divine man! He was able to enjoy a lifetime’s happiness to the full, and yet later generations had to wait a hundred years before exalting him as one who had ascended to immortality and departed.

The way of the Transformed Man is infinitely varied, yet in the final analysis it never departs from the “One.” Only one who has truly reached the realm of Supreme Oneness can in a single leap transcend things with form and enter the realm of Nonbeing. Those who are still learning step by step have shallow foundations and cannot be told the sage’s Supreme Dao directly. Therefore, he first uses the transformations of Mid-Heaven (referring to the immortal realm beyond the human world) as a demonstration, letting them see that all things in the human world return to “Nonbeing,” and experience how worldly entanglements are tiresome, so that they no longer cling to their own land; only then does he reveal to them the true realm of the Supreme Dao.

Looking up, one cannot see the sun or moon, and so knows that heights are insufficient to compare with it; looking down, one cannot see rivers or seas, and so knows that depths are insufficient to measure it. When light and shadow shine forth, the eyes are dazzled and cannot see clearly; at this moment heavenly light issues from within, and one can perceive it only with Shen (spirit), not with the eyes. When sounds come, the ears are confused and cannot hear clearly; at this moment the music of heaven sounds of itself, and one can hear it only with Qi (vital energy), not with the ears. To observe the palace of the Transformed Man in this way is like looking down from Mid-Heaven upon his own land.

King Mu of Zhou (ruler of the Zhou dynasty) could not attain this realm, and so his mind became scattered and his spirit bewildered; he asked the Transformed Man to send him back. Later the Transformed Man came again to visit King Mu and toured with him; wherever they went, they never left Mid-Heaven, and the marvels they saw and heard reached such a degree. This is because the wondrous Dao is right where one is, never apart from what lies before the eyes, and can instantly transcend the ten thousand things. The palace of the Transformed Man is no different from Mid-Heaven; the places where he dwells and roams are originally no different from King Mu’s palaces and gardens. From this one knows that the difference between the so-called madman and the sage in the world is only that the name changes while the substance remains unchanged; people are deluded, but the Dao is not lost—just as when Shen wanders while the body remains still.

Someone once said that the Transformed Man came from a place extremely far in the west—was it to show off marvels, set up something novel, and astonish the worldly? Probably he would not rest until all the common people could understand this wondrous Dao. If King Mu could have awakened to this Dao first, then a peaceful governance like that of the Yellow Emperor and Huaxu could have been attained—how much more than merely seeking pleasure for oneself!

King Mu of Zhou once brought out the treasures of the five palace storehouses to make offerings to the Transformist (huaren), an immortal who could perform illusions and transformations of ten thousand kinds. The Transformist, however, was unmoved. Did he truly value pleasures such as music and beautiful sights? In truth, he wanted King Mu to understand that the flavors of the world contain no true joy. When King Mu still did not awaken, the Transformist took him along on a “spirit journey” (in which the spirit leaves the body and roams freely), displayed various illusory scenes, and let him see that the things of creation arise and perish moment by moment, so that he might realize the spontaneous way of spirit and heavenly principle. The Transformist was only using transformations as a demonstration, but King Mu truly believed he had arrived at Qingdu and Ziwei (the realm where the Heavenly Thearch dwells) and heard the Grand Music of Jun Heaven (heavenly immortal music); he became intoxicated by it, and this was another mistake.

When the Transformist later invited King Mu to journey with him again, he caused him to see the true realm of the Great Dao. At this point King Mu not only could not advance further but instead begged to return. Why? The operation of the wondrous Dao transcends bodily form; how could one who has not attained the Dao or realized its principle dwell in such a realm? The Transformist knew that King Mu ultimately could not comprehend, and so did not stop him when he asked to go back. Even so, when the Transformist sent him back, King Mu was still in a daze, as if falling into emptiness. This too was the Transformist’s attempt to awaken him, but in the end he still did not wake. Thus when he came to, he had already been lost in a trance for three months.

