《冲虚至德真经鬳斋口义(林希逸)》

Liezi’s surname was Lie, and his personal name was Yukou. He was from the state of Zheng and lived at Putian in Zheng. For nearly forty years, few people knew of him. He first studied under Huqiuzi, later took Laoshangshi as his teacher, and became friends with Bogaozi. Gradually, he came to understand the Daoist arts of these two elders. After nine years of practice, he was able to ride the wind.

Liezi’s disciple Yan Hui asked him, “Is the purpose of studying the Dao to seek wealth and rank?” Liezi replied, “Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang met their ends precisely because they disregarded the Dao and valued profit.”

The Liezi consists of eight chapters. Liezi was probably a person who had attained the Dao, and Zhuangzi praised him on several occasions. Today, in the Putian area near Bianliang and Zhengzhou, there is a temple dedicated to Liezi, which tradition identifies as the place where he lived in seclusion. During the Kaiyuan era of Emperor Xuanzong of the Tang, Liezi was granted the title “Perfected Lord of Vacuous Clarity and Perfect Virtue,” and his work was accordingly called the Scripture of Vacuous Clarity and Perfect Virtue.

After the text of the Liezi on the right was collated, it was arranged in eight chapters. Liu Xiang, your servant, Protector of the Left Waterways and Grandee of the Palace:

I have recollated the five scrolls of the Liezi kept in the imperial library. With the help of your servant Shen, Commandant of Changshe, I compared them with three scrolls in the Court of the Grand Sacrifices, four in the Grand Astrologer’s office, six from my own collection, and two from Shen’s collection. The copies held in the palace and elsewhere thus totaled twenty scrolls. After removing duplicate passages, I settled on eight chapters. The imperial copies were more extensive, while those held among the people were fewer. The chapters had been scattered among different sections, and the text contained many errors—for example, “exhausted” had been written as “advanced,” and “thread” as “form.” Some sections in the newly compiled text were already incomplete, so I corrected them against the imperial copies. The entire work has now been written on bamboo slips and can be copied and circulated.

Liezi was a man of Zheng who lived at the same time as Duke Mu of Zheng. He was probably someone who had attained the Dao (the Way). His teachings took the Yellow Emperor and Laozi as their foundation and came to be known as Daoism. Daoists grasp the essentials and hold to the root. They advocate stillness, emptiness, and following one’s nature. In cultivating themselves and responding to external things, they also value humility and avoiding contention. These teachings accord with the principles of the Six Classics.

Yet the chapters “King Mu” and “Questions of Tang” are winding, absurd, strange, and exaggerated, unlike the words of a gentleman. “Force and Fate” attributes everything to destiny, while “Yang Zhu” praises unrestrained freedom. Their teachings contradict each other and do not seem to come from one school. Still, each chapter explains certain principles and has something worthwhile to offer.

During the reign of Emperor Jing, the court honored the teachings of the Yellow Emperor and Laozi, and this book circulated among the people. Later, copies were lost and passed into private hands, until gradually no one copied them. The Liezi makes extensive use of parables, much like the writings of Zhuang Zhou. For this reason, the Grand Historian Sima Qian did not write a biography of Liezi, but only mentioned him briefly in the historical records.

Your servant Liu Xiang submits this catalog of the collated Liezi, at the risk of his life.

Submitted on the renyin day of the eighth month, in the third year of Yongshi.

The True Scripture of the Utmost Virtue of the Void and Emptiness: Yanzhai’s Commentary, Volume One

Lin Xiyi of Yanzhai

First: Heaven’s Portents

This chapter is devoted to the principles of Heaven. Because these principles are precious, the chapter is titled “Heaven’s Portents.”

Master Liezi lived near the gardens of Zheng. For forty years, no one knew him. The ruler and the high ministers regarded him just as they regarded ordinary people. When famine struck Zheng, Liezi planned to travel to Wei. His disciples asked, “Now that you are leaving, Master, we do not know when you will return. We venture to ask whether you have any words of instruction for us. Have you heard what Master Huqiu Zilin said?”

Zheng had the Yuanyuan Park, just as Qin had the Juyou Park. Yuanyuan was the garden of Zheng, and Juyou was the garden of Qin. Here, the text says that Liezi lived near the gardens of Zheng. The word “marry” means “to go” in this passage. In ancient times, people used “marry” or “mourn” to refer to setting out on a journey; both were regional expressions. Huqiu Zilin was Liezi’s teacher, so the disciples asked what their teacher had once said.

