《冲虚至德真经解(江遹)》Vol. 3

This passage comes from the Liezi (revered in Daoism as the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing, the True Scripture of Emptiness and Perfect Virtue). Through a lawsuit over a deer in the state of Zheng, it shows that right and wrong often depend on the standpoint one occupies and cannot be fixed to one side alone.

A man was cutting firewood in the fields when he came upon a startled deer. He struck it dead and hid it, but afterward forgot where he had hidden it and thought it had been a dream. If the woodcutter is judged to be in the right, he did indeed find the deer; if the finder is judged to be in the right, the deer is indeed in his hands. The whole matter arises between dream and waking, with right and wrong in confusion and no way to distinguish them. If on this basis one were to split the deer in two to decide the case, how could that count as skill in adjudicating litigation? When the ruler of Zheng heard of the matter, he sighed and then went to consult his chancellor.

Waking and dreaming each occupy half of day and night. If one trusts what is seen and heard while awake, one cannot explain the things in dreams; if one trusts what is seen in dreams, one cannot comprehend the principles of waking. Only Huangdi (the ancient emperor) and Confucius (the sage of the Confucians) can discern the principle in this; otherwise, how could right and wrong be easily determined?

The shishi (the officer in charge of criminal law) split the deer in two. Though this was done out of necessity, viewed from the ultimate standpoint he clings neither to waking nor to dreaming, and yet seems to believe in everything. This has not yet reached the state in which dreams and thoughts naturally dissolve, but he may still be said to be capable of handling the matter. That being so, is it not acceptable to rest content with the judge’s verdict? The judge represents where law and measure lie. Whenever one uses law to divide things that have form and name, right and wrong multiply, and absolute right and wrong are hard to establish; all is merely handled provisionally and affirmed only when there is no alternative—is this not acceptable?

In Yangli in the state of Song there was a man named Huazi. In middle age he suffered from forgetfulness: what he took in the morning he forgot by evening, and what he gave in the evening he forgot by morning; walking on the road he forgot where he was going, and at home he forgot to sit down; he could not even distinguish past from present. His whole family suffered deeply from this.

The final sentence—“It is merely so for the time being; when there is no alternative, to approve it—is that not acceptable?”—means: it is only a provisional matter, an acceptance made when there is no choice; is that not also quite acceptable?

In Yangli in the state of Song there was a man named Huazi. In middle age he contracted a disorder of forgetfulness. What he took in the morning he had forgotten by evening; what he gave out in the evening he had forgotten by the next morning. Walking along the road, he forgot where he was going; sitting in a room, he forgot whether he should sit down. Present affairs he could not retain alongside past ones, and past affairs he could not recall in the present. The whole household grieved over this. They asked the scribes to divine with tortoise shells and yarrow stalks (divination, to inquire about fortune and misfortune), but the divination produced no result. They then asked a shaman to perform rituals (one who prays to the spirits on others’ behalf and drives away illness), but this too had no effect. They next asked a doctor to attack the illness with medicine, but the illness was still not cured.

There was a Confucian scholar in the state of Lu who claimed he could cure it. Huazi’s wife and son then brought out half the family property and asked him to impart his method of treatment. The scholar said, “This illness is not something divination can detect, nor something prayer can resolve, nor something medicine and stone needles can attack and cure. I will try beginning with his mental focus and altering his thoughts; perhaps then he may recover.” So first he made Huazi stand in the open air, and Huazi asked for clothes; he made Huazi go hungry, and Huazi asked for food; he shut Huazi in a dark place, and Huazi asked for light.

The scholar joyfully told Huazi’s family, “The illness can be cured. But my method is very secret, and it is not convenient to tell others. Please have everyone around withdraw and let me live alone with him in one room for seven days.” The family did as he said, and no one knew what method he used. After seven days, Huazi’s illness of many years was completely cured in a single morning.

This passage is a commentary on the Huazi parable in the Liezi. If a matter involves human feeling and its falsity, one may inquire into it through hexagram divination; if profit and harm are at stake, one may seek resolution through prayer; if illness arises from cravings, one may attack it with medicines and mineral remedies. But the illness of delusive forgetfulness is different. When a person falls into delusive forgetfulness, he is so utterly blank that he does not even notice whether heaven and earth exist—how could divination, prayer, or medicine cure it?

To use an analogy: seeking clothing when cold shows that one has not yet forgotten cold and heat; seeking food when hungry shows that one has not yet forgotten the body; being in darkness and seeking light shows that one has not yet forgotten likes and dislikes. From this we know that Huazi’s “forgetting” was only a blindness caused by illness; it was not a true ability to forget the various conditions of the world. That is why the Confucian scholar (meaning a literatus who reveres ritual and law) gladly concluded that Huazi’s illness could be cured.

If it were true forgetting, even the Creative Transformations (the sovereign of nature) could do nothing about it—how much less could it be cured by the shallow techniques of a Confucian? Confucians take the Odes and Rites as their profession, yet they are precisely the ones most able to corrupt the root of the great Dao. The saying “to rob graves by means of the Odes and Rites” satirizes them for using the name of the Odes and Rites to carry out corruption. They lead the common people away from true learning and make them esteem falsity, and imperceptibly and secretly they alter people’s hearts, making them compliant without their knowing it. Therefore this Confucian scholar claimed to possess a secret prescription and insisted that the attendants be dismissed so that he could be alone with Huazi. After staying with Huazi for seven days, Huazi’s naturally whole and undifferentiated nature (that is, “Hundun,” the primordial undifferentiated state) died, and thereafter his seeing and hearing, eating and drinking, and breathing were all like those of ordinary people. Thus a chronic illness of many years was completely removed in a single morning.

After Huazi regained awareness, however, he flew into a violent rage, drove away his wife, punished his son, and, taking up a halberd, pursued the Confucian scholar. A man of Song stopped him and asked the reason. Huazi said: “Previously I forgot, and in a vast blur I was unaware whether heaven and earth existed. Now I have suddenly remembered everything from the past. The survival and ruin, gain and loss, sorrow and joy, likes and dislikes of several decades come surging forth in countless threads. I fear that future survival and ruin, gain and loss, sorrow and joy, likes and dislikes will disturb my mind in this way—can that brief forgetting ever be regained?” Zigong (a disciple of Confucius) found this strange and told Confucius about it. Confucius said, “This is not something you can do, is it?” Then he turned and instructed Yan Hui to record the matter.

This passage uses the story of Hua Zi of Yangli in the state of Song to explain the distinction between “the true” and “the false/artificial,” and the way the human mind is disturbed by external things.

Hua Zi in middle age suffered from forgetfulness. He forgot all sorts of attachments—gain and loss, survival and ruin, sorrow and joy, likes and dislikes—and his state of mind instead became clear and tranquil. But once he awakened, he fell back into turmoil: he became angry at his wife and children and took up weapons to drive away the Confucian scholars. When Zigong heard of this, he found it strange and went to ask Confucius. Confucius said, “This is not something you are able to do.” He then turned and instructed Yan Hui to record the matter.

The commentator’s explanation runs roughly as follows.

On “the true” and “the false”: The true Dao is hard to encounter, while false and artificial things easily delude people; this has long been so. If one takes “the true” as one’s joy, the myriad things cannot alter what one delights in, and even love for wife and children can be abandoned. If one takes “the true” as venerable, external things cannot shake what one reveres, and even the Dao upheld by the Confucian scholars need no longer be clung to.

In Hua Zi’s situation: Since Hua Zi had already awakened, he knew that forgetting was something to be delighted in. He should have been able to forget everything amid worldly entanglements and no longer be concerned. Yet he still worried that external things would disturb his mind, so that he could not again attain even a moment of forgetting. How much more so for those who have never known the joy of forgetting and rush about all day amid right and wrong!

The reactions of others: Hua Zi’s family regarded his forgetfulness as a calamity in the household, while the Confucian scholars rejoiced that his illness could be cured. Both sides were in turmoil; one can imagine the confusion of their states of mind.

“Yang” and “Hua”: “Yang” refers to taking birth, growth, and nurturing as one’s business; “Hua” refers to receiving yang qi and becoming flourishing and bright. These are all paths leading to disturbance. Hua Zi’s suffering forgetfulness in middle age was a shedding of flourishing complexity and a return to the root; after awakening, he again plunged into entanglement and commotion. In the Zhouyi, Dui symbolizes joyful moistening, and Zhen symbolizes arousing restlessness. What violates the original constant nature is the joy of Dui; what emerges is the decisiveness and impatience of Zhen. Thus after Hua Zi awakened, he flew into a great rage.

Zigong and Yan Hui: Zigong excelled in speech and liked to judge others by intelligence and talent, and for this he was rebuked by Confucius. Yan Hui, by contrast, could forget benevolence and righteousness, ritual and music, advancing layer by layer until “sitting and forgetting” (Zuowang), the state described in the Zhuangzi in which both things and the self are forgotten. That is why Confucius turned and had Yan Hui record this matter.

Vernacular Interpretation

In Qin there was a household surnamed Feng that gave birth to a son. The child was clever and quick-witted, but by the time he reached adulthood he had contracted a disorder of confusion and inversion. Hearing singing, he took it for weeping; seeing white, he took it for black; smelling fragrance, he took it for rot; tasting sweetness, he took it for bitterness; doing what was right, he recognized it as wrong. Wherever his mind turned—heaven and earth and the four directions, water and fire, cold and heat—everything appeared to him inverted and disordered.

His father heard that the gentlemen of Lu understood many arts, and he was asked, “The gentlemen of Lu are broad in learning; can they cure this illness? Why do you not go and seek their instruction?” So his father set out for Lu. Passing through Chen, he encountered Lao Dan (that is, Laozi; his personal name was Er, courtesy name Dan, also called Lao Dan; here the text calls him “Lao Cong”) and told him of his son’s symptoms.

Lao Dan asked, “Are you not as confused as your son? People everywhere today are deluded by right and wrong and blinded by benefit and harm. Those who suffer this same illness are far too many; from the start there are few who awaken. Moreover, one person’s confusion is not enough to overturn a family; one family’s confusion is not enough to overturn a village; one village’s confusion is not enough to overturn a state; and one state’s confusion is not enough to overturn the world. If everyone in the world were confused, who could correct them? If everyone’s mind were like your son’s, then you would instead be the confused one. Sorrow and joy, sound and color, smell and taste, right and wrong—who could set them straight?”

Notes: “A man of Qin surnamed Feng” refers to a family named Feng in Qin, an ordinary family in the fable. “Lao Dan” is Laozi, the founder of Daoism; the text here writes it as “Lao Cong,” a variant reading. “Chen” was a feudal state in the Spring and Autumn period, in what is now eastern Henan. “Lu” was a feudal state in the Spring and Autumn period, known for valuing ritual, music, and learning; hence the text says that “the gentlemen were skilled in many arts.”

Commentary: Singing and weeping, white and black, fragrant and foul, sweet and bitter, and even heaven and earth and the four directions, water and fire, cold and heat—these myriad names all originally issue from one mysterious root, and in themselves have no distinction. Only because of people’s deluded passions and desires, with liking and disliking, do they discriminate among the myriad things and establish all sorts of provisional names. People follow names in search of reality, cling without transforming, and not one is able to awaken.

Take one point among them: to regard white as white is to follow the crowd; to regard white as black is to follow oneself. Following oneself invites the crowd’s suspicion; following the crowd leaves oneself confused. Because each side’s words differ, the names “white” and “black” become distinguished. Although names and words differ, the substance and nature of things do not change; this is the difference of names and words. The many and the few press against one another, and the few cannot overcome the many. If one insists on black, one is following oneself, and the crowd will be suspicious; if one follows the crowd, one will be confused. Each side holds a different doctrine, white and black receive different names; though words differ, the fundamental body remains unmoved. Leading the confused with confusion, they sink and drown, never to return. How can one hastily take the ailment shared by the crowd as correct and the insight awakened by one person alone as wrong?

Master Yang (Yang Zhu) held that his own doctrine could sway the world, and he was just then contending with the Confucians and Mohists over right and wrong, black and white. Master Feng worried about this and sent him to seek advice from a learned and resourceful man in Lu. Master Feng was the sort who, upon encountering things, simply went along with them; thus in his youth he was clever, but as he grew up he suffered from confusion and disorder.