Yet after this experience, King Mu turned his mind around and went again to consult the Transformist. The Transformist explained to him the principle of the spirit journey, and only then did King Mu comprehend the principle of transformation and rejoice greatly. Thereafter he no longer concerned himself with affairs of state, held treasures lightly, and ceased to indulge in concubines and attendants. He acted according to his own nature, did not cling fixedly to his own mind, traveled far in all directions, and was no longer confined to nearby places. He ordered the chariot of the Eight Steeds to be harnessed and galloped wherever he wished, reaching everywhere. A fine charioteer like Zaofu (a skilled driver of the Zhou dynasty) is rarely seen in the world, and fine horses like the Eight Steeds are also extremely rare; yet King Mu could travel ten thousand li in a single day. That pace, which transcended the void and chased the sun, could not be matched even by wind and clouds.

After galloping a thousand li, he arrived in the territory of the Chensou clan. “Sou” means “to choose,” indicating that King Mu, while speeding along, was selecting the direction in which to go. The white swan—a pure white bird skilled at high flight—is a symbol of lofty purity; oxen and horses are beasts able to bear heavy loads and carry one far. Having King Mu drink the blood of the white swan was meant to alter his thoughts and make his aspirations high and far-reaching; washing his feet in the milk of oxen and horses was meant to cleanse his body so that he could travel far. Kunlun is the farthest mountain of the West; the name “Kunlun” is used to compare with the Dao’s loftiness, brilliance, and undifferentiated wholeness. North of the Red Water is called yang. Yang contained within yin is a symbol of the mysterious and wondrous Dao.

King Mu at first passed through the state of the Jusou clan, merely passing by without stopping; lodging at night at the foot of Mount Kunlun and on the north bank of the Red Water was likewise only temporary sojourning, not long residence. Later he ascended the mound of Kunlun, which was a further step along the Dao. Zhuangzi says that Shuli Shu wandered in contemplation on the mound of Mingbo, and also that the region of Kunlun was where the Yellow Emperor rested; the Yellow Emperor, looking south from the mound of Kunlun, lost the Mysterious Pearl (the pearl symbolizing the Dao) on his return. From this it can be seen that Kunlun symbolizes the Dao, and this is understandable.

King Mu was able to ascend the mound of Kunlun, and the range of his wandering at will was thus quite far. Yet his journey could not leave carriages and horses behind; he was not free and unobstructed like the transformed man (one who can travel in spirit). Therefore, even if he could travel ten thousand li in a day, it could still be counted in days. Although he entered the farthest reaches of the West, in the end he got no farther than Kunlun. If one cannot roam in the Taixu (the vast, boundless void), one cannot reach the country from which the transformed man came.

The Yellow Emperor was a supremely sage person; although he dwelt in his palace, he was not seen. The Queen Mother of the West was a figure of the immortal sages; although he was not accommodated in the place of No-Master, she still received him with the courtesy due a guest. Thereupon she and he raised their cups and drank together above the Yaochi (Jade Pool), and they merely answered one another in song.

King Mu of Zhou once feasted with the Queen Mother of the West beside the Jade Pool, but it was only a vain exchange of songs. Properly speaking, he should have been able to let his mind and spirit become steeped in the Great Dao and thereby obtain true joy. Yet the lyrics he made were full of sorrow, showing that he could enjoy only the pleasures of a human lifetime and could not attain the heavenly joy brought by the natural Great Dao.

Then look at the place where the sun sets. Here “sun” is a metaphor for “Dao.” Zhuangzi once used “ten suns rise together and all things are illumined” to metaphorize the greatness of De (Virtue/Power); thus the sun setting in the western extremity may symbolize the sage withdrawing his Dao and returning to the Great Root and Great Source. Watching the sunset is only looking on from the side; one cannot personally arrive at that Great Dao, so King Mu in the end could only sigh that his De was not full enough and could not harmonize with heavenly joy. The Yizhou Shu records that in his later years he was muddled and dissolute, and this is precisely the basis on which later generations investigated his faults. Nevertheless, he could exhaust the pleasures of his age and also enjoy a long life; this is what the worldly call “ascending to the Dao” (rising into the Great Dao and communicating with the Dao).

Therefore, the author searched bamboo-slip ancient texts and sought out books stored in stone chambers; the Jin Sheng, Shan Jing, Erya, and Da Zhuan all record these accounts.