Liezi smiled and said, “What did Huqiu Zilin say? Well, my teacher once said something to Bohun Wuren. I happened to be there and heard it, so I’ll try to tell you.”

The question “What did he say?” implies that these principles cannot be conveyed in words. “Master” here refers to Huqiu Zilin; Bohun Wuren was Huqiu Zilin’s friend. “I happened to be there and heard it” means that Liezi stood beside his teacher and listened. Liezi first asks, “What did Huqiu Zilin say?” and only then recounts what was said. This makes clear that the subtlety of the Dao lies in principles left unspoken, which surpass words themselves.

Huqiu Zilin said, “There is something that gives birth to the myriad things, yet is not itself born from anything else. There is something that transforms the myriad things, yet is not itself transformed along with them. That which cannot be born gives birth to the myriad things; that which is not subject to change makes them change. Since things exist, they cannot help but come into being; since they change, they cannot help but undergo change. Thus the myriad things are always coming into being and changing. This process never ceases: Yin-Yang follows it, and so do the four seasons. The source that cannot be born stands alone, beyond our ability to fathom; the source that does not change runs through the cycles of coming and going. Its bounds cannot be reached, and the way of the source that stands alone cannot be traced to its end.”

Living things arise from a source that is itself without life; things that continually change arise from a source that does not itself change. Because this source neither comes to life nor undergoes transformation, it can bring all things into being and change them. Its workings cycle ceaselessly, without end. It is deep and mysterious, solitary and without equal, and its principles cannot be exhausted.

What lives comes into being from a lifeless source; what changes comes from an unchanging source. That source, which neither comes to life nor undergoes transformation, is precisely the creative power that brings life into being and changes all things. All things cannot help but come into being and change. The creative power itself neither comes to life nor undergoes transformation, and so all things can continue to grow and change. “Without a time” means that this is always so. The text’s phrase “Yin-Yang and the four seasons” refers to the creative power; the word “you” in the commentary makes concrete the preceding claim that it neither comes to life nor undergoes transformation.

“Solitary and mysterious” describes the creative power: it is supremely profound and subtle, as though it had no counterpart, and it is difficult to describe in any concrete form. The cyclical return of all things is the waxing and waning of Yin-Yang and the succession of the four seasons. This change has no end, so its bounds cannot be reached. The creative power is elusive and hard to fathom: it seems to exist in some way, yet cannot be described as any specific thing. Thus its principles cannot be exhausted.

The Book of the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi shu) says: “The valley spirit never dies; this is called the mysterious female. The gateway of the mysterious female is the root of Heaven and Earth. It continues unbroken, seeming to exist; use it, and it is never depleted.” Here, “valley spirit” refers to the empty and wondrous root, while “mysterious female” refers to the deep maternal source, or source of transformation and generation.

This passage quotes an entire chapter of the Laozi, yet calls it the Book of the Yellow Emperor. From this we can see that the teachings of Laozi, too, were passed down through a tradition, though not all of the relevant texts have survived.

Chapter Six of the Laozi says that Jing (essence) is full, while Shen (spirit) is empty and numinous. “Valley” means emptiness; “Valley Spirit” refers to the wondrous activity within the void. The human spirit arises from emptiness, and so can endure forever without dying. “Mysterious” means profound and boundless; “female” means empty rather than substantial. Both words are used to describe emptiness. Heaven and Earth also arise from it, which is why it is called their root. “Continuous” means unceasing; “as if it exists” means seeming both to be there and not to be there.

When this works within nothingness, it endures without effort. This is precisely what Laozi means by “empty yet never exhausted; when set in motion, it emerges ever more.” Zhu Xi said that “continuous” means the subtle principle contains the sense of life arising without end. This is also a good interpretation, though it comes close to the art of nourishing life. Although this chapter can be applied to nourishing life, that was not Laozi’s original intention alone. Liezi therefore cites it to show that the source of all things does not itself come into being or undergo transformation.

Thus, the source that gives rise to all things does not itself arise; the source that brings about their transformations does not itself change. All things grow and transform on their own, take shape and color on their own, possess wisdom and power on their own, and fade and come to rest on their own. It is mistaken to say that an external ruler arranges their growth and transformation, their forms and colors, their wisdom and power, or their fading and cessation.