Moreover, these words of mine are not necessarily free from confusion; how much less can those gentlemen of Lu, who are themselves way stations on the road of confusion, untangle the confusion of others? Rather than laboriously carrying your provisions on a long journey, you would do better to throw them down and go home.

In the world there is originally no absolute “right” and “wrong”; the Great Dao lies beyond the reach of words and writing. The sages established doctrines in order to teach the world, and they too had to borrow words to express themselves—this was unavoidable.

But the sages also worried that scholars would take the words of the multitude as wrong and the words of the sages as right, and so cling tightly to them, holding fast and never forgetting them. As the saying goes, “Though gold is precious, once it enters the eye it becomes a film”: however precious gold may be, if it falls into the eye it becomes an obstruction that blurs vision. Therefore Laozi said: “My words are not necessarily free of confusion. How much more so when the gentlemen of Lu (referring to Confucian scholars centered on benevolence and righteousness) establish teachings of benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trust, and compile classics such as the Poems, Documents, Rites, and Music—this is the most confusing of confusions; how can they dispel the confusion of others?” Rather than clinging to external splendor and material sustenance, one should hurry back and let people turn their light inward to illuminate the mind and seek within themselves.

The following story illustrates this principle.

A man of Yan was born in Yan but grew up in Chu. When he grew old, he returned to his homeland, passing through Jin. His traveling companions wanted to play a trick on him. They pointed to a city and said, “This is the city of Yan.” His countenance changed and he grew solemn. Then they pointed to an earth-god shrine (she, a place in ancient times for sacrifices to the earth god) and said, “This is the she of our village.” He gave a long sigh. Then they pointed to a house and said, “This is your ancestors’ old residence.” Tears welled up in his eyes. Then they pointed to a tomb (zhong, that is, a grave) and said, “This is your ancestors’ grave.” He was so grieved that he could not control himself. Seeing this, his companions could not help laughing and said, “We were deceiving you earlier; this is actually Jin.” Only then did the man feel greatly ashamed.

When he truly returned to Yan and saw with his own eyes the city walls of Yan and its village shrines, and saw with his own eyes his ancestors’ old residence and grave, the sorrow in his heart instead grew faint.

The explanation says: Those who transmit Dao methods may be genuine or false, and those who receive the Great Dao differ in priority. Those who encounter it first become the accepted authorities, while those who come later are regarded as outsiders. Dao learners today first meet a teacher, study false methods, and then believe them to be true, clinging to them without letting go, thinking that no higher principle remains to be learned. After some years, they suddenly encounter a true master who transmits the genuine teaching, yet they instead cling to their old learning and refuse to believe, so that to the end of their lives they never awaken—truly pitiable. This is why Yukou (that is, Liezi) set forth the parable of “the Yan man passing through Jin.”

This man was born in Yan, grew up in Chu, and in old age returned to his homeland. As he passed through Jin, his companions deceived him, saying, “This is already the city of Yan.” His expression at once became sorrowful. Pointing to a shrine, they said, “This is the shrine of our village.” He sighed deeply and wept. Then, pointing to a house, they said, “This is the old dwelling of my ancestors.” His tears flowed without stopping. Pointing again to a grave mound, they said, “This is the tomb of my forebears.” He wailed and could not restrain himself. Only then did his companions laugh loudly and say, “This is Jin; we were just teasing you.” The man was deeply ashamed. When he finally arrived in Yan and saw with his own eyes the houses and graves of his ancestors, his grief instead faded away, and he could no longer stir any feeling at all.

Thus it is clear that external circumstances stir the human heart: at first sight one is moved, but after seeing them more, one gradually becomes indifferent. Moreover, the homeland is originally the place where one may live in peace and happiness; yet now, the closer he draws, the more distressed his heart becomes, until in the end he is left with nothing but tears—where is the joy of living? Furthermore, what he took to be “Yan” was not Yan at all, but actually a city of Jin. His companions passed off the false as true, and he believed illusion to be reality. Seen from the side of an observer, this is enough to make one secretly laugh. From this we may know that people’s so-called inner and outer, intimate and distant, joy, anger, sorrow, and delight are all, without exception, deceived by falsehood just like this man of Yan.

People’s intimacy or estrangement from one another, and their sorrow or joy over things, are inevitably mocked by the Creator—just as with that man of Yan. Even if he came to realize that the matter was not real, he should still ask himself: when he first grieved and worried, why was it so profound? This shows that intimacy and estrangement do not lie in external things but in oneself; truth and falsehood do not lie in outer circumstances but in the original mind. If the mind is sincere, even a false matter can become true; if the mind is deluded, even a true matter can become false. If the man of Jin (a man of Jin in the Spring and Autumn period; here meaning the deceiver) had never disclosed his fraud, the man of Yan’s true feeling would ultimately not have changed. Once he knew the other was deceiving him, even if he saw his ancestors’ graves with his own eyes, his grief had already grown faint. Why? The human original mind is true from the outset; once enticed by another, false desires replace true feeling, and it can never be restored. Thus, once the man of Yan’s true feeling had dissipated, it could never be recovered. After that, even if the other came with sincerity, he had already seen clearly that there was nothing false in it; if he tried to force grief to arise, in the end he could not. Is this not something that calls for caution?

I once examined the teachings of Laozi and Liezi. Their general aim was to use “nameless uncarved simplicity” (the original true nature, uncarved and free from discrimination) to stabilize the common people, so that they would not be shaken by falsehood, rather than waiting until the customs of the age had already become thin (shallow and corrupt) and then governing them. Therefore the Daodejing concludes: “Nameless uncarved simplicity will also be without desire; without desire, through stillness, the world will return to correctness,” and the “King Mu” chapter of the Liezi also ends with this.

From the age of the Di (thearchs) down to the achievements of the kings, although it is said that Dao (the Way, the source of all things) gradually declined, these ways of governance were in the end all expressions of how the Di and the kings accorded with their times. They all took Dao as their root and were all the work of sages; they merely adapted measures to the times and transformed as circumstances changed. In the age of the Di, one could not but establish the achievements of the Di; when the age of the kings arrived, one could not but complete the undertakings of kings. Governance at the level of the kings was already a declining stream, yet the De (Virtue/Power) that worthies could preserve for long could still approximately attain it. Thus Yu and Tang (Yu of Xia and Tang of Shang), Wen and Wu (King Wen and King Wu of Zhou) likewise established kingly achievements. The worthiness of Qi of Xia was sufficient to inherit Yu the Great’s way of governance, and the middling ability of King Cheng of Zhou could also guard the foundation laid by Wen and Wu. By the time of King Mu of Zhou (a ruler of the Western Zhou), the great Dao was no longer sufficient to be transmitted; the wondrous way he transformed and nurtured the people could not be fully realized in De and brought into harmony with ritual and music, and from this point the Zhou way of governance declined.

When speaking of the Di, one praises their flourishing; when speaking of the kings, one speaks of their decline—this is the principle of the beginning and end of things. Moreover, the De of the Five Thearchs and the achievements of the Three Kings: the principles within them are profound and subtle yet ordinary; some issued from illusion and transformation, and were simply like a dream. This chapter therefore expounds in depth the principle of waking and dreaming: like the people of the land of Gumang, who took what they did in dreams as real; or again like the folk of Fuluo, who were constantly awake and never dreamed. Toiling the mind by day, every night one dreams of being another’s servant; wearying the body by day, every night one dreams of being a king. As for the “deer dispute” in the “King Mu of Zhou” chapter of the Liezi (a woodcutter found a deer, hid it, and forgot the place, thinking it a dream; later, at the lawsuit, even the judge could not tell true from false), waking and dreaming could no longer be distinguished at all. The sage’s traces of complying with the affairs of the world are no more than this.

If one can clearly understand the principle of waking and dreaming, one will know that those called “sick with confusion” were originally not confused, and those called “sick with forgetfulness” were originally not forgetful. Right and wrong, beauty and ugliness, are all gathered back into Dao; the transformative nurturing of Dao and the accomplishment of De’s work ultimately return to the same. Even things as minute as dust and dirt, chaff and husks were still sufficient to mold and cast sages like Yao and Shun—how much more so the mere achievements of kings? Trace back further to the beginnings of the world’s ways of governance, and this will become clear.

Tracing the source of governance over the world back to its origin, one must begin with the Three Sovereigns (Sanhuang, the legendary ancient emperors). At that time the world was governed with generous leniency by the Dao (the Way); the people used knotted cords to keep records, slept securely and comfortably, and rose at ease and content—this may be called the most ideal governance. But once governance departed from the Dao, as times shifted it inevitably descended to the De (Virtue/Power) of emperors and kings. Huangdi, Yao, and Shun brought great order to the world simply by letting their robes hang down, and it was already flourishing, yet their De had already shown traces. By the kingly way of Tang and Wu, people knew only that the achievements of kingly rule appeared in the time of Yu of Xia; they did not know that its beginning actually lay before the Three Sovereigns, or that its later currents would continue a thousand years afterward. Thus each time the Dao descends one level, it is like water leaving its source and flowing on without end, ever farther from the origin and never able to return. Zhuangzi said that the Youyu clan (that is, Shun) summoned benevolence and righteousness to throw the world into disorder, and also said that the sage, unable to bear the pain and injury of a single generation, brought disaster upon ten thousand generations—this probably refers to just such a situation. Nevertheless, if a sage could steer the times by the Dao and not sink along with the ways of the world, then even the kingly way of the established Zhou could keep the people’s lives from departing from the age of supreme De. In this way, Liezi’s bequeathed teachings could hope to be transmitted for ten thousand generations, rather than being a chance encounter within a morning or an evening.

When Confucius (named Qiu, courtesy name Zhongni) was at leisure at home, his disciple Zigong came in and sat in attendance, his face bearing a worried expression. Zigong did not dare ask. The commentary says: among the ancients, withdrawing from court was called “leisure”; “leisure at home” means retiring from court and no longer handling public affairs. Confucius’s worry concerned governing the world and what he would leave to later generations. From this it can be seen that even in leisure the sage’s mind was at every moment fixed on the royal house; his loyalty reached this degree. “To ask” refers to matters one wishes to act on in the heart but has not yet fully understood. Even Yan Hui could not fathom Confucius’s worry, to say nothing of Zigong, who was not Yan Hui’s equal; therefore he did not dare ask.

Confucius sent someone out to tell Yan Hui, and Yan Hui took up his qin and played, singing as he played. When Confucius heard the singing, he indeed summoned him back. Yan Hui had sung precisely because he wanted his teacher to hear him; when the teacher heard, he summoned him, which shows that the sage was never remiss in instructing his disciples.

Confucius asked, “Why are you happy alone?” Yan Hui replied, “Why are you sorrowful alone, Master?” Confucius said, “First tell me your thoughts.” Yan Hui answered, “I once heard you say, ‘To rejoice in Heaven and know destiny—to follow the Heavenly Dao and be content with one’s allotted fate—brings freedom from worry.’ That is why I am happy.” Confucius’s expression changed, and he was silent for a long while. Then he said, “Did I say that? You have misunderstood. That was something I said in the past; my present words should be taken as authoritative. You know only that rejoicing in Heaven and knowing destiny brings freedom from worry, but you do not know that one who truly rejoices in Heaven and knows destiny bears even deeper anxieties in his heart.”

Yan Hui’s joy lay in realizing the great Dao (the Way), while Confucius’s worry lay in the people of the world. From the perspective of ordinary people, only Yan Hui was alone in his joy; from Yan Hui’s perspective, only Confucius was alone in his worry. Whatever Heaven bestows, one gladly accepts without declining—this is called “rejoicing in Heaven” (taking the Way of Heaven as one’s joy); whatever fate arranges, one obediently accepts without resisting—this is called “knowing fate” (understanding the principle of destiny). To know only how to rejoice in Heaven without knowing fate, or to know only fate without being able to rejoice in Heaven, is insufficient to be free of sorrow. If one both rejoices in Heaven and knows fate, then one can be joyful in poverty and joyful in success; joy does not depend on the circumstances of poverty or success, and this is the reason for being without worry. Yan Hui had attained this principle, so even when placed in hardships ordinary people could hardly endure, he did not change his joy.