The author holds that the Yellow Emperor’s spirit journey in a dream and King Mu’s journey with the Huanren (illusionist) were both spirit journeys; in respect of “dream” and “transformation” their nature is the same, but the effects of their governance were utterly different. The Yellow Emperor’s dream arose from fasting, purifying the heart, and rectifying the body; King Mu’s travels were more like being transformed by a Huanren (a person skilled in illusions). Moreover, when the Yellow Emperor awoke, he had naturally gained insight, so after waking he was joyful and at ease, and the world was therefore greatly governed like the kingdom of Huaxu. King Mu, by contrast, was compelled to beg the Huanren to send him back. Thus after waking he was dazed and lost, and for three months could not recover his senses; all he could obtain was merely to exhaust the pleasures of the age.

Laochengzi studied illusion with Master Yinwen for three years and never spoke of what he had attained. Laochengzi then asked the master to point out his fault and requested to leave. Master Yinwen bowed with hands clasped, invited him into the inner chamber, dismissed the attendants, and spoke with him alone.

Annotation (Jiang Yu): One who wishes to learn illusion actually wishes to use illusion to return to the study of illusion—that is, to be mired in illusion while seeking illusion. Therefore Laochengzi, after three years still having gained nothing, asked to leave.

Someone who wants to learn the art of illusion is, in effect, wanting to use illusion to learn illusion. After three years of practice, his art of transformation had reached its utmost, and he could nearly exhaust every kind of change. Master Yinwen did not transmit its secrets for three years; this was precisely his way of telling him through “not telling.” Lao Chengzi—one who heard the Great Dao only in his later years yet was ultimately able to accomplish something—at first could not fathom this “principle of not speaking,” so he asked the master to point out his fault and said that he wished to withdraw. Master Yinwen had no choice but to speak with him; with hands clasped in respect, he invited him into the inner chamber. The Great Dao is profound, and so he dismissed those around him and spoke with him alone. Others could neither see nor hear, for this was not knowledge in which the crowd could share.

The so-called Master Yinwen refers to one who had already attained the Dao inwardly and used the art of illusion to display the principle to others. Lao Chengzi therefore learned the art of illusion from him.

Master Yinwen further said: In former times, when Lao Dan traveled west and went through the pass, he turned back and said to me: All Qi that possesses life and all appearances that possess bodily form are illusions. What is begun by creation and formed by the changes of Yin-Yang is called “life” and is also called “death.” That which can exhaust the measure of Qi, penetrate transformation, and shift in accord with bodily form is called “transformation” and is also called “illusion.” The Shen (spirit) of creation and transformation is subtle and profound in its ingenuity, and is inherently difficult to exhaust and difficult to bring to an end; the illusory transformation that arises in accord with bodily form has its cleverness exposed and its skill shallow, and so it perishes as soon as it arises. Only one who understands that illusion and birth-and-death are no different can study the art of illusion together with him. I and you are also illusion—why bother to learn it?

Life and death, illusion and transformation—summarized, they are all like a shadow following its form, bubbles floating on water, dew on a scallion leaf, the flash of lightning; in essence they are all illusory. What is called “life and death” refers to change whose operation is subtle and profound, inexhaustible and difficult to bring to an end; what is called “illusion and transformation” refers to change whose operation is manifest and shallow, arising and perishing as it arises. The reason for giving them names is simply to label them provisionally according to their operations.

Although the subtle and the manifest differ, their wondrous essence is the same; although there are differences of depth, their efficacy is identical. Then what difference is there between illusion-transformation and life-death? Only when one understands that illusion-transformation and life-death are not two does one feel that life and death are not worth taking to heart. Illusion-transformation itself cannot be called shallow, and life and death cannot truly master a person; all transformations issue from oneself. Therefore one who studies illusion arts must take understanding “illusion” as the foundation.

That said, “knowledge” cannot be separated from “awakening.” If one speaks of a person who has awakening, that person has still not escaped the realm of illusion; one who lacks awakening has likewise not escaped illusion. Therefore, if one relies on knowledge to study illusion arts and uses illusion to perform illusion arts, then although things may transform, people and things remain within illusion. Once one has the knowledge of learning illusion, one has fallen into the realm of illusion. Only one who can truly awaken through original nature will have all illusory appearances entirely extinguished. Since originally there is no mind directed toward this, why bother to learn it? From this we can see that Master Yin Wen’s not telling Lao Chengzi about the illusion arts precisely shows that he was the one who truly understood illusion arts.