The existence that gives rise to all things does not intentionally “give birth” to them; the existence that transforms all things does not labor to “transform” them. In other words, it does not treat nurturing life and bringing about change as deliberate acts. Everything between Heaven and Earth happens of itself.

Here, “form” refers to the bodies of human beings and all things, while “appearance” refers to their outward features. “Wisdom” and “strength” distinguish people from one another: some are wise, others strong. “Decline” and “flourishing” refer to the waning and rising of things, and also include hardship and success, life and death, gain and loss.

To happen of itself means that life seems to arise, but is not intentionally brought forth; change seems to occur, but is not intentionally produced; forms and appearances, decline and growth seem to exist, yet none can be fixed as any one particular state. It has no definite name or fixed trace. If one insists on seeking it through definite names and traces, one loses its original meaning. The author does not say outright that it has no definite name or trace, but expresses this only with the word “called”—a particularly striking way of writing.

Liezi says: “In ancient times, the sages governed Heaven and Earth by following the changes of Yin-Yang. Since things with form arise from the formless, where did Heaven and Earth themselves arise from?”

This chapter opens by raising the word “pot,” then follows it with “What can be said?” A passage has already been discussed earlier, but here the subject is taken up again. The three words “What can be said?” carry a profound meaning of their own. The Zhuangzi says, “You may speak all day without ever truly saying anything.” Its meaning is close to that of this passage.

Thus it is said that the source of the cosmos passes through several stages: Great Change, Great Inception, Great Beginning, and Great Substance. At the stage of Great Change, Qi has not yet appeared. Great Inception is when Qi first emerges; Great Beginning is when form first takes shape; and Great Substance is when material substance first takes shape.

The Zhuangzi says, “There was a time before beginnings; there was a time before there was a beginning of beginnings; and there was even a time before there was a beginning of that ‘before there was a beginning of beginnings.’” These words are themselves exquisitely subtle.

Zhuangzi said, “There was a beginning, and there was a time before there was a beginning; and there was even a time before the time before there was a beginning.” These words are themselves profoundly subtle. This book divides the idea into four names, but what it says is still Zhuangzi’s meaning.

“Form” is the general term; “substance” refers to the particular texture of each thing; and “Qi” is the source from which forms arise. To say that Qi is “not yet visible” means that Qi cannot yet be seen. “The limitless becoming the limited” means the transition from a formless, boundless state to one with boundaries. Zhuangzi said, “Qi mingled in a vast and indistinct expanse, and forms took shape.” Here the account goes a step further by speaking from the perspective of Qi. The word “Change” should not be understood as the Yi in the Confucian classic, the Book of Changes; it simply means transformation, which is also the process by which things come into being. “Great Change” refers to the earliest and greatest process of creation. “Form” is the beginning of a thing’s becoming manifest; “substance” is its texture while it remains in its original state. The term “embryonic substance” used by craftsmen today employs this same word, “substance.”

Although Qi, form, and substance are all present, they have not yet separated from one another, and so this state is called “the undivided whole” (all things blended together, not yet distinct). It cannot be seen or heard, nor can it be found by touch, and so it is called “Change.” “Change” has no fixed shape or boundaries; it transforms into “One.” “One” transforms into “Seven,” and “Seven” then transforms into “Nine.” “Nine” signifies that transformation has reached its limit, after which it returns once more to the undivided whole. The undivided whole is the state in which all things are blended together and have not yet separated. It cannot be seen or heard, nor can it be found by touch, and so it is called “Change.” “Change” has no fixed shape or boundaries; it transforms into “One.” “One” transforms into “Seven,” and “Seven” then transforms into “Nine.” “Nine” signifies that transformation has reached its limit, after which it returns once more to “One.” “One” is the starting point at which forms begin to change.

The previous passage has already discussed four uses of the word “Great”; here, form, Qi, and substance are brought together. This is not only an account of the subtle principles of the Dao, but also a key to the text’s structure. Without such a key, the writing could not reveal the beauty of its successive turns and the way its ideas converge.