Yet Confucius lived to the age of sixty, and during those sixty years his views changed repeatedly: what he had earlier regarded as right, he later regarded as wrong. In his early years, to take “rejoicing in Heaven and knowing fate” as the way to be free from sorrow was his early view; in his later years, to take “rejoicing in Heaven and knowing fate” as the greatest of all worries was his later statement. Yan Hui had attained Confucius’s conduct but not the underlying reason for that conduct, so he could only take up his lute and sing, unable to share the sage’s worry. Moreover, these are all words of the sage—could they really contradict one another and fail to fit together? They merely adapt to changing circumstances, for the time being taking today’s words as correct, that is all. As for true joy and true knowing, how could one distinguish right from wrong in the earlier and later statements?

Today I will tell you its essential reality: cultivate yourself, let poverty and success take their course, understand that birth and death, coming and going, are not something “I” can govern, and do not let transformations disturb your thoughts in your mind. In this way, between what you call today’s words and yesterday’s words, how can any distinction be made?

Plain-Language Interpretation: An Explanation of the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Jiang Yu)

Let me now speak plainly. If one cultivates oneself well, then whether in hardship or in success, one understands that gain and loss, staying and leaving, are not governed by the “I”; the mind does not thereby give rise to disturbance and worry. This is what you call “rejoicing in Heaven and knowing destiny, free from care.”

In the past I studied the Book of Songs and the Book of Documents and set aright ritual and music, originally intending to use them to govern the world and transmit them to later generations, and not merely to cultivate myself and govern the state of Lu. But the rulers and ministers of Lu corrupted order day by day; benevolence and righteousness declined daily, and human nature grew ever thinner. If this teaching could not be put into practice within a single state, how much less could it be extended to the whole world and to later generations?

Thereupon I began to understand that the Book of Songs, the Book of Documents, ritual, and music have no practical effect in rescuing a disordered age. But I still did not know by what means to transform it. This is precisely where the person who “rejoices in Heaven and knows destiny” feels concern.

Yet I have now come to an understanding. What are called “joy” and “knowing” are not the joy and knowledge that the ancients spoke of, which can be pointed to with words. Joy without attachment and knowing without attachment—these are true joy and true knowing. Therefore, there is no place where one cannot rejoice, no place where one cannot know, no place where one cannot be concerned, and no place where one cannot act. As for the Book of Songs, the Book of Documents, ritual, and music, why need they be discarded? That being so, why need one transform them?

Notes: “Rejoicing in Heaven and knowing destiny” comes from the Xici Commentary to the Zhouyi (Book of Changes); it means according with the Way of Heaven, being at peace with one’s destiny, and maintaining a calm mind. The Book of Songs, the Book of Documents, ritual, and music are classics among the Six Classics of Confucianism; here they stand for Confucian learning on governing the world and for the ritual-music system. Lu was a feudal state during the Spring and Autumn period and the native state of Confucius; this passage speaks in the voice of Confucius and expresses the frustration of his ideal of governing the world. The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing is another name for the Liezi; in the Tang dynasty it was honored as the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing. Jiang Yu was a Song-dynasty scholar, and this is his commentary.

The sage is one in whom virtuous conduct reaches its utmost and the Great Dao reaches its highest point. If a person is called a sage, his spirit is concentrated and settled, his bodily form transcended; there is nothing he begrudges and nothing he fears or scruples over—how could he still have worry? Even a benevolent person is still able to be without worry; how much more Confucius, who gathered into himself the great culmination of sagehood—could he really have had worry? If a sage could still not avoid worry, he would not deserve to be called a sage. To say that a sage has worry is not to understand the sage.

Now some people see that the sage’s concern and distress were profound, so much that they showed on his countenance, but they do not realize that the sage is the one on whom the myriad things depend and for whom the myriad transformations wait, and that he takes the whole world as his own responsibility. If one merely rejoices in Heaven and knows fate, cultivates oneself, is content with adversity or success, understands that life and death, coming and going, are not within one’s own mastery, and stills the turmoil and disorder in the mind, and then considers oneself free of worry—how could that free all the common people from worry? If the common people are not yet completely free of worry, how can the sage alone be free of worry?

Moreover, the sage’s worry does not stop with his own age but extends to later ages. Later ages are endless, and the common people’s worries are also endless; the sage’s worry accordingly has no end. Is this worry not great?

Furthermore, the sage studied the Odes and Documents and rectified ritual and music, hoping thereby to bring about great order in the world. But if his Way could not be put into practice, and if he regarded the Odes, Documents, ritual, and music as of no benefit for order and disorder, and wished to reform them yet did not know how, how could he be without worry?

Why say this? The Six Classics are old traces left by the former kings. Footprints are made by the feet, but the footprints themselves are not the feet. Although old traces cannot be rigidly guarded, the way of practice—the treading—cannot be abandoned. Therefore, if the Odes, Documents, ritual, and music are discarded and not used, the world cannot be governed; if one clings to them rigidly, the world also cannot be governed. Now if one takes rejoicing in Heaven and knowing fate as freedom from worry, that is tantamount to casting aside the way of practice as well; then with what would one govern the world?

Therefore, when one speaks of “rejoicing in Heaven,” there is still something in which one rejoices; when one speaks of “knowing fate,” there is still something one knows. Where there is something rejoiced in, there must be something worried over; where there is something known, there must be something omitted. Only by attaining true joy and true knowing can one be without joy and without knowing. Being without joy and without knowing, there is nothing in which one does not rejoice, nothing one does not know, nothing over which one does not worry, and nothing one does not do; worry and joy are both forgotten. With a mind of Wuwei (non-action), one carries out the affairs of action; the Odes, Documents, ritual, and music need neither be discarded nor changed, and the world can be governed, and future generations can receive something transmitted.

This is precisely the principle expressed in the Zhouyi (Book of Changes): “It stirs and activates the myriad things without sharing the sage’s worry.” This is also why Confucius edited the Odes and Documents, arranged the Zhouyi, and compiled the Six Classics, earnestly leaving behind his admonitions.

Yan Hui bowed to Confucius with his face turned north and said, “I have already gained an understanding.” He went out and told Zigong. Zigong was dazed as if he had lost himself. After returning home, he pondered intensely for seven days, neither sleeping nor eating, until he had grown so thin that only bones remained. Yan Hui went again to guide him, and only then did Zigong return to Confucius’s gate. All day long he played the qin, sang, and recited the Odes and Documents without ever stopping. (Yan Hui, courtesy name Ziyuan, was Confucius’s most favored disciple; Zigong, that is, Duanmu Ci, was also an eminent disciple of Confucius’s school.)

The commentary holds that Yan Hui once asked to accompany Confucius to Wei, but Confucius said that if he went, he feared Yan Hui would suffer punishment and misfortune. This shows that Yan Hui had not fully exhausted the principle of “rejoicing in Heaven and knowing destiny” (following Heaven’s Way and being content with one’s lot). The commentary also says that Yan Hui could practice “when employed, act; when set aside, hide”—that is, take office when employed and withdraw when not employed—in accord with Confucius, which shows that he had truly grasped something of it. Although Zigong’s wisdom was sufficient to recognize the sage, he had not been able to hear of the Heavenly Way that the sage follows, and that is why he was so bewildered and at a loss. But he did not let go of his intense reflection, to the point of forgetting his own body; only then did he finally comprehend the principle and become capable of receiving the sage’s Way. Therefore, as soon as he heard Yan Hui’s analogy, he suddenly awakened, returned to Confucius’s gate, and followed him for the rest of his life. Playing the qin and singing was how he found joy in it; reciting the Odes and Documents was how he came to understand that they need not be discarded.

The Grand Officer of Chen, while on a visit to Lu, privately called on Shusun. Shusun said, “Our state has a sage.” The Grand Officer of Chen asked, “Is it not Kong Qiu?” Shusun replied, “Yes.” (Shusun was a grand officer of Lu.)

The Grand Officer of Chen was on a diplomatic mission to the state of Lu and privately visited Shusun, a grand officer of Lu. Shusun said, “There is a sage in our state of Chen.” The Grand Officer of Chen asked, “Do you mean Kong Qiu?” Shusun replied, “Exactly.” The Grand Officer of Chen then asked, “On what basis do you know that he is a sage?” Shusun said, “I once heard Yan Hui say that Kong Qiu can abandon the discriminative activity of mind-consciousness and employ the senses solely through the body.” The Grand Officer of Chen said, “There is also a sage in our state of Chen. Do you not know of him?” Shusun asked, “Who is he?” The Grand Officer of Chen replied, “Kangcangzi, a disciple of Lao Dan (that is, Laozi, the founder of Daoism), a legendary Daoist figure said to have received Lao Dan’s true transmission. He obtained Lao Dan’s Dao and can ‘see’ with his ears and ‘hear’ with his eyes.” When the Marquis of Lu heard this, he was greatly astonished and sent a high minister with generous gifts to invite him. Kangcangzi came in response to the summons. The Marquis of Lu respectfully sought instruction from him. Kangcangzi said, “Those rumors are not true. I can see and hear without using my ears and eyes, but I cannot alter the original functions of the ears and eyes.” The Marquis of Lu said, “This is even more extraordinary. What exactly is his Dao? I have always wished to hear you explain it.”

Annotation: Human perception cannot be separated from the body. Even sages are not fundamentally different from ordinary people. The difference lies only in this: sages lodge perception in the body and thereby emit their own luminous awareness, yet they are not entirely bound by the body. Precisely because they are not bound by the body, they can abandon the discriminative activity of mind-consciousness (“abandoning mind”); precisely because they lodge perception in the body, they still borrow the body to perceive (“using form”). “Abandoning mind” is Kangcangzi’s ability to see and hear without using the ears and eyes; “using form” is Kangcangzi’s inability to alter the functions of the ears and eyes. Since Kangcangzi as a sage is no different from Confucius in sage virtue, we may know that Confucius’s Dao and Laozi’s Dao are fundamentally without difference.

Kangcangzi said, “My body joins with the mind, the mind joins with Qi, Qi joins with Shen, and Shen joins with Non-being.” This describes his sequence of cultivation: from the body to the mind, from the mind to primal Qi, from primal Qi to spirit, and finally causing spirit to unite with the source of emptiness and Non-being, which is the Dao.

In the Great Beginning, Being and Non-being were not yet differentiated and could not be named, yet wondrous transformation was contained within them. At the very start of the Great Beginning, Qi (vital energy) began to manifest; when Qi mutually harmonized, life arose; once there was life, there was consciousness. What creation bestows on human beings is just such an equal starting point. The reason people differ as the presumptuous and the sage-like is that the directions with which each aligns are different.

The sage ascends at every step and merges with Non-being. Merging with Non-being, he is unobstructed wherever he goes. Ordinary people sink downward at every step and merge with things. Merging with things, they are obstructed everywhere.

When body and mind unite, one can forget the physical form; when mind and Qi unite, one can forget thoughts; when Qi and Shen (spirit) unite, they become a seamless whole, and the sage’s realm is unfathomably deep. Yet although Shen is mysterious, it has still not escaped Being; only when Shen unites with Non-being is it identical with Taixu (the vast boundless void). As for large things, it encompasses all without becoming exhausted; as for small things, it omits nothing, and none of the myriad things can escape its clear discernment.

If there is the slightest stirring, the faintest sound—even if far beyond the Eight Wilds (the remotest regions of the eight directions), or as near as the space between eyelashes—as soon as it comes near, I would inevitably...

Within the eyebrows and lashes (the very near) is set against beyond the eight wastelands (the very far): in the distance, mountains and rivers are jumbled and the myriad things are scattered, so that ears and eyes cannot reach them all; near at hand, the viscera lie within the body and the apertures lie outside it, yet people cannot see their own perceptual functioning. If spirit unites with emptiness and nonbeing, the body merges into the void, the images of things dissolve, and one becomes indistinguishably one with the Great Void. Even something as tiny as a small insect appears in this state as clearly as a corner of Mount Song; the faint sound of the small insect is heard as loudly as thunder—how much more so for even fainter sounds? Laozi said, “The farther one travels, the less one knows.” This accords exactly with that meaning.

The sage does not deliberately seek to know much; only when someone comes to ask does he tell them. Precisely because he does not strive for anything outside, he has no deliberate perception and no deliberate knowledge, and yet his knowledge naturally penetrates, so that he knows all. If what is known comes from the senses, it cannot be free of the body; if it comes from thought, it cannot go beyond the range of the mind—how then could one know all? The words of Kangcangzi (a disciple of Laozi and the legendary author of the book Kangcangzi) have already exhausted the principle: if the mind has something it rejects, it cannot contain the sounds of the outside world. Therefore the Marquis of Lu told this matter to Confucius (Zhongni), and Confucius smiled and did not answer.