Among things that depend on form, there is no movement that is not illusion. Although the creative transformation of heaven and earth is wondrous, it too does not depart from illusion. The myriad things produced by creation often come into play through people.

After Lao Chengzi returned, he pondered Master Yin Wen’s words deeply for three months, and then he could control life and death, existence and nonexistence at will, and arbitrarily reverse the order of the four seasons: in winter he could make thunder, in summer he could make ice; flying birds could walk, and walking beasts could fly. But he never revealed this art throughout his life, so it has never been transmitted in the world.

Explanation: All things that adhere to form are without exception illusory and subject to transformation. Although the creative workings of Heaven and Earth are exquisitely subtle, they too cannot depart from “illusion.” The illusory transformations of the natural world often arise through human action; human-made illusions must likewise accord with heavenly principle. Natural illusion does not depart from the turning of Yin-Yang (the two forces of growth and decline between Heaven and Earth), while human illusion does not depart from the changes of Qi and destiny. If one is constrained by Yin-Yang, even real things will appear illusory; if one can exhaustively investigate the patterns of Qi and destiny’s changes, one can awaken within illusion. Awakening lies with oneself—how could illusion belong to anyone else?

If one grasps this principle, not only can one master the transformations of the ten thousand things, but one can also avoid being deluded by external things. Thereupon one can interchange the four seasons, produce thunder and ice, alter the forms of birds and beasts, and seize the illusory arts of creation. Then where, after all, does what is called “illusion” come from? Tracing it to its root, it relies on the mysterious original mind, like a flower in the sky (konghua, the phantom image seen when the eyes are tired) arising from empty space. Although the illusory form appears, the principle of illusion is extremely subtle. Precisely because it appears, there is illusion; precisely because it is subtle, it can produce illusion. Only because it appears can it be spoken of; only because it is subtle does it require months of deep thought to comprehend its way.

Those in ancient times who learned the arts of illusion did not do so to shock the world and startle the vulgar, but to use illusion as a means to awaken to the great Dao. Therefore, when speaking of their abilities, they could alter birds and beasts and produce thunder and ice; yet once they had attained the principle within, they never again displayed their arts for a lifetime, and so the world had no way to know of them. Alas, the subtlety of illusion reaches such a point! This is why Master Yinwen did not advertise his own Way, but merely provided commentary on these words left by Laozi when he traveled west.

Master Liezi said: Those skilled in carrying out transformations have a principle that is subtle yet ordinary, and their effects are the same as those of ordinary people. The virtue of the Five Emperors and the achievements of the Three Kings were not necessarily accomplished entirely through wisdom and courage; some were also brought to completion through “transformation.” Who can truly fathom it?

Note: In the original text, after “If summer made ice as an illusion, then no kind of thing would survive intact,” there is a long block of repeated text; there is also textual corruption at “wu yue gu” (“e-meng” should be a misprint for “wumeng,” and “wu yue gu” is an erroneous linking to the Eight Signs). The following interpretation follows the commonly accepted meaning, and the repeated portion is interpreted only once.

Vernacular Explanation:

The reason Heaven and Earth are Heaven and Earth lies in their ability to transform and generate the myriad things. The reason sages are sages lies in their ability to awaken to this principle of transforming the myriad things.

Heaven and Earth transform the myriad things by means of Yin-Yang alternating in operation and cold and heat succeeding one another in order, so that all things can accord with their Dao and each attain its proper place; they do not seek results by defying the four seasons or reversing normal principles. If Heaven and Earth likewise made winter thunder and summer ice to produce illusions, then the myriad things would not be able to preserve each its own kind. Therefore, for one who is good at transformation and good at creation, why must he deliberately reveal the strange, establish novelty, and astonish the eyes and ears of the world?

Thus the sage’s teaching appears ordinary and subtle; people cannot suddenly fathom its effects, and so it is no different from that of ordinary people. That Lao Chengzi could perform illusionary arts yet never revealed them throughout his life is precisely this principle. Confucius also possessed this capacity but did not exercise it; this likewise is the same Dao. The Five Emperors and Three Kings were all sages of antiquity: some governed the world through humility and yielding, others established their undertakings through military campaigns—all adapted in response to the times. Although they displayed achievements of wisdom and martial valor, their true marvel lay in operating secretly and without speech. People see only their accomplishments but cannot fathom the causes of their teaching; this is still not enough to discuss the true meaning of the rule of emperors and kings.