Qi, form, and substance are all present, yet have not separated from one another. At this point, the beginning of Qi is still unseen. When its beginning cannot be seen, what appears is a state of undivided unity. Here, however, the statement that all things are undivided brings together the Three Powers of Heaven, Earth, and humanity; it is not quite the same as passages elsewhere that speak only of “all things.” “Seeking” means searching. If the beginning of Qi is still unseen, what could one see, hear, or seek? Thus, “Yi” here means “Great Yi” (the state before all things appear and before change begins). This sentence shows that the passage beginning with “form, Qi, and substance are present” explains the two words “Great Yi.” “Without form or boundary” means that there are no traces or limits.

Qi changes and becomes “One,” that is, Taiji (the fundamental state from which all things arise). Only after Taiji appears do Yin-Yang and the Five Phases come into being. This is why the text says, “One changes into Seven”: the two forces of Yin-Yang together with the Five Phases make seven. “Nine” refers to the highest number associated with the Qian trigram. Some explain Seven as young Yang and Nine as old Yang, but that is not what the text means here. When Nine changes again and returns to One, this means that when things reach their extreme, they must transform: what exists inevitably returns to nonexistence. Nonexistence can give rise to existence, so One is called the beginning of the transformation of forms. “Reaching the limit” means arriving at the extreme.

The light, clear Yang Qi rises to become Heaven; the dense, heavy Yin Qi descends to become Earth; and when Yin and Yang Qi combine, they become humanity. Heaven and Earth thus contain the essence of Qi, from which all things are transformed, nurtured, and brought into being.

Yang Qi is light and clear, and rises to become Heaven; Yin Qi is dense and heavy, and descends to become Earth. When Yin and Yang Qi combine in harmony, they become humanity. “Harmonize” here means to unite. Heaven and Earth likewise bring all things into being through the union of Yin and Yang essence, from which things continually arise and transform. Therefore, Yin alone cannot bring things to growth, and Yang alone cannot bring them to completion.

Master Liezi said: Heaven and Earth cannot carry out every function of creation and transformation. Only after the sage harmonizes the refined Qi of Yin and Yang can the myriad things change without cease and give rise to one another without end. Thus, with Yin alone and no Yang, the myriad things cannot grow; with Yang alone and no Yin, they cannot come to fruition.

Master Liezi said: Heaven and Earth do not possess every possible capacity; the sage does not possess every possible ability; and the myriad things do not have functions suited to every purpose. Heaven’s role is to nurture and cover the myriad things; Earth’s role is to form and bear them; the sage’s role is to teach and transform; and each thing has its own appropriate use. From this we can see that Heaven has its limitations, while Earth has its strengths; the sage has things beyond his ability, while the myriad things can do things the sage cannot. Why is this so? Heaven can nurture and cover the myriad things, but cannot form and bear them. Earth can form and bear them, but cannot teach and transform them. The sage is responsible for teaching and transforming, but cannot go against what is appropriate to the nature of each thing. And once a thing’s characteristics are fixed, it cannot go beyond its own bounds. Thus the Dao of Heaven and Earth is no more than Yin and Yang; the sage’s teaching is no more than benevolence and righteousness; and what suits the nature of the myriad things is no more than suppleness and firmness. Each can function only in the way suited to it, without exceeding its inherent bounds.

Lin Xiyi interprets this passage as saying that even Heaven and Earth cannot exercise every function of creation and transformation, so how much less can humans and the myriad things? Heaven can nurture and cover the myriad things, while Earth can form and bear them; each has its strengths, so neither is all-capable. The sage stands between Heaven and Earth, with teaching and transformation as his responsibility, and assigns each thing its role according to its particular characteristics. The phrase “the sage has what he cannot do, while things have what they can do” means that there are things the sage cannot accomplish that the myriad things can. Teaching and transformation, too, must not run counter to what is suited to the nature of things. For example, methods of governance should change with the times, and the Nine Virtues—nine kinds of virtue—should accord with people’s differing dispositions. Each thing has its own definite qualities: what is curved cannot be made straight, what is small cannot be made large, what is salty cannot be made sour, and what is cool cannot be made hot. This is what it means to say that things cannot exceed their own bounds. Yin-Yang, firmness and suppleness, and benevolence and righteousness are discussed in the Great Commentary on the Changes in relation, respectively, to Heaven and Earth and to human affairs. Here they are also discussed in relation to Heaven and Earth, the sage, and the myriad things, and this, too, has its rationale.