The Grand Steward of Shang (the Grand Steward of Shang or Song, that is, the minister who assisted the ruler) paid a visit to Confucius and asked, “Are you a sage?” Confucius replied, “How would I dare to be a sage? I am merely a man of broad learning and much knowledge.” The Grand Steward of Shang asked again, “Were the Three Kings (the founders of Xia, Shang, and Zhou) sages?” Confucius said, “The Three Kings were good at employing the wise and brave; as for being sages, I do not know.” He asked, “Were the Five Emperors (the five ancient emperors) sages?” Confucius said, “The Five Emperors were good at employing the benevolent and righteous; as for being sages, I do not know either.” He asked, “Were the Three August Ones (the three ancient sovereigns) sages?” Confucius said, “The Three August Ones were good at employing people in accordance with the times; as for being sages, I still do not know.” Hearing this, the Grand Steward of Shang was greatly astonished.

Explanation: The Dao is fundamentally nothing more than one. From Fuxi (a Sovereign) it declined to the Emperors; Yao transmitted it to Shun, and Shun transmitted it to Yu. Tang of Shang, King Wen of Zhou, and King Wu of Zhou were all sages of antiquity. Yet the pristine simplicity and Wuwei (non-action) of Fuxi’s age, the abdications between Yao and Shun, the punitive campaigns of Tang of Shang and Kings Wen and Wu, and Confucius’s composing the Spring and Autumn Annals while styling himself an “Uncrowned King”—all these were responses to the times, actions taken unavoidably in accord with the ways of the world. Thus the realm of “sagehood” instead became hidden and no longer manifest.

Therefore, when Confucius answered the question of the Grand Minister of Shang, speaking of himself he said, “I dare not presume”; speaking of others he said, “I do not know.” Even so, one who skillfully follows the times causes the Dao to be manifest; one who skillfully employs benevolence and righteousness causes De (Virtue/Power) to shine forth; one who skillfully brings wisdom and martial courage into play enriches his undertakings; and one who is broadly learned and widely knowledgeable can exhaust the principles of things and fully know his nature. All these are things the sage does; it was only that Confucius did not presume to call himself one.

Furthermore, the Sovereigns declined into Emperors, and the Emperors declined into Kings. The Grand Minister of Shang was merely a man who assisted a king. In matters of the governance of emperors and kings, he was still busy following, transmitting, and taking as models the statutes and institutions of earlier generations, and had no time to do more. Suddenly hearing an answer such as “I do not know,” how could he fail to be astonished? This was because he regarded “the sage who is an emperor or sovereign” as too high, so that when he heard Confucius’s answer he was shaken.

Then someone asked, “Who, then, is truly a sage?” Confucius’s expression changed; he paused for a while and said, “In the land of the West there is a sage.”

The so-called “sage” is one who embodies “the Dao (the Way) of the August Ones, the De (Virtue/Power) of the Emperors, and the enterprise of the Kings”—that is, a man who epitomized the great synthesis, like Confucius. When Confucius spoke with the Grand Steward of Shang (the figure who at the time asked Confucius about the Way of the sage), their discussions likewise concerned matters of the sage. The reason the sage does not claim the title “sage” for himself is that once he considers himself a sage, he is joined with Shen (spirit) and becomes unfathomable. The sage manifests within transformation and is therefore seen by the myriad things, while the root of why he is a sage, by contrast, remains hidden and unmanifest. Thus people can know only the results of his governance, not his fundamental Dao. The Grand Steward of Shang actually wished to set aside the sage himself and seek the Way of the sage elsewhere—how terribly muddled he was.

When Confucius heard this, his expression stirred, and he intended to compose his countenance in order to awaken him. The Grand Steward still did not understand, so Confucius said, “There is a sage in the West.” The “man of the West” spoken of here refers to one who is not separated from Shen, who preserves the root of Heaven, and who has not yet manifested within transformation. The West is the direction of “returning to destiny and reverting to nature” (returning to the source and restoring one’s original nature). The Way of Heaven turns from the west toward the north; only in the north does the return to destiny reach its utmost point. When the Liezi (a Daoist classic attributed to Lie Yukou) discusses the Way of the sage, it often speaks through “the West,” because at that time the ritual and musical adornments of the Zhou dynasty were excessively elaborate, and the resulting abuse was outward brilliance without substance. It therefore advocated taking the West as the root and causing the people to discard ornamentation and preserve substance. This also explains the source of civilizing instruction and the destination to which Lao Dan (Laozi) departed. As for the reference to the north, it further involves the emergence of Zhen (the east, the position where the myriad things first begin to move); this is the main purport of this passage.

“He does not govern, and yet there is no disorder; he does not speak, and yet people trust him of themselves; he does not transform, and yet people act of themselves; vast and boundless, the people cannot name him.” This means that the sage does not deliberately govern, yet the world is at peace of itself; he does not issue orders, yet the people trust him of themselves; he does not impose instruction, yet the people act of themselves. Vast and boundless, the people cannot name him in words. Confucius was therefore perplexed: was such a person truly a sage, or was he not truly a sage?

The world originally has no disturbances; the common people have their own spontaneous and constant condition. If, because one cannot bear a momentary injury, one recklessly imposes governance, one will leave behind unending calamities for ten thousand generations, and by then no one will be able to save the situation. Therefore those who practice “Ying Diwang” (Responding to Emperors and Kings, the title of a chapter in the Zhuangzi, meaning to follow the way of emperors and kings) must take Dao (the Way) as their root and observe the changes brought about by speech and by naming the myriad things, so as to avoid these abuses.

Yet once there is speech, there will inevitably be those who doubt; once there are changes, there will inevitably be those who oppose them. As soon as names and titles are connected with order and disorder, one grows ever farther from the sage’s Dao. Only a state like “vast and broad, the people are unable to name it” (the people are so vast and broad that no name can describe them) is sufficient to be compared to the sage.

Laojun (that is, Laozi, the founding ancestor revered by Daoists) says: “Dao is constant, nameless, and without beginning; Dao should not be named.” The sage is the utmost embodiment of Dao; once he can be referred to by name, he is already no longer Dao. From Fuxi (a sage king in ancient legend) to Confucius, were their deeds in responding to the world not close to “selling reputation throughout the world”? Thus Confucius’s not knowing what a sage is is instead reasonable. Yet if one takes “no way to name” as the standard of the sage, since one can use “nameless” to call it, that is already “having”; how then can it be called “no way to name”? Presumably only what ultimately cannot be named is the true name of Dao. To use “no way to name” to call it is to lodge it in “nothing”; this is the sage’s unavoidable expedient.

Therefore, although Confucius said, “There is a sage in the West,” in the end he only said, “I do not know whether he is truly a sage”; this does not mean that he is truly not a sage. Nevertheless, what is called “no way to name” does not mean that only by using emptiness and Wuwei (non-action) to distance oneself from all appellations does one call it “nothing.” Hence it is said, “Although there is action, there is no burden of action”—it is as if it can be named, but in reality there is no nameable substance. Thus Confucius once praised Yao with “vast and broad, the people have no way to name him,” yet did not thereby deny Yao’s “lofty” achievements.

Look again at Confucius’s reply to the Grand Steward of Shang (in the Analects, “Zihan,” the Grand Steward who questioned Zigong about whether Confucius was a sage): at first he did not know that Confucius was a sage, and in the end he again doubted that Confucius was a sage. His traces were already hard to grasp at the beginning, and his mystery could not be known at the end. The sage’s unknowability lies precisely in this.

The Tai Zai of Shang (an official title, the minister in charge of the court and state affairs) remained silent, secretly calculating to himself: Kong Qiu is deceiving me.

This means that in regard to Confucius’s words, the Tai Zai of Shang could neither refute his reasoning nor bring himself to trust his character, and so in his heart he concluded that Confucius was deceiving him.

Zixia (Bu Shang, a disciple of Confucius) asked Confucius: What sort of person is Yan Hui? Confucius said: Yan Hui is benevolent, and surpasses me. He asked again: What sort of person is Zigong (Duanmu Ci)? Confucius said: Zigong is eloquent, and surpasses me. He asked again about Zilu (Zhong You): What sort of person is he? Confucius said: Zilu is brave, and surpasses me. He then asked about Zizhang (Zhuansun Shi): What sort of person is he? Confucius said: Zizhang is dignified, and surpasses me. Zixia rose from his seat and asked: Since these four are all superior to you, Master, why do they still serve you? Confucius said: Sit down, and I will tell you. Yan Hui is benevolent, but does not know how to reflect on himself; Zigong is eloquent, but does not know how to be silent; Zilu is brave, but does not know fear; Zizhang is dignified, but cannot be accommodating. Each has his strengths, and each also has his shortcomings. Even if one gathered the strengths of all four into a single person and offered them in exchange for me, I would not agree. This is precisely why they serve me without divided loyalty.

This commentary says: the disciples’ virtues are like Yin-Yang, each partial in its own way; the sage’s Dao is like chongqi (the empty, still, harmonizing Qi, from Laozi’s phrase “chongqi yi wei he,” harmonizing Qi brings harmony). Chongqi is subtler than Yin-Yang, and Yin-Yang depend on chongqi in order to be harmonized. The strengths of the four all surpass Confucius, yet even combining the strengths of all four, they would not exchange them for Confucius’s Dao. Thus their “worthiness” lies precisely in their partial attachment, and their “shortcoming” is precisely the profound and mysterious point. It is because they understood this that the four served Confucius with constancy.

Liezi (Lie Yukou, a Daoist figure of the Warring States period, after whom the book Liezi is named), having taken Huqiu Zilin as his teacher and Boshi Maoren as his friend, withdrew to the southern suburb. Those who followed him to study counted the days one by one, yet could never catch up with his level.

Liezi had already grasped the Daoist arts of the two masters; riding the wind, he returned, and his ability to settle his own state had reached its utmost. Liezi was unwilling to attain the Great Dao (the Way) alone and disregard others, so he lived in Nanguo. “Nan” denotes a direction, while “guo” means the outer settlement beyond the city wall. Though Liezi remained in the world, he could not avoid dealing with people; thus visitors were always at his gate, and shoes piled up at the entrance.

Even so, Liezi’s cultivation was still extremely subtle and refined. Every day he debated with people, and there was no one who did not hear his voice. Yet he and Nan Guozi lived next door to each other for twenty years without ever visiting or asking to see one another; when they met on the road, it was as if they did not see each other. The servants at his gate therefore concluded that Liezi and Nan Guozi were unmistakably rivals—there was no doubt about it.

The commentary says: He is called Nan Guozi because he had already realized the subtle wonder of the Great Dao. Dwelling amid the dust of the world yet unstained by it, he could live next door to Liezi. The Dao of the two men communicated without obstruction, wondrously joined without any gap; often they came without coming and saw without seeing—what need was there for them to visit one another? Not only did they not visit each other; even when they met on the road, it was as if they had never met. If a student of the Dao can realize the Dao at a single meeting of the eyes, he has already reached a very high level. But if he still must rely on eye contact, he has not yet escaped attachment to “seeing”; only when meeting as if not meeting has he escaped knowledge and views. Without marks and in Wuwei (non-action), each forgetting the other, Liezi’s Dao was complete at this point. Hence it is said, “Liezi was also subtle”; “subtle” means that his cultivation did not deviate from the Great Dao, and though his mental state was fine and subtle, it was wondrous. His daily debate was not because he loved argument, but because he found himself in an environment with many disciples and had no choice but to do so. The servants at his gate saw only that Liezi interacted with others through speech and debate, and because the two did not visit each other, they concluded that they were rivals, without the slightest doubt.

Someone from Chu asked Liezi, “Are you and Nan Guozi rivals?” Liezi said, “Nan Guozi’s outward form is full, his inner mind empty; his ears do not hear sounds, his eyes do not see forms, his mouth does not speak, his mind knows nothing, and his body feels no alarm or fear. Since he is like this, what would I go there to do?”

Explanation: This passage discusses the difference between the Dao cultivator’s “union of form and Shen (spirit)” and “disunion of form and Shen,” using Liezi’s teacher and friend Nanguo Zi as a contrast.