Regarding the passage “In waking there are eight signs; in dreams there are six conditions”:

When awake there are eight signs, and in dreams there are six conditions. The so-called “eight signs” are: first, gu (old matters, past events); second, wei (taking action); third, de (obtaining); fourth, sang (losing); fifth, ai (sorrow); sixth, le (joy); seventh, sheng (life); and eighth, si (death). These eight signs are all that the physical form contacts and experiences.

The so-called “six conditions” are: first, zhengmeng (dreams when the mind is calm and balanced); second, wumeng (what one thinks while awake reappearing in a dream); third, ximeng (dreams born of joy); and fourth, jumeng (dreams born of fear). In addition, the “simeng” and “wumeng” listed here in the original correspond respectively to mental thoughts and waking experience, together forming part of the six conditions. These six dream states are all presentations of the spirit as it interacts.

Explanation: The signs of waking consciousness and the symptoms in dreams, though they are situations encountered by Shen (spirit) and form respectively, have different principles. Ultimately, their roots all lie in the mind's own fabrications.

Those who do not understand where the responses and changes of external things come from are perplexed by their causes when events arise; those who understand where responses and changes originate know their causes as soon as events arise. Knowing the cause, the mind will be free from fear and worry.

Explanation: The arising of responses and changes does not exceed the signs of waking and dreaming; this is the normal state of things. If one understands their causes, one can still be free from fear in the mind—how much more so for one who understands the great Dao? One who understands the Dao, even when experiencing life and death, will not allow oneself to be altered; viewing dream and waking is like viewing the peripheral details.

The fullness and emptiness, waxing and waning of the body are all connected with heaven and earth and correspond to the myriad things. Therefore, when yin qi is abundant, one dreams of wading through great water and being afraid; when yang qi is abundant, one dreams of wading through great fire and being burned; when yin and yang qi are both abundant, one dreams of killing or being killed. When one has eaten too much, one dreams of giving to others; when one is extremely hungry, one dreams of asking for things. Thus, those whose illness is of the floating-emptiness type (qi deficiency causing floating and scattering) dream of flying; those whose illness is of the sunken-fullness type (internal stagnation and heaviness) dream of drowning. Sleeping with a belt on, one dreams of snakes; a bird alighting on the hair, one dreams of flying. When yin qi is about to become abundant, one dreams of fire; when illness is about to break out, one dreams of food and drink. Those who drink wine have much sorrow; those who sing and dance have much weeping.

Dreams are the manifestation of Shen (spirit) meeting the external world.

The transformations of Shen are profoundly subtle and mysterious; Yin-Yang is difficult to fathom, and no one can fully penetrate them, so there is no way to master them. Yet the Shen within the human body relies on Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) to gather and resides within the physical form. Moved by Yin-Yang, once it is constrained by external things, it is inevitably enslaved by them. The body’s fullness and emptiness, waxing and waning, cause Shen to meet the external world and become dreams; thus dreams can communicate with Heaven and Earth and resonate with the myriad things, leaving nowhere to escape. Therefore, dreaming of wading across a great river or of being amid a great fire is governed by the abundance or decline of Qi; dreaming of giving when one is full and of taking when one is hungry is driven by desire; dreaming of flying upward or of sinking and drowning is illness and pathogenic Qi disturbing Shen. Dreaming of snakes or of flying is external things stirring Shen. When Yin Qi is abundant, one dreams of fire; when illness is about to arise, one dreams of food and drink—such is the inversion and confusion of dreams and imaginings. Those who drink wine easily become sorrowful, while those who sing and dance may weep; the same is true of such mutual transformation of sorrow and joy.

This human body is tiny, and its lifespan is no more than a hundred years; within day and night, sleep at night takes up half. Once one cannot guard the pure primordial Qi, one will wax and wane with time, and together with Yin-Yang and the myriad things, day and night invade oneself, becoming “my bandit.” The body toils without rest, and the spirit is depleted without cease. To rush about and labor all one’s life, changing together with external things—should one not awaken?