Thus, living things have a source that enables all things to come forth and flourish without end. Things with form have a source that gives all things their form; things with sound have a source that brings sound into being; things with color have a source that makes color appear; and things with taste have a source that gives rise to taste.

Life produced by the force of vitality will eventually die, yet the source that continually gives rise to life never ceases. Forms shaped by the source of form truly exist, yet that source itself has no fixed form. Sounds produced by the source of sound can be heard, yet that source itself makes no sound. Colors brought forth by the source of color can be seen, yet that source itself does not appear. Tastes formed by the source of taste can be savored, yet that source itself does not present any particular taste. These are all workings of Wuwei (non-action)—acting without contrivance and allowing things to unfold naturally.

“Living, having form, sounding, having color, and having taste” refers to the myriad things between Heaven and Earth. “Giving life to life, forming forms, sounding sounds, coloring colors, and tasting tastes” refers to creation—the power by which the myriad things of Heaven and Earth arise and change naturally—and to its governing activity. Creation, through Wuwei, brings forth life, gives form to things, and makes colors, sounds, and tastes each appear. All these are functions governed by creation. Seen this way, the meaning is especially wondrous.

It can bring forth Yin-Yang, softness and hardness, shortness and length, roundness and squareness, life and death, heat and coolness, floating and sinking, the gong and shang musical notes, appearance and disappearance, darkness and bright yellow, and sweetness, bitterness, muttony odor, and fragrance. Creation itself seems to have neither awareness nor capacity, yet it knows everything and can do anything.

The word “can” appears repeatedly here, twenty-four times, and each instance refers to the Creator—the power that creates and brings forth the myriad things. The mystery of creation seems to have neither awareness nor capacity, yet there is nothing it does not know and nothing it cannot do. This passage, too, is well expressed.

Liezi was on his way to the state of Wei and stopped to eat by the roadside. One of his companions spotted a skull that had lain there for a hundred years. Liezi parted the grass, pointed to it, and turned to his disciple Baifeng. “Only this skull and I know that we were never born and never died. Is this because we have lived too long, or because our joy has been too great?”

The kinds of things in the world undergo endless transformations. A frog can turn into a quail; when it encounters water, it becomes a creature called a bi. Where water and earth meet, a garment-like growth appears on frogs and clams. A plant that grows on high ground is called lingxi. When lingxi receives yuqi, it turns into wuzu. The roots of wuzu produce grubs, while its leaves turn into butterflies. A butterfly can then transform into an insect that lives beneath the stove and resembles something shed; it is called niaojuduo. After a thousand days, niaojuduo becomes a bird called ganyu-gu. The spittle of ganyu-gu turns into simi, which becomes shixiyilu. Shixiyilu produces shixihuangkuang; shixihuangkuang produces jiuyou; jiuyou produces maorui; and maorui, in turn, produces fuchuan.

This passage is the same as the original text in the Zhuangzi, but several phrases have been added in between.

Liezi was eating by the roadside when he saw a skeleton among the mugwort. Pointing to it, he said to his disciples, “‘Baifeng’ is the name of this skeleton. It was never born and never died; it exists in a state beyond birth and death.” “That one” refers to the skeleton, while “I” is Liezi speaking of himself.

In the two phrases “excessive nourishment” and “excessive pleasure,” the Zhuangzi reads, “Do you truly nourish yourself? Do I truly delight?” The meaning is profound. This book omits the two words “if” and “I,” and writes “excessive” where the Zhuangzi has “truly.” The error probably arose in copying because the words sounded alike. If we interpret the wording in this book, we might ask whether the deceased had taken excessive care of his body and indulged in too much pleasure while alive. This interpretation is plausible, but not especially meaningful. The Zhuangzi’s sense is that the question asks: Do you truly know how to preserve your life while alive? Do I truly know the joy of stillness after death? Here the skeleton is linked with “me”: while alive, one nourishes the body with food and drink; after death, one takes joy in stillness. The deliberate reversal is what makes the passage so ingenious.

“Among things that sprout, what kinds are there?” means that all things in Heaven and Earth continually come into being. Their kinds differ, yet each can be traced back to something extremely small. This is not a comparison in which small things stand for large ones; rather, it says that large and small have no essential difference. The point is that there is no absolute distinction between fine and vast, or between noble and lowly. That is all the author meant, yet the writing is extraordinarily subtle. The sentences seem orderly, but also have irregularities; they seem scattered, yet follow their own pattern, like drifting clouds, a lone wild goose breaking away, or a solitary peak and sheer cliff. The more one reads, the more compelling they become.