The meaning of the original text is this: One who has cultivated “fullness of appearance” cultivates body and mind so that the physical form does not decay; one whose “heart is empty” forgets obsessive attachments so that external things cannot lodge in the mind. The ear does not hear outer sounds, only listening to one’s own interior; the eye does not see external objects, only contemplating oneself. The mouth does not speak—since one does not speak, why should there be any need for “speaking without speaking” (that is, although the mouth does not speak, one can transform things through the Dao of no-speaking)? To have no knowing in the mind is true knowledge (true knowledge is precisely non-knowing); when the bodily form is not startled or afraid, one has no fear or taboo regarding anything. When cultivation reaches this realm, teacher and disciple can both forget one another—so what else remains to be done?

Liezi said, “Even so, you should still come with me to see for yourself.” Thereupon he took forty disciples along.

The commentator says that Liezi had already spoken of Nanguo Zi’s profundity, but he worried that his disciples might be deluded by Nanguo Zi’s words, so he brought them along to verify it with their own eyes. “Forty people traveling together” means that the number of those accompanying him was large, so that everyone could bear witness.

When they saw Nanguo Zi, his appearance was indeed like a lifeless clay figurine, and there was no way to converse with him. Looking back at Liezi, Liezi’s form and Shen did not match either, and could not be in the same group or company with them. The commentator explains further: Shen gives birth to form, and form completes Shen; only when form and Shen are united is there the foundation by which a person can live. Nanguo Zi’s form and Shen were separated: he had only the outward form of a human but not human feeling, and so he is called “qipo”—that is, a clay figurine. Such a person has already forgotten external things and stands independent, detached from the crowd; therefore it is impossible to associate with him or to be in the same group with him.

Finally, Nanguo Zi suddenly pointed to one of Liezi’s disciples who was last in line and spoke with him; his manner was joyful and self-possessed, as if single-minded and upright, and yet also as if possessed of a robust vigor. Liezi’s disciples were greatly astonished; after returning to their lodging, each wore an expression of doubt.

Terms explained: The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing is the book Liezi; during the time of Emperor Xuanzong of Tang it received this honorific title. Liezi was named Yukou, a man of the State of Zheng during the Warring States period and an important figure in Daoism. Nanguo Zi is a fable character in the book, whose form and Shen appear to have separated; he serves as a contrast to the realm of the Dao cultivator. Qipo originally denotes a clay figurine; it metaphorically refers to a person who has only the human form but lacks human spirit and feeling. Jiang Yu was a commentator between the Song and Yuan dynasties; this book is his commentary on the Liezi.

When the Dao of Heaven is still, it is undivided; when it moves, it is upright (from the Qian hexagram of the Yijing (Classic of Changes): “Qian, when still, is focused; when moving, it is straight”). “Kankan” describes a pleasant and harmonious appearance. This passage says that someone who is undivided and upright and occupies a high position seems in his words and actions to have realized the Dao of Heaven, to master the transformations of the myriad things, and to return to the great harmonious Qi of the universe. He suddenly points to the disciple in the lowest seat among his followers and speaks—simply responding as he is moved by the matter at hand, not acting deliberately. Because his Dao is great, others are astonished; those whose faith is insufficient harbor doubts, and so they gather together with doubt on their faces. This differs from the person who steps back to reflect on himself and may thereby also gain inspiration.

Liezi (Lie Yukou, the legendary author of the Daoist classic Liezi) said: One who truly grasps the meaning of the Dao does not need to speak, and one who has entered the realm of wisdom also does not speak. To make non-speaking into speaking is still speaking; to make non-knowing into knowing is still knowing. Whether speaking or not speaking, knowing or not knowing, in essence one is both speaking and knowing. Since there is nothing that is not spoken and nothing that is not known, there is also nothing spoken and nothing known. That is all; why, then, should you be alarmed without cause?

Written words cannot fully convey speech, and speech cannot fully convey the mind; therefore, those who truly grasp the meaning do not, in turn, need to rely on words. Those who understand the principle do not talk much, while those fond of talking may not truly understand it. Thus those who guide learners in seeking knowledge should also speak little, or even not speak at all.

Yet if one thinks that only speechlessness and knowing nothing are appropriate, that is to cut off external things and fall into barren silence. If one thinks that not speaking and not knowing is correct, one still has not forgotten the self. If one thinks that speaking and knowing are correct, then what is attained is very shallow indeed.

“To speak all day yet be as if one has never spoken; to be silent all day yet be as if one has never been silent.” This means that speech and silence alike do not cling to traces, and the mind remains transcendent. “There is nothing not spoken, nothing not known; yet there is also nothing spoken and nothing known” has the same meaning: one is able to speak and to know, yet seems as if nothing has been spoken and nothing has been known.

When the two masters (referring to the two figures under discussion) met, it was roughly like this and nothing more. This is precisely the constant condition of the Dao; there is nothing special about it. Why, then, use false and bizarre matters to astonish people’s ears and eyes?

The sayings in the Liezi (traditionally transmitted by Lie Yukou, a Daoist figure of the Warring States period; Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing is its Daoist honorific title) are generally like this, and agree in meaning with what Laojun (Laozi) said: “How do I know that the world is so? By this.” Those who study the Dao can from this alone sufficiently comprehend the ultimate Dao; if beyond this they give rise to a divided mind and seek another teaching, then it is not the true Dao. From this it can be known that Liezi’s teaching is very clear.

Lie Yukou (a Daoist figure of the Warring States period, honored in Daoism as Chongxu Zhenren) studied the Dao with Lao Shang. After three years of study, he no longer dared to give rise to thoughts of right and wrong in his mind, nor dared to discuss benefit and harm with his mouth; only then did Lao Shang occasionally glance at him. Another five years passed, and he still had many right-and-wrong notions in his mind and words of benefit and harm on his lips; only then did Lao Shang slightly relax his face into a smile. After another seven years, whatever he thought as his mind prompted no longer distinguished right from wrong, and whatever he said casually no longer calculated benefit and harm. Only then did Lao Shang invite him to sit together on the same mat, expressing his approval.

Another nine years passed. What he thought in his mind and spoke with his mouth all followed their natural spontaneity; he knew neither his own right and wrong, benefit and harm, nor those of others, and inner and outer were fully unobstructed. Thereafter his eyes could hear as ears do, his ears could smell as a nose does, his nose could taste as a mouth does; the senses interpenetrated one another without distinction. His heart-mind and Shen (spirit) were concentrated and still, his bodily form relaxed, and bones and flesh merged indistinguishably into a seamless whole. He was no longer aware of what his body leaned upon or his feet trod upon, nor of what his mind thought or his mouth held within. Having reached such a realm, there was no principle of heaven, earth, and the myriad things that remained hidden and unmanifest.

(Background: This passage describes the stages of Daoist cultivation—roughly, first restraining speech and action, then eliminating the discriminating mind of right and wrong, benefit and harm, and finally attaining a state in which self and objects are both forgotten and the senses interpenetrate, similar to what later generations called “Zuowang” (sitting in forgetfulness).)

If a cultivator of the Dao wishes to transcend the ordinary and enter sagehood, what such a person sees and awakens to is as different as heaven from earth, though the gap often lies only within a hair’s breadth. The human mind wishes to be concentrated and settled, yet it indulges and scatters; the body wishes to unfold and relax, yet it is tethered and bound. The Shen-spirit races outward and does not know to return, so body and Shen-spirit become isolated from each other; the mind is then enslaved by form, and form in turn is manipulated by mind. Even within the same body, the eyes do not know what the ears hear, the ears do not know what the nose smells, the nose does not know what the mouth tastes, and liver and gallbladder are separated like Chu and Yue, each failing to communicate with the other—how much less so with the principles of the myriad things. If people cannot perceive what their feet tread upon and what their bodies lean against, it is because the body has not yet unfolded and relaxed; if they cannot perceive the thoughts in the mind and the words held in the mouth, it is because the Shen-spirit has not yet become concentrated and settled. If the body can unfold and relax and the Shen-spirit can become concentrated and settled, then ears, eyes, mouth, and nose will mutually respond, bones and flesh will all transform, and one will become one with the ultimate vacuous and formless realm of Shen. When external things touch me, my mind can perceive them, and no principle in the world remains hidden—precisely for this reason.

Liezi (named Yukou, a Daoist figure of the Warring States period) once used this to explain his ability to ride the wind, and also used it to explain that no principle is concealed. The art of riding the wind lies in one’s own cultivation, while the light that discerns the principles of things lies within the myriad things. Though their functions differ, if one can grasp this root, there is nowhere one cannot penetrate. Going further, when discourse on the Dao reaches the point where the eyes need not see and the ears need not hear, and bones and flesh are all fused together, this may be called the utmost refinement and wonder; I fear it cannot be attained by learning alone. Probing its cause, it arises from not daring to give rise to thoughts of right and wrong in the mind and not daring to speak words of benefit and harm with the mouth; advancing step by step, one can then reach the great wondrous realm that comes only after as long as nine years. This being so, how can students of the Dao regard the ultimate Dao as remote and unreachable as climbing to heaven, and not strive diligently in cultivation?

At first, Liezi was fond of wandering.

The “wandering” here does not mean the body traveling throughout the four directions; it is not inside, not outside, nor does it dwell between the two. It is the state of moving above the myriad things and roaming freely between heaven and earth; it is the complete embodiment of the Dao. Therefore Yukou loved wandering, and Huzi (a diviner of Zheng and Liezi’s teacher) also regarded “wandering” as the highest state.

Huqiu Zi said: Yukou loves wandering. What exactly is the wandering that he loves?

Huqiu Zi asked: Yukou (Liezi) loved to wander. What did he love in wandering?

Liezi replied: The joy of wandering lies in the fact that the things one enjoys are not fixed and unchanging. When others wander, they look at the scenery they see; when I wander, I look at the transformations of things. Wandering, wandering—no one has ever been able to discern clearly what true wandering is.

Huqiu Zi said: Yukou’s wandering is fundamentally the same as others’, is it not? Why do you say it is fundamentally different from others’? Whatever one sees, one always sees its changes. He appreciates that thing’s lack of fixity, yet does not know that he himself is also without fixity. He is single-mindedly wandering outward and does not know how to contemplate inward. One who wanders outward seeks completeness from external things; one who contemplates inward seeks satisfaction from himself. To seek satisfaction from oneself is the utmost of wandering; to seek completeness from external things is wandering that has not yet arrived. Thereupon Liezi never left his house for the rest of his life, considering himself to be one who did not understand wandering.

(Note: “Yukou” is Lie Yukou, a Daoist figure of the Warring States period; the book Liezi is traditionally attributed to him. The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing is the Liezi; during the reign of Tang Xuanzong it was honored with the title Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing.)

Explanation: The appearances of things that are seen differ as dim or bright, open or obstructed; mountains, rivers, people, and objects each have their own forms. When observing their changes, one fixes on these appearances—whether observing the great or the small, the existent or the nonexistent—and thereby knows that the ten thousand transformations never cease. Yet if one departs from things, “seeing” cannot be established, and what is seen is never apart from things. Whatever is seen will change, and change too cannot be separated from what is seen. Looking at what is seen and looking at change are both confined to things—where then is there any sameness or difference? Moreover, the seer and the seen are equally false, both turning along with things. To seek completeness amid the revolving changes of things is to move ever farther from the Dao. Therefore, rather than roaming outward and seeking completeness among things, it is better to look inward and obtain satisfaction from oneself.

What is called inner contemplation is not a matter of abandoning external things and seeking some other object of seeing. Right within this body of mine, let external things change and shift as they will: things of themselves turn following things, while I do not chase after things. Even if external things alter their forms according to change, I do not alter that perfect, bright, and pure nature; within this single nature all myriad transformations are encompassed. There is no need to traverse and survey everything all around—is such roaming not supreme?

The foolish do not understand how to take sufficiency from themselves; they believe that observing the changes of things is better than merely stopping at what is seen. This is mistaken. Liezi wished to elucidate the wonder of supreme roaming, so he placed himself in the situation of observing the changes of things and used Huzi’s words to remove his obscuration. In the end, throughout his life he did not go forth on distant roamings, and instead took himself to be one who did not understand roaming. (Liezi is Lie Yukou; the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing is the Liezi. The passage cited here is the story from the “Yellow Emperor” chapter of the Liezi in which Huzi instructs Liezi.)