Let us examine the principle of dream and waking: it is merely the ordinary pattern of day and night. What is seen in dreams, though said to be Shen meeting the external world, is in fact the physical form enslaving Shen. On the surface it seems the form enslaves me, but in reality it is not that the form can enslave me; rather, I enslave myself. Because I enslave the form, the form in turn enslaves me; and when I am enslaved by it, I cannot control myself. While in a dream, one does not know one is dreaming; only after waking does one know it was a dream, and soon one enters dreaming again, still taking the dream as the real scene of waking. Day and night turn without pause, and all one’s life one is confused between dream and waking without awakening. Although scenes such as water and fire, taking and giving, have no substance, the states of anxiety and fear, joy and pleasure truly exist in the mind.

Yet when awake one can know dreams, while in dreams one does not know waking; thus waking is indeed more real than dreaming. What one does while awake exists only within thought, whereas matters foreknown in dreams appear beyond thought; thus dreams are instead more spiritually perceptive than waking. In daytime waking, speech and conduct are generally orderly; night after night in dreams, what is seen and heard is often disconnected. Dream and waking differ only by a moment, yet their differences and transformations reach this extent. Moreover, birth and death are the greatest change in coming and going. If one is not a person of cultivation, how could one possibly avoid drowning in transformation? Even so, if one can awaken early to the principle of dream and waking, then the coming and going of life and death will no longer be worth worrying about.

Liezi says: When the spirit encounters things, it becomes a dream; when the body comes into contact with things, it becomes a matter. Therefore, what one thinks by day and dreams by night are all things encountered by the spirit and the body. For one whose spirit is settled, thoughts and dreams naturally dissolve. Not speaking while awake of what one believes, and being unable to comprehend in dreams—these are manifestations of “thing-transformation” (wuhua: the myriad things changing with time, coming and going, arising and perishing). The True Persons of antiquity forgot everything when awake and did not dream when asleep. Could this be empty talk?

Jiang Yu explains: When there is thought by day, there is dreaming by night. Dreaming is the intersection of the hun and po souls; waking is the opening of the body. Day and night alternate and revolve; the myriad things transform and pass back and forth, like illusory flowers in the air, arising and perishing as they occur. Therefore, one who clings to waking cannot be spoken to about the Dao, and one who clings to dreaming cannot be brought to understanding. Although spirit, body, and external things coalesce, if one traces them to their root, the inversion of thoughts and dreams and their spontaneous arising are all self-created; they are not due to external causes. It depends only on whether the “Heavenly Spirit” (tianshen, referring to the spirit) is settled. The so-called True Persons do not depart from Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy), and their spirit is settled. They do not delight in life or loathe death; they are not elated at birth, nor do they resist when entering death. They do not harm the Dao with the mind, nor force the Heavenly Dao with human effort. They come at ease and go at ease, not drifting along with the transformations and comings and goings of the myriad things, and they have no particular attachment to dream or waking. Thus when awake they can forget everything, and when asleep they do not dream.

At the southern corner of the western extremity there is a country whose borders no one knows where they connect; it is called the country of Gumang. Here the Qi of Yin-Yang does not intermingle, so there is no distinction between cold and heat; the light of the sun and moon does not reach it, so there is no distinction between day and night. The people neither eat nor wear clothes, yet they greatly love sleep and awaken only once every fifty days. They regard what they do in dreams as real and what they see when awake as illusory.

The land of Qi within the Four Seas, the so-called country of the Central Plains, stretches north and south of the Yellow River and east and west beyond Mount Tai, over ten thousand li in circumference. Here the movement of Yin-Yang has its regular measure, so there is cold and heat; the alternation of light and darkness has its order, so there is day and night. Among the people some are clever and some are dull; the myriad things multiply and grow, and the crafts are many and varied; there are rulers and ministers, superiors and inferiors, who govern one another, and ritual and law sustain one another. What they do is countless. In their waking and sleeping, they regard what they do while awake as real and what they see in dreams as illusory.

At the northern corner of the eastern extremity there is a country called Fuluo. The earth Qi here is warm throughout the year; the lingering radiance of the sun and moon shines here, yet the land does not grow fine crops. The people eat grass roots and tree fruits and do not know how to cook food with fire. Their nature is fierce and bold; the strong bully the weak; they esteem victory and do not value righteousness; they are constantly running about without cease, seldom resting, and always awake without sleeping.