This book adds several phrases in the middle, making it somewhat inferior to the Zhuangzi. “If a frog becomes a quail” describes a frog transforming into a quail. “Frog” means exactly that. These four characters do not appear in the Zhuangzi, and they do not connect with the following sentence.

“Ji” refers to the scum on the water’s surface: the early growth of moss, before it has fully formed. It also suggests fine strands entwined with one another, though the growth is very small. “The moss garment of frogs and freshwater mussels” means moss, while “where water meets earth” refers to the place where the water’s edge meets the bank. Moss often grows there in thick abundance, so it is called a “garment.” These two lines first describe moss, then turn to changes that occur on higher ground.

“Raised mounds” refers to high ground in the fields. “Lingxi” is plantain, and “yuqi” means manure. Plantain growing in manure changes into crow-foot grass. The root of crow-foot grass then turns into a grub, while its leaves turn into a butterfly. A grub is an insect, and “xu” is another name for a butterfly. The sentence that follows the butterfly is also wonderfully strange.

The text next says that among things formed through transformation there is an insect that lives beneath the stove, called “niaojueduo.” It is soft, with no skin or shell, so it is said to look as if it has shed its covering. The citrus worm of today belongs to this kind. Niaojueduo then transforms into a crow. “Dry remnant bone” is a kind of bird. The saliva flowing from its mouth transforms into “simi,” a kind of insect. “Xi food” refers to midges. “Yilu” and “huangkuang” are also names of insects. This passage has two extra characters, “xi food,” compared with the Zhuangzi; they too were probably introduced through a copying error.

“Jiuyou,” “maorui,” and “fuguan” are likewise names of insects. The Zhuangzi leaves out several characters here. The general meaning of the whole passage is that all things continually change and give rise to one another, and this transformation has no end.

Sheep liver turns into tuhao, horse blood into phosphorescent fire, and human blood into wild fire. The sparrow hawk turns into a zhan hawk, which in turn becomes a cuckoo; after a time, the cuckoo becomes a sparrow hawk again. Swallows turn into clams, field mice into quail, rotten melons into fish, aged chives into amaranth, old ewes into apes, and fish eggs into gu insects. The wild beasts of Mount Danyuan can conceive and give birth on their own; this kind of animal is called “lei.” Birds in river marshes reproduce by gazing at one another; they are called “yi.” Animals that are entirely female are called “dayao,” and those that are entirely male are called “zhifeng.”

Lin Xiyi explains that these lines do not appear in the main text of the Zhuangzi. The repeated use of the particle ye and the style also make them unlike the original text of the Zhuangzi, though they all concern the transformations of the myriad things. The Monthly Ordinances also records sparrows turning into clams and hawks into doves; these are natural transformations that occur between Heaven and Earth. An old ewe turning into an ape is like a mouse turning into a bat. Danyuan is the name of a beast mentioned in the Classic of Mountains and Seas: it resembles a civet and has a coat of fur. “Conceiving on its own” means that the animal can reproduce without a male, with only females present. At the time, some also said there was a kingdom of women in the sea, where the same thing occurred. “Lei” is the name of this beast. “Yi” is the kind of bird described in the Zhuangzi: the male calls from upwind, and the female answers from downwind; they reproduce by gazing at each other. “Dayao” belongs to the tortoise and turtle family and has females but no males. Bees, by contrast, have males but no females. Zhi means “small.” Bees transform and come into being in their honeycomb cells through their calls alone. They have a stinger at the tail, but the queen bee has none. Some also say that these insects gather in groups among many males, yet are ruled by females.

A man who longs for a mate can be affected by that longing even without a wife; a woman who longs for a mate can become pregnant even without a husband. Hou Ji was born after his mother stepped into a giant’s footprint; Yi Yin was born inside a hollow mulberry tree.

The text next discusses unusual forms of reproduction among human beings.

Juezhao is born in damp places, and xiji is born in wine.

This describes yang beings arising within a yin environment, where the yin side holds dominance.