Huqiu Zi said: Roaming has reached its utmost! The one who roams supremely does not know where he goes; the one who observes supremely does not know what he looks at. Each thing roams, each thing observes—this is what I call roaming, and this is what I call observing. Therefore it is said: Roaming has reached its utmost! Roaming has reached its utmost!

Explanation: Each thing roams, each thing observes—this is precisely what I call roaming and what I call observing. Therefore it is repeated: Roaming has reached its utmost! Roaming has reached its utmost!

Jiang Yu first cites Mencius: “All things are complete within me; when I turn back to myself and find sincerity, there is no greater joy.” This means that by turning inward to contemplate oneself, one becomes self-sufficient. The person of inner contemplation does not let the mind depart from the ground of original nature (xingdi, where human nature resides), yet can encompass the four seas and all under heaven; the mind does not depart from the minuteness of an autumn hair, yet can penetrate the ten thousand transformations. Since one can encompass all under heaven and penetrate all transformations, why bother calculating where to go or what to look at? In this way, all things each roam freely and easily, and all are contemplated. Through one person’s inner contemplation and perception of the source, all things under heaven can attain free wandering and be illuminated—is this not an exceedingly lofty realm?

The author repeatedly speaks of “wandering” because within it there is still a realm of mystery upon mystery, and words are insufficient to exhaust its ultimate point. This is similar to the statement in the Qian hexagram of the Zhouyi, “It is only the sage, is it not?” The Zhuangzi begins with “Xiaoyaoyou” (Free and Easy Wandering), probably because the realm it describes has already reached the utmost.

The following passage is a story from the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (that is, the Liezi). Long Shu (a figure in the Liezi who seeks medical treatment because of illness) said to Wen Zhi (a man skilled in medicine, also a figure in the Liezi): “Your medical art is subtle indeed. I am ill; can you cure me?” Wen Zhi replied: “I will follow your instructions.”

Jiang Yu explains: A dragon can rise and descend, come and go freely, and is not constrained; it is a creature skilled at transformation. To call him “Long Shu” (Uncle Long) is still not as good as the “old dragon” spoken of in the Zhuangzi, who can transform completely. Perhaps it is for this reason that Long Shu regards sage wisdom as an illness.

Longshu (a figure in the Liezi, who claims to suffer from a kind of “illness”) said: I take no glory in the praise of my village, and no shame in the slander of my countrymen; I am not glad when I gain something, nor grieved when I lose it. I look upon life and death as one and the same, upon wealth and honor as upon poverty, upon others as upon pigs (shi), and upon myself as upon others. Living in my own home is like lodging at an inn (nilü); I look upon my native place as upon a remote barbarian country (Rongman). With an “illness” of this kind, ranks and rewards cannot encourage him, punishments cannot frighten him, prosperity and decline, benefit and harm cannot alter him, and sorrow and joy cannot shake him. Therefore he truly cannot serve a ruler, befriend kin and associates, govern wife and children, or direct servants. What illness is this, and by what method can it be cured?

Long Shu’s Dao was already complete, but it had a different orientation from the governance of the human world. Wen Zhi thereby pointed out the deviation in it.

First Passage

The Dao is such that nothing is unable to be penetrated by it. Once one has grasped the sage’s way of wisdom, one can use it to cultivate oneself, and with the remaining strength govern the state and extend it to the whole world—there is nothing in which it will not work. Long Shu’s cultivation, however, was this: honor and disgrace, sorrow and joy could not stir his heart; life and death, poverty and wealth could not alter his thoughts. Inwardly he forgot himself; outwardly he forgot external things. Punishments and rewards could not make him submit; benefit and harm, gain and loss could not make him change; grief and joy could not make him shift. His Dao may be said to have reached the utmost and complete, with nothing more that could be added. Yet if one supposes that such a Dao cannot be used to serve a ruler, to associate with relatives and friends, to manage wife and children, and to direct servants, that is probably because the sage neither departs from the fundamental purport nor fails to manifest in accord with change, whereas Long Shu split the two into separate matters—and this was his fault.

To look inward at the fundamental purport and outwardly manifest in accord with change—one going out and one coming in—is neither different nor the same. Try pushing the Dao that is the great root and great source within oneself out into the world and the state, accord with the ten thousand things, and rise and fall together with their waves. Even if greeting and sending off, success and failure, blame and praise—nothing is left untouched—one still never loses the inner Dao of great harmony and peace, and the ten thousand things can all be well governed. Yet Long Shu only wanted to guard the true nature of self-cultivation, without touching external things, and still demanded that the ten thousand things be governed—how can one see that this could succeed? This is what is called “sagely wisdom as an ailment,” namely, treating deliberately applied cleverness as a defect.

Second Passage

Wen Zhi then had Long Shu stand with his back to the light, while he himself faced the light from behind him and observed him.

Explanation: Having him turn his back to the light was to make him look inward at himself; Wen Zhi’s looking at him facing the light from behind was to examine his “sagely wisdom as an ailment,” that is, the fact that he still could not avoid responding to external things in his mind.

Wen Zhi said to Long Shu, “Alas, I have seen your heart-mind. That square-inch space within you is already empty, clear, still, and open, almost approaching the realm of a sage. The apertures of your heart—the six roots (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, body, and mind)—are all unobstructed; only one aperture has not yet been penetrated. Now you regard sage wisdom as an illness; perhaps this is precisely where it comes from? This is not something my shallow art can cure.”

The commentary says: A person has six roots, and with the self that governs them this makes seven. All of these are the heart-mind itself at work. Long Shu’s doctrine can regard the myriad things as equal and undifferentiated, so one may say that the six roots are already unobstructed. Yet he still only keeps to the true Dao (the Way) of cultivating the self and has not extended it to resonating with external things—is this not a case of one aperture not being opened? The ancients said that heart-mind and bodily form are the inner and outer aspects of one body, and they often oppose each other. When all seven apertures are bored open, Hundun (Chaos) dies—the Zhuangzi allegory in which Hundun dies after seven apertures are bored into him. When all seven apertures are unobstructed, sage wisdom is brought to its utmost. Those who realize the Great Dao regard “having a body” as the greatest calamity; this is probably the same principle. The so-called Wen Zhi responds to external things by means of his skill and methods; the so-called sage is one who can perceive beforehand the signs of change. That is why Long Shu must seek techniques from Wen Zhi.

That which can endure for long without depending on any external cause is Dao. To live in accord with the inherent nature of life, so that even at the end of one’s allotted span one does not truly perish—this is Chang (the Constant). If, following the path of life, one instead moves toward extinction, that is misfortune. That which, relying on something, can yet remain long in death is also Dao. To die by following the pattern of death, so that even before the end of one’s allotted span one naturally perishes—this too belongs to Chang. To follow death and thereby gain new life is fortune. Therefore, to live without relying on anything is called Dao; to employ Dao and obtain a good end is called Chang; to die through action is also called Dao; to employ Dao and die peacefully is also called Chang.

The commentary says: After people are born, they let go of obsessive attachment, follow nature, and do not cling to survival—this is “constant life without a cause.” As death approaches, they investigate its destination and follow it to the very end—this is “constant death with a cause.” The two together are called “constant life and constant death.” Employing Dao to die peacefully is also called Chang.

Since human life has already come into being, one accepts it in accordance with nature and does not cling greedily to survival; this is to be without deliberate fixation and yet to “live” enduringly. When about to die, one inquires where it will go and lets it proceed to its end; this is to follow the principle of nature and yet to “die” enduringly. If both life and death are regarded as normal, then although there is life and death, in reality one has never truly died nor truly been born, and thus enters the realm of neither death nor birth. This is the reason it becomes the Dao.

To start from the state of life and attain life is the mark of one who penetrates the reality of life; therefore, though the body dies, he does not truly perish. To start from the state of death and proceed toward death is the mark of one who clings to life and contravenes the constant principle; therefore, though alive, he is as if dead. This is the constant principle.

To proceed from life toward extinction is like Yan Hui’s early death (Yan Hui: a disciple of Confucius, known for dying young); to proceed from death toward longevity is like Dao Zhi’s living out his natural span (Dao Zhi: a legendary great robber). These are contingent cases of fortune and misfortune, not the constant principle.

After death, being called “Shen” (spirit) is because one has attained the Dao; after death, being called “gui” (ghost) is because one has followed the constant principle and reached one’s end; after death, being called “wu” (thing) is because one is “born” again from the state of death—though alive, one is equivalent to dead.

When Ji Liang died, Yang Zhu looked at him from outside the gate and sang; when Sui Wu died, Yang Zhu stroked his corpse and wept. (Ji Liang and Sui Wu are both personal names. Yang Zhu was a Warring States thinker who advocated valuing oneself and cherishing life.) At the birth and death of a slave, people either sang or wept for him; all were reactions that followed custom.

The interpreter holds that Ji Liang did not make it his concern to occupy the position of chief among the myriad things; his Dao was sufficient above to uphold the Dao of Heaven and below to shelter the myriad beings, to transcend the rising and falling currents of the world, and to deliver the people in their living. As for the slave’s life and death and the crowd’s singing and weeping, he did not move in accord with custom.

Jiliang did not cling to the long and short, the gain and loss, of things. His Dao (the Way) was sufficient above to receive the heavenly Dao and below to shelter the common people; he could transcend the world’s twists and turns and free the people from danger. Such a person had advanced another step in the principle of life and death. Thus, in the face of death, Yang Zhu (a Warring States Daoist figure who advocated valuing oneself and cherishing life) would look toward the gate and sing. As for the so-called “Suiwu,” the branches, leaves, flowers, and calyx of the wu tree all have their fixed forms, yet it does not cut off the root of its growth; this is like one who can bear the Dao of central harmony and establish nature and life. Suiwu, by contrast, transforms along with things; he cannot bear central harmony or establish nature and life, but sinks together with the myriad things and forgets himself. Thus, when Suiwu died, Yang Zhu stroked the corpse and wept bitterly.

Ordinary people only know to love life and hate death, but they do not understand the principle of life and death. Therefore, when they sing, they ought to weep; when they weep, they ought to sing—all is inverted. To sing and weep at once: those who understand the Dao will rejoice in it, while others merely find it pitiable. Alas, in this world people must distinguish everything; if a smile differs by the slightest shade, or whether it accords with ritual propriety, they will comment on right and wrong. As for the great transformation of life and death, however, people sing and weep over it without noticing or awakening—is this not the greatest sorrow?

One whose eyes are about to go blind first sees the tiny tip of an autumn hair; one whose ears are about to go deaf first hears the faintest sounds; one whose sense of taste is about to fail first can distinguish the tastes of the Zi and Sheng rivers (two rivers known for their different tastes); one whose nose is about to be blocked first smells a burnt odor; one whose body is about to become stiff first hurries to run about and seek pleasure; one whose mind is about to become confused first clings to right and wrong. Thus, things do not turn back until they reach their extreme.

This passage explains: Yin-Yang shine on and cover each other, restrain each other; the four seasons replace one another, generate one another, and bring one another to decay; following their order, they regulate one another; cycling back and forth, they drive one another. When things are exhausted they reverse; when they end they begin again—this is the principle of nature. Therefore, if sight is too keen, it leads to blindness; if hearing is too acute, it leads to deafness; if taste is too sharp, it leads to corruption; if smell is too sensitive, it leads to blockage; if strength is excessive, it leads to stiffness; if knowledge is excessive, it leads to confusion. Thus one should withdraw sight and hearing, cut off flavors and fragrances, and remove the mind of strength and cleverness; then the spirit will not decay, and even after thousands of years it can be deep-rooted and endure long.

I. Fragment

If it does not decline, then even after a thousand myriad years one can deepen the roots and firm the stem.

This means: if the spirit and the foundation do not decay, then even after thousands upon thousands of years one can endure long like a plant whose roots are sunk deep and whose stem is firmly knotted.

II. Main Text

In the Puze region of Zheng there were many worthy men, and in the Dongli region there were many talented men. A man of Puze named Bofengzi, while passing through Dongli, met Deng Xi (a famous dialectician of Zheng in the late Spring and Autumn period, known for litigation, argumentation, and laws and decrees).

Deng Xi turned back to his students and said with a smile, “Look, I will give you a demonstration. That man is coming—what do you think of him?” His students said, “We would very much like to know.”