Explanation: The southern corner of the western extremity is the position of Kun and Dui (Kun occupies the southwest, Dui due west; together they are called the west). The myriad things, after Kun’s toil and service, tend toward Dui’s joy and repose, and so this country takes what is done in dreams as real. “Xi” means rest or cessation; the country of Fuluo is always awake and does not sleep, forming an exact contrast with the western extremity country that takes dreams as real.

In the far west, at its southern corner—the region of Kun and Dui (two of the Bagua, the Eight Trigrams; Kun occupies the southwest, Dui the west)—all things receive their service at Kun and then proceed toward the joy and rest symbolized by Dui. Thus the people there take what they see in dreams as real. This country is called the Country of Gumang (meaning vast and remote). Its customs are boundless and have persisted unchanged since ancient times; it too belongs to the southwest category.

In the far east, at its northern corner—the region of Gen and Zhen (Gen occupies the northeast, Zhen the east)—all things travel by the path of Gen to the great road of Zhen and are about to move toward Li, the position of meeting (Li occupies the south). Thus the people there are often awake and do not sleep. This country is called the Country of Fuluo, because people gather on earthen mounds to form villages; it too belongs to the northeast category.

The central country has Yin-Yang harmonized and properly regulated, so a single day has day and night, and a single year has cold and heat. People take waking as real and dreams as illusory. Yet none of this escapes the transformations of Yin-Yang.

In the Zhou dynasty there was a wealthy household named Yin that managed its estate vigorously. The people under it worked from morning to night without rest. Among them was an old laborer (a servant who did hard labor), whose strength was already exhausted, yet his master made him work even harder. By day he groaned and sighed as he worked; at night he was so tired and muddled that he fell asleep as soon as he lay down. His spirit was dazed and scattered, and every night he dreamed that he became a ruler: placed high above the people, directing the affairs of a whole state, feasting and amusing himself among palaces and pavilions, following his desires and immeasurably happy. When he woke, he had to go back to work. Someone comforted and encouraged him, and the laborer said: “A human life lasts a hundred years, and day and night each take half. By day I am a servant—hard work it certainly is; by night I am a ruler—immeasurably happy. What is there to resent?”

Yin’s mind was wholly set on managing the family estate. Toiling and calculating, he was exhausted in body and mind, and at night he too fell into a heavy sleep. Instead, he dreamed that he was a servant for others, running about at hard labor, having to do every kind of work, repeatedly insulted and whipped, groaning and crying out in his sleep until dawn. Troubled by this, Yin went to consult a friend. The friend said: “Your position is enough to bring honor to yourself, and your wealth is ample; you already far surpass others. Dreaming at night that you are a servant—after hardship comes ease, and after ease comes hardship; this is simply the natural order. If you want the benefits of both waking and dreaming to belong to you, how could that be possible?” Hearing his friend’s words, Yin relaxed the labor quota for the servant and reduced his own worrying, and his illness gradually improved.

Commentary: This passage uses day and night as a metaphor to explain that form and spirit take turns being active. Those who labor with the spirit by day allow the body to rest, and so at night the spirit is at ease while the body is tired; those who labor with the body by day allow the spirit to rest, and so at night the spirit then needs to… The gist is that by day body and mind each have their own use, while at night the reverse occurs; only when form and spirit alternate in rest and regulate each other can balance be maintained.

Day and night each have their division of labor; body and spirit take turns at work. If during the day the spirit is tired, the body can rest, and so at night the spirit rests while the body labors; if during the day the body is tired, the spirit can rest, and so at night the spirit labors while the body rests. This is the principle of the waxing and waning of Yin and Yang, and of things turning to their opposites when they reach an extreme. Master Yin and his servant—one suffering under toil, the other enjoying happiness in dreams—are precisely a case of waking and dreaming not being obtainable at the same time.

The ignorant do not understand the principle of fullness and emptiness. They take waking as real and dreams as illusory, pursue only the advantages and harms of daytime, and have no leisure to experience the suffering and joy within dreams. They do not consider that if there were no awareness at all in dreams, that would be one thing; but since there is awareness in dreams, the sorrow, joy, likes, and dislikes in dreams are no different from those when awake—how then can dreams be called illusory?