Deng Xi then said to Bofengzi, “Do you know the principle of ‘nourishing’? Those who receive support from others but cannot support themselves are little different from dogs and pigs. Only the ability to nourish others and make others serve one’s purposes is truly human ability. To keep your students well fed, warmly clothed, and securely settled—this is the achievement of those in power. Those old and young gathered together, like creatures penned in and fed from the kitchen—how are they different from dogs and pigs?”

Bofengzi did not respond. One of Bofengzi’s students stepped forward out of order and said, “Have you not heard, Sir, of the abundance of talents in Qi and Lu? There are those skilled in building and construction, in casting weapons, in music, in writing and calculation, in military affairs, and in ancestral temple sacrifices—every kind of talent is present. Yet none could assist the ruler on the throne, and none could command others. Those who place people in positions do not necessarily understand affairs, and those who drive others do not necessarily have ability; yet ‘knowledge’ and ‘ability’ are both enslaved by those in power. Those in power are merely the objects we employ—what do you have to be proud of?”

Deng Xi had no reply. He signaled to his students with his eyes and withdrew.

III. Explanation

The worthy cherish their Jing (essence) and Shen (spirit) and do not readily expose them; the talented display fame, position, and practical skills. From this it is clear that the difference between worthiness and talent is great. Bofengzi was a worthy man, and Deng Xi was a talented man; the circumstances of their meeting precisely embody this distinction.

Bofeng was a worthy man: he treasured his spirit and did not readily reveal it. Deng Xi (a disputer of late Spring and Autumn Zheng and a representative of the School of Names) was a talented man: he loved to display rank and ritual vessels (signifying status and ceremonial insignia). When the two met on the road, Deng Xi put on the airs of his status and even danced and boasted before Bofeng, but Bofeng guarded his spirit and refused to take any notice of him. This shows how great the distance is between worthiness and talent.

Bofeng’s attendant could not restrain himself, stepped out of order, and replied on behalf of his master: “Has the Minister not heard that the states of Qi and Lu abound in men of ingenuity? They are skilled in construction and civil engineering, in metalwork and leatherwork, in music, in calculation and writing, in military affairs, and in ancestral temple ritual. But these are all minor skills, and those who are hired for them are employed by others. Those who employ them lack wisdom; those who make use of them lack ability. One who has neither wisdom nor ability is the ruler; one who has wisdom and ability is the minister. What the ruler practices is the Dao (the Way) of Wuwei (non-action: governing by following nature without deliberate contrivance); what the minister bears is the office of youwei (purposeful action: concrete duties and deliberate undertakings). To use the duties of youwei to deal with the great Dao of Wuwei is like trying to make a square thing round, white black, high low, or the dark yellow. But if one governs the duties of youwei with the Dao of Wuwei, then as for square and round, black and white, high and low, dark and yellow—there is nothing that cannot be done.

“The myriad things each take form according to their own substance, but the Dao has no form; the myriad things each receive names according to their own sounds, but the Dao has no name. Yet Deng Xi believes that being able to nurture the multitudes and make the myriad things serve me is the merit of holding power, while he does not understand that the one who truly governs is himself in the service of others, not one who can command others. How is talent worth relying on? How is talent worth boasting about?”

Thus when Deng Xi heard these words from Bofengzi’s attendant, even though he was eloquent, he had no words with which to reply; he could only glance at his own attendants and quietly withdraw.

Gongyi Bo was famed among the feudal lords for his strength. Tangxi Gong reported his deeds to King Xuan of Zhou, and the king prepared gifts and sent men to invite him to court.

When Gongyi Bo arrived at court, King Xuan looked at his outward appearance and saw only a frail, timid man. Doubt arose in the king’s mind, and he asked, “How great is your strength, really?”

Gongyi Bo replied, “My strength can break the thigh of a spring locust and burst the wings of an autumn cicada.”

The king’s expression changed. He said, “My strength can tear the hide of a rhinoceros or a si—an ancient wild-ox-like beast—and drag the tails of nine oxen, and yet I still consider my own strength weak. You can only break the leg of a spring katydid and burst the wings of an autumn cicada, yet by this you are renowned throughout the world. Why is that?”

Gongyi Bo gave a long sigh, stepped back from his mat, and said, “You ask well! I am willing to answer truthfully. I had a teacher named Shangqiu Zi, whose strength was unmatched in the world, but even his own relatives did not know he possessed such strength. The reason was simply that he had never exerted his strength.”

Key Points for Interpretation: This passage uses the metaphor of strength to explain the principle of “using strength” and “not using strength.” Gongyi Bo’s strength is only a minor matter; true, profound power lies in inward restraint, not revealing itself, not showing itself outwardly. Shangqiu Zi had boundless strength but never used it, and so no one knew of it. This precisely embodies the Daoist ideas of “guarding softness” and “concealing one’s use”: true great power need not be displayed before others.

Gongyi Bo is a figure in this scriptural passage, and he understood the dignified demeanor that those in high positions ought to have. The saying “one who is good at being a shi does not flaunt martial force” means precisely being good at relying on the strength of others rather than on one’s own prowess.

The “hall” is a high, level platform, the foundation on which houses are built and a place that people respect. Tangxi Gong’s virtue was like this “hall”: he was able to keep to the yielding, feminine, recessive side (from the Laozi: “Know the male, keep to the female, and become the ravine of the world”), and thus, like a valley stream, he gathered the world to himself. It was for this reason that he could see that Gongyi Bo did not regard his own physical strength as ability.

King Xuan of Zhou was a reviving ruler of the Eastern Zhou. He intended to appoint talent and to select people according to achievement, so he chose stalwart and powerful warriors. Shangqiu Zi, by contrast, realized the natural original nature and embraced spirit, maintaining the constant virtue of central balance and equanimity. His strength was deeply hidden and unexposed; even his closest kin did not know its depths, and so he became Gongyi Bo’s teacher.

Furthermore, breaking the legs of a spring katydid and tearing the wings of an autumn cicada—such strength is not sufficient to rely on, so it is better not to use one’s own strength but instead to borrow the strength of others; such strength is immeasurable. Tearing the hide of a rhinoceros or elephant and dragging the tails of nine oxen—such strength may suffice to withstand an enemy, but because one relies on it, it no longer grows, and those who surpass one will arrive. Seen this way, is it not that the weak and yielding become brave, while the strong and forceful become weak?

Gongyi Bo served Shangqiu Zi with utmost sincerity, and Shangqiu Zi told him: people must see what others cannot see, examine what others cannot spy out, seek what others do not seek, and practice what others do not practice. Therefore one who learns to observe must first be able to see the firewood on the cart (“yuxin,” meaning something right before the eyes); one who learns to listen must first be able to hear the sound of a struck bell (meaning the subtle). When inner work is accomplished, outer matters are not difficult; when outer matters are not difficult, one’s reputation will not be confined within a single household. Now my reputation has spread throughout the feudal lords; this precisely shows that I have gone against my teacher’s instruction and revealed my own ability. In that case, my reputation did not come from relying on my own strength, but from being good at borrowing the strength of others. Is this not better than those who rely on their own strength?

Such is the case when a minister goes against his teacher’s instruction and makes a display of his own ability. Yet a minister’s reputation should not be attributed to one who merely acts with brute force, but to one who can make good use of his strength. Seen this way, is he not better than those who rely only on brute force and do not know how to use it well?

If one makes a practice of obstinate clinging, the four limbs will grow weak and slack, and intelligence and acuity will diminish. This shows that he truly had such a natural endowment, which is why his teacher cautioned him. What is meant by “seeing what others do not see and obtaining what others do not obtain” is not that one sees alone by means of something deep, hidden, and hard to perceive, but that one accomplishes alone what the multitude regards as difficult and impossible. His insight does not exceed the vision of the multitude, yet the multitude cannot see through it; his capacity for action does not exceed the ability of the multitude, yet the multitude cannot imitate it. Therefore, in seeing, the tip of an autumn hair (the fine down newly grown in autumn, a metaphor for something extremely minute) is the hardest to see clearly, while a cartload of firewood (a metaphor for something extremely large) is easy to see; in hearing, the buzzing of mosquitoes and gnats (small flying insects) is the hardest to hear distinctly, while the striking of a great bell is easy to hear. If one exhausts one’s eyesight to look at an autumn hair, what is seen is still no more than an autumn hair; if one exhausts one’s hearing to listen to mosquitoes and gnats, what is heard is still no more than their buzzing. By borrowing the eyesight of the multitude, one need not exhaust one’s own eyes and can see more clearly; by borrowing the hearing of others, one’s ears need not be exhausted and one can hear more acutely.

The multitude look at things but do not see the Dao (the Way), so they often assail what is difficult; the worthy see the Dao but do not become attached to things, so they often do what is easy. With ease as the foundation within, there is no difficulty without; where nothing is difficult, everything is easy. In this way, who can give it a name? Therefore names do not go beyond the one Dao. Thus, one who is skilled in using his strength—even if his power can turn heaven and earth—is not perceived by the world as strong; even if his majesty subdues all within the four seas, people do not call him martially brave. The ancients said, “One skilled in using strength can lift an autumn hair; one skilled in hearing can hear thunder”—this is exactly the principle. Moreover, to be able to break the leg of a spring locust and bear the wing of an autumn cicada—although this is called using weakness to overcome strength—since there is something broken and something borne, its traces can be seen, and its deeds can be named. Thus Gongyi Bo (an ancient figure) still used this to display his own ability, and thereby went against his teacher’s instruction.

Prince Mou of Zhongshan was a worthy prince of Wei. He enjoyed associating with men of talent and virtue, did not concern himself with affairs of state, but greatly admired Gongsun Long of Zhao (a leading figure of the Warring States School of Names, famous for debates such as “a white horse is not a horse”). The disciples of Yuezheng Ziyu laughed at him.

Prince Mou asked, “Why do you laugh at my liking Gongsun Long?”

Ziyu answered, “Gongsun Long is a man whose learning has no teacher and whose understanding has no peers; he is fluent and quick-tongued but does not hit the essential point; his words run wild without a fixed doctrine; he delights in novelty and talks nonsense. He wants to confuse people’s minds and stop their mouths. He is the same breed as Han Tan and his like.”

Prince Mou’s expression changed. “Are you pointing out Gongsun Long’s faults? Please state the facts.”

Ziyu said, “I laugh at Gongsun Long for making sport of Kong Chuan (a descendant of Confucius who once debated Gongsun Long). He said that a skilled archer can make the tail of the later arrow catch up with the tail of the earlier arrow, so that arrow joins arrow; the front arrow strikes the target and does not break off, while the tail of the rear arrow still hangs on the bowstring, so that it looks like a single arrow. When Kong Chuan heard this, he was greatly astonished. But Gongsun Long said, ‘This is still not the most marvelous.’”

“Hong Chao, the disciple of Feng Meng (an ancient master archer and disciple of Hou Yi), was angry with his wife and frightened her. He drew the Wuhao bow (the name of a fine ancient bow), fitted a Qiwei arrow (the name of a fine ancient arrow), and shot at her eye. The arrow flew to just before her pupil, yet her eyelid did not blink; when the arrow fell to the ground, not a speck of dust rose. Could these be the words of a wise man?”

Prince Mou said, “The words of the wise are not, by their very nature, something fools can understand. When the tail of the rear arrow catches up with the front arrow, the force of front and rear is equal; the arrow reaches the pupil without the eyelid blinking because the arrow’s momentum has already spent itself. What is there for you to doubt?”

Ziyu said, “You are Gongsun Long’s disciple; how could you not cover up his faults? Let me speak of something even more outrageous. Gongsun Long deceived the King of Wei, saying: there is intent but the mind does not move; there is pointing but the finger does not reach; there are things but they are never exhausted; there is a shadow but it does not move; when an arrow is released, its pull is a thousand jun; a white horse is not a horse; an orphan calf has never had a mother. Such sayings, contrary to reason and against common sense, are too many to finish.”

Prince Mou said, “You do not understand words of ultimate principle, and instead take them as absurd; it is you who are absurd. With no intent, the mind is the same; with no pointing, it arrives everywhere; the principle by which all things are exhausted is always present. The shadow does not move because the shadow changes with the object; the arrow released with a thousand jun is because the force has reached an equal measure; the white horse is not a horse because form and name are separated; the orphan calf has never had a mother means that this orphan calf is not truly an orphan calf.”

Ziyu said, “You take all of Gongsun Long’s sayings as coherent principle. Even if these words came from another mouth, you would accept them all the same.”

Prince Mou fell silent for a long while, then took his leave, saying, “Give me a few days, and I will come again to seek your instruction and discuss this with you.”

This passage comments on the dialectical art of Gongsun Long, a representative of the School of Names during the Warring States period. Prince Mou of Wei (a man of the Warring States period who was fond of Daoist learning) regarded his words as words of ultimate principle.

“Ultimate words” are words that transcend speech itself. One who understands ultimate words, even if he speaks all day, is as if he has never spoken; thus even if he exhausts the principles of all things one by one, speaking ceaselessly with abundant and inexhaustible words, this does not prevent them from being the highest realm of speech.

Yuezheng Ziyu (a disciple of Mencius) thought that Gongsun Long was deceiving Kong Chuan (a descendant of Confucius who once debated with Gongsun Long), which shows that Ziyu had not exhausted the principles of things; he thought that Gongsun Long was deceiving the King of Wei, which shows that he had not heard the great Dao. Why say this? A skilled archer can make the later arrow strike exactly the nock of the earlier arrow because he understands why the arrow can hit the target; the force of the two arrows is equal, and the later arrow exactly matches the earlier one. Again, when an arrow is shot toward the eyeball and the eyelashes do not move, this shows that the archer can calculate the measure of distance, examine the strength of bow and arrow, and apply momentum just right, so that it neither overshoots nor falls short. These are all things that can be investigated and known through principle.

As for words that touch on the Dao, one must leave bodily form behind, remove the mind, and be identical with the Great Penetration (the realm of unobstructed thoroughfare). The purpose of words lies in forgetting words, and what they point to lies in negating something. For example, “What exhausts all things is always being; what does not exist as a single thing is also being,” and “A one-foot rod, halved each day, can never be exhausted even in ten thousand generations”—this is connected with the principle that “although a flying arrow is fast, there are moments when it neither moves nor stops.” Again, “A weight of a thousand jun is not heavy; a single hair is not light” means that things of the same kind are equal in circumstance and potential; “White cannot be used to name a horse, nor can a horse be used to name white” means that things are detached from the distinction between form and name; “An orphan calf has never had a mother” means that calf and mother differ in body and name and by principle cannot substitute for each other. The subtlety of such words reaches this point—if one does not understand the essential purport of words, how can one grasp their profound meaning?

Thus, when Yuezheng Ziyu failed to exhaust the principles of things, he ridiculed Gongsun Long as a deceiver; when the words touched on the great Dao, he in turn considered him to violate moral norms. Even when Prince Mou explained their meaning for him, Ziyu still could not understand; instead, he grew resentful and jealous and treated him with contempt and rejection. Knowing that he could not discuss the ultimate Dao with him, Prince Mou silently withdrew. Nevertheless, Prince Mou had already done all that benevolence and righteousness required toward Ziyu, and still hoped that one day he might restrain himself and awaken. But ultimate words would not thereby become coarse; Ziyu’s stubborn refusal completely severed their dealings. Therefore Prince Mou said: “Please wait until another day; I will come again to visit you and discuss the Dao.”

In addition, Prince Mou regarded Gongsun Long’s disputation as ultimate words; Liezi (a Daoist figure) praised it; Zhuangzi, however, thought that it could only defeat others in speech but could not convince their hearts. Liezi’s praise was praise that it had reached the ultimate realm; Zhuangzi borrowed its theories to erase the traces of his own writing, and so in the final chapter of his book he both adopted the brilliance of its disputation and detested the world’s disputers for their fondness for strange doctrines, lamenting that they wandered unrestrained and lost, pursuing things without return. Views of words differ, and each has its own proper application.

Yao had governed the realm for fifty years, yet in his heart he was not sure: was the realm actually well governed? Were the common people willing to support him? He first asked the close ministers around him, but they could not say clearly either; he then asked the hundred officials at court, and they too did not know; next he asked the commoners outside official service, and they had no way to answer. So Yao changed into ordinary clothes and went to stroll through the marketplace at the intersection of the great avenues (Kangqu). There he heard a group of children singing a song: “It is all your virtue that keeps us common people alive. Unaware and unknowing, we nonetheless follow the laws of the Heavenly Emperor.” Yao asked delightedly, “Who taught you to sing these words?” The children replied, “We heard them from the high officials.” Yao then went to ask the high officials, and they said, “This is a poem transmitted from ancient times.” Yao returned to the palace, summoned Shun, and abdicated the realm to him—not passing it on to his own descendants, but yielding it to a worthy man. Shun did not decline, and accepted.

In the age when the sage governed, the world was not deliberately governed, yet it did not fall into disorder. Yao ruled the world for fifty years and yet did not know whether the world had been well governed—this is what is meant by “zhizhi” (the highest form of governance). At that time, those in close attendance and the officials at court sought only to keep their posts and perform their duties respectfully; the common people in the countryside sought only to secure daily food and clothing. Thus, from the close ministers around him to the villagers in the fields, even if asked, none could say whether the world was well governed.

Yet Yao’s intention was to align the Heavenly Dao with the human heart, not to treat lightly those without support and not to abandon the distressed people; in the end he still wished to learn the actual conditions himself. So he dressed in ordinary clothes and went on a tour to the Kangqu (a broad thoroughfare extending in all directions). Wearing plain clothes was to avoid oppressing the people’s hearts with a ruler’s dignity; choosing the Kangqu was because it was a place where people from all four directions gathered, and the conditions of the people in every region could be communicated there.

Here he heard children’s songs. The words the children sang came from joy in their hearts and were not false or contrived. The lyrics said: “What enables the people to live is none other than your kindness. Unknowingly, what people comply with is precisely the law of the Heavenly Emperor.” To be able to establish the people securely and bring them into accord with the highest standard—such a principle originates in heavenly virtue and is far superior to governing through cleverness and cunning. When the song sung by the children reached the ears of the grand officers, they thought it was an ancient poem. That an ancient poem was now transmitted and sung by children showed that the governance of the present had come to match that of antiquity.

Yao governed the world by seeking only to examine the ancient way and follow the ancient methods. Hearing these songs, how could he not share the people’s joy? This was precisely the great achievement of Yao’s governance. The Book of Documents says, “The common people were transformed and thereby became harmonious” (the people became harmonious and concordant through edification); it likely refers to an age such as this.

Guan Yinxi (a legendary Daoist figure, traditionally said to have been the keeper of the Hangu Pass) said: When the mind holds to nothing, external things do not attach to the self. In its movement and stillness, it is calm like water and clear like a mirror; in responding to things, it is as natural as an echo.

The commentary says: Within the mind no fixation remains, and in the heart not even a speck of dust is retained. When the mind reaches utmost emptiness and stillness, the principles of the ten thousand things are nowhere obscured; hence it is said, “the forms of things are manifest”—the forms of things naturally appear. The movement of Dao (the Way) is like water: it flows in accordance with the transformations of external things, has no fixed direction, and yet always adapts to wherever it meets. The stillness of Dao is like a bright mirror: it reflects things and reveals their forms, yet never takes possession of them. The response of Dao is like an echo: when there is a sound it responds, with no thought of welcoming or sending off.

Thus the manner of Dao is like that of the ten thousand things: it transforms with things and is not separated from them. It is things themselves that go against Dao; Dao never goes against things.

The commentary says: Dao exists within the ten thousand things. With respect to large things, it is not exhausted because of their largeness; with respect to small things, it does not omit anything because of their smallness. It is vast enough to encompass all boundaries, and subtle enough to enter crevices and penetrate filthy places. It imparts itself to the ten thousand things impartially, neither too much nor too little, stopping exactly when appropriate. Since the manner in which Dao accords with things is like this, bright mirrors and flowing water are used as analogies. For instance, when Dao is present in the world, it is like the sun and moon shining universally over the earth, their radiance reaching the four quarters, so that no one can evade it. But the blind do not see it—is the fault with the sun? Things themselves go against Dao, while Dao never goes against things; this principle is thus confirmed.

One who is skilled at realizing Dao does not listen with the ears, does not look with the eyes, does not use physical strength, and does not use thought. If one tries to seek Dao through seeing and hearing, bodily form, and cleverness, one fails to get the method. Look for it, and it is before the eyes; suddenly it is behind you. Use it, and it fills heaven and earth and the four directions—the six voids, referring to above, below, and the four quarters. Abandon it, and you do not know where it has gone. It is not something the scheming person can obtain by going far, nor something the mindless person can easily approach. Only one who silently comprehends it and brings his original nature into accord with it, thereby attaining it, can obtain it.

This passage says that the Dao has neither sound nor color, so one who truly understands the Dao does not seek it through the ears and eyes. The Dao has no fixed form and no visible function, so one who truly understands the Dao does not force it with thought and effort. Whether following it or going to meet it, one seems able to touch its head and tail, yet it is now in front, now behind, impossible to grasp. When one employs the Dao, what one sees is the Dao rather than particular things, and so the Dao fills heaven and earth and the four directions (the Six Voids, referring to the space between heaven and earth, the four directions, above and below). When one forsakes the Dao, one sees only particular things and does not see the Dao, and then one no longer knows where the Dao has gone.

Then what is a person who truly understands the Dao actually like, and how lofty and subtle is such a person? Such a person cannot be attained by those who seek with intentional mind, because the Dao does not abide only in Wuwei (non-action, letting things be natural); nor can such a person be easily approached by those without mind, because the Dao is not limited to Youwei (deliberate contrivance). Only one who silently comprehends it and lets it come to natural completion in one’s own nature can attain it. Silent comprehension does not rely on words; natural completion in one’s nature does not require deliberate contrivance. Therefore the “attainment” spoken of here is not the kind of attainment spoken of by worldly people, but rather that one has attained that “attainment” within oneself.

One who can attain something here neither indulges in emptiness nor clings to the formed. In oneself, one does nothing yet leaves nothing undone; toward external things, one applies no mind yet uses everything.

To have cognition yet forget emotional desires and biased attachments, to have ability yet not act deliberately—this is true knowing and true ability. If what is activated is non-knowing, how could emotion arise? If what is activated is non-ability, how could action arise?

What makes humans nobler than the myriad things is that they possess wisdom and ability; what makes humans subject to the creative transformations of Heaven and Earth is that they are driven by their own wisdom and ability. Wisdom and ability are precious because the Dao is not something that those without a mind can easily approach; they are detestable because those who intentionally cling to them find it, on the contrary, difficult to get away from the Dao.

To be able to use wisdom yet forget the contriving mind—then wisdom naturally manifests, knowing all things, and this is true knowledge. To be able to act yet not deliberately contrive—then one is not burdened by intentional action, and one’s ability extends to all things, so that nothing is impossible; this is true ability. Nevertheless, only with genuine feeling and sincerity can one speak of the Dao. If one merely abandons knowledge and becomes muddled and blank, that is not forgetting feeling; it is simply being incapable of feeling. How could that be the Dao? Likewise, only when one can accord with Yin-Yang transformations can one speak of the Dao. If one is merely entirely without ability and does nothing, that is not Wuwei (non-action); it is inability to act. How could that be the Dao? This is why clods of earth and piles of dust do not accord with principle.

Shangqiu Kai could plunge into boiling water and tread on fire; he was someone who “knows yet forgets feeling” (Shangqiu Kai was a legendary figure who attained the Dao). Confucius mastered ritual and music (“roaming among metal and stone” means delighting in ritual and music, and in musical performance), yet was not burdened by them; he was someone who “is able yet does not contrive.”

Clods of earth and piles of dust, although they have no action, still do not accord with principle.

This passage further explains: clods of earth do not drift about like wild horses (drifting mist), and piles of dust do not swirl aloft like dust motes; they may be said to be Wuwei. But they have already lost their vitality—how could they count as the precious Wuwei? The sage’s Wuwei, by contrast, is like the earth, thick and heavy, bearing the myriad things and filling the four quarters; without intentional bias or partiality toward the myriad things, it is always transforming and nurturing them, so that the myriad things generate and regenerate without cease. This is true Wuwei. From the Three August Ones (Sanhuang) of high antiquity to the later emperors and kings, and then to its transmission to Confucius, who gathered it into a great synthesis, the principles involved all take this as their root. That is why the “Zhongni” chapter of the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (that is, the Liezi) concludes with this.