Master Yin regarded this dream-state as an illness and went to visit a friend; this was probably because his spirit had first been affected. If he could relax the servant’s labor and reduce his own thoughts, the symptoms would lessen somewhat, and then this principle would indeed hold true. If he could make his intentions sincere and constantly reflect inward, reducing his thoughts again and again, his spirit would become concentrated, and delusive thoughts and dreams would naturally disperse. That would be more than just a slight alleviation of his illness.

A man of Zheng was gathering firewood in the countryside when he came upon a startled deer; he went up and killed it. Fearing that someone would see him, he hastily hid the deer in a ditch by the road (huang), covered it with plantain leaves, and was overjoyed. Before long he forgot where he had hidden the deer and took it to have been a dream, muttering about the matter all along as he walked. Someone nearby heard him, went to look according to what he had said, and carried the deer away.

The man who had taken the deer went home and said to his wife, “Just now that woodcutter dreamed he had gotten a deer but did not know where he had hidden it; now I have really gotten the deer, so it must be he who was dreaming.” His wife said, “You dreamed that a woodcutter got a deer, didn’t you? Where was there really any woodcutter? Now the deer is indeed here—this is probably your dream coming true.” The husband said, “I got the deer in solid fact; how could it be a dream?”

When the woodcutter came back, he was vexed at having lost the deer. That night he truly dreamed of the place where the deer had been hidden, and he also dreamed of the man who had taken it. At daybreak he went to search according to what he had seen in the dream, and sure enough he found the deer. He then brought the other man to the authorities; the two sides argued and would not give way, and the case was handed to the Shishi, the official in charge of criminal justice.

The Shishi ruled: “You originally did truly get the deer, but you called it a dream; you dreamed of getting a deer, but you insist it was a real event. That man did indeed take your deer, and only then came to dispute with you. Your wife said that someone in a dream got a deer, and that no other person got a deer; now the deer is here, so let it be divided in two.”

The verdict was reported to the ruler of Zheng. The ruler said, “Alas! Must even the Shishi divide another man’s deer in a dream?” He then asked the chancellor (xiangguo, the highest official assisting the ruler). The chancellor replied, “Dream and waking—I cannot distinguish between them. To distinguish waking from dreaming, only the Yellow Emperor and Kong Qiu (that is, Confucius) could do it. Now that the Yellow Emperor and Kong Qiu are both gone, who else can distinguish them? Still, it is acceptable to act according to the Shishi’s words.”

This explanation means: It is the common way of people to believe that what is seen while awake is real, because it is what the physical body has personally come into contact with; and to treat dreams as empty and false, because in dreams the hun-soul and Shen (spirit) are interacting with external things. The judgment as it stands is thus acceptable.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (True Scripture of Ultimate De and Supreme Emptiness) is the Zhuangzi, a Daoist honorific title used from the Tang dynasty onward; Jiang Yu is the annotator of this passage.

People generally regard what is seen while awake as real and what is seen in dreams as false, because when awake the body comes into contact with external things, whereas in dreams it is the hun-soul and Shen that interact. Yet what one does while awake is often forgotten after waking—how is this different from a dream? Events encountered in dreams sometimes also have a basis in reality—how is this different from waking?

Actions while awake mostly arise from intentionality, and so are easily forgotten by Shen-consciousness; dreams mostly arise from no-mind, and so are instead efficacious. Dream and waking are essentially no different: if one realizes them with the mind, both are real; if one discriminates between them, both are illusory. If one clings to dreams as real, how, while in a dream, could one know that one is dreaming? If one clings to waking as real, then after waking one would no longer dream.

The author says that people are born in the Central State, and only for this reason do they distinguish dream from waking. If one explained the principle of dream and waking to people of remote tribes, their judgments of right and wrong would not necessarily reach a settled conclusion.

He then cites the parable from the Liezi: a woodcutter of Zheng at first took a real event as a dream, and in the end took a dream as a real event. Another man, hearing the woodcutter’s words, thought it was a dream, went and took that deer, and then contended with the woodcutter over the deer. Dream and waking mix with each other, true and false gallop across one another, and right and wrong clash with one another; thus litigation inevitably arises.

When the Shishi (ancient judge) heard this case, he had to adjudicate it. If he judged the deer-picker to be in the right, then the deer originally belonged to the woodcutter; if he judged the woodcutter to be in the right, then the woodcutter had only obtained the deer after searching for it. All this is because dream and waking are confused, so that right and wrong become entangled and cannot be clarified.