A man who longs for a mate can be affected by that longing even without a wife; a woman who longs for a mate can become pregnant even without a husband. Hou Ji was born after his mother stepped into a giant’s footprint; Yi Yin was born inside a hollow mulberry tree.

These four statements describe changes that occur within the human body.

“Jue Zhao arises from dampness; vinegar flies arise from wine.”

These two statements, in turn, describe changes that can be readily observed in food.

“Sheepweed resembles a bamboo that bears no shoots. From old bamboo grows Qingning. Qingning gives rise to Cheng, Cheng to horse, and horse to human. In time, humans enter the mechanism. All things emerge from the mechanism and all return to it.”

From this point onward, the text is the same as the original passage in the Zhuangzi. Lin Xiyi believed that, in the Zhuangzi, the passage first presents an argument and then closes with an extremely strange claim in order to startle conventional opinion; it does not describe what actually happens. Adding phrases such as “thoughtful men and thoughtful women” only muddles the meaning.

Sheepweed is the name of a plant. A plant that resembles bamboo but does not grow shoots is called “shootless.” The shoots of old bamboo can be eaten, but the plant meant here cannot. Qingning is an insect, as is Cheng. “Horse” is also a plant name, as in the plants now called horse’s teeth and horse indigo. “Human” is likewise a plant name, as in ginseng and the plant now called human-face fruit. Lin Xiyi believed that the author deliberately used the strange names “horse” and “human” even though he clearly meant plant names. Commentators throughout the ages have said these passages are hard to understand; Lin Xiyi argued that later readers were misled by the author and failed to see his intention.

All things change without pause, giving rise to further transformations. What kind of change could fail to occur? “Returning to the mechanism” means that all things eventually vanish. “Emerging from the mechanism and returning to it” describes the cycle of life and death. It is also what the Zhuangzi calls the fire passed on after the wood is consumed: the body may perish, but transformation continues, and there is no way to know when it will end.

I once suspected that the Liezi was not a complete book. This passage alone makes that doubt clearer. After the Qin dynasty, many books were lost. People searched for them and found them gradually, so they came to light at different times, and the surviving chapters varied in number. Only after collation and editing were the books’ chapter lists settled. Yet by then, their contents had already become jumbled. Later, when the Western Jin fell and the Central Plain descended into turmoil (“Dianwu” refers to the Jin dynasty), books were lost again. They reappeared in Jiangnan, where many forgeries were mixed in; the Guanzi was one of them. Some passages in these books are very well written, while others are plainly impure and mixed. The opening passages of the first chapter of the Liezi are exceptionally fine and leave no room for suspicion. The middle sections, however, inevitably contain material from other writers. Their precision or roughness makes them easy to distinguish.

The Book of the Yellow Emperor says: When a body moves, it does not produce another body, but a shadow; when a sound is made, it does not produce another sound, but an echo. The transformations of the formless do not bring forth nothing from nothing; they bring forth something. In the end, bodies perish. Will Heaven and Earth come to an end? Will they end along with me? After they end, will there be further development? I do not know. The Dao’s ending is a return to the state that had no beginning; the Dao’s continuation is due to its having no distinction between long and short from the outset. What has life will eventually return to the state without life; what has form will eventually return to the formless. But the “without life” spoken of here does not mean that life was absent at its root, and the “formless” does not mean that form was absent at its root.

Whenever a body moves, it produces a shadow; whenever a sound is made, it creates an echo. These two statements are well put in themselves. Their purpose is probably to show that tangible things arise from the intangible. Everything that comes into being begins from “nonbeing,” so all tangible things must in the end return to nonbeing and reach their conclusion. Heaven and earth, too, have tangible form. How could they avoid coming to an end, just as we do? Whether heaven and earth truly vanish completely in the end is beyond what I can know. Hence the saying: “Will its end reach completion? I do not know.” Here, the character jin (“advance”) means jin (“end”); this is a textual error that arose from reading the latter as the former.

If there was no beginning to begin with, there can be no end; if there is no pause, there can be no limit. “Without pause” means undergoing constant change, never resting for even an instant. Everything that lives must ultimately return to non-life, for non-life is the source from which life arises. Everything with form must ultimately return to formlessness, for formlessness is the source from which form takes shape. If something was originally unborn, there would be no name “unborn”; if it was originally formless, there would be no name “formless.” To call it “unborn” or “formless” is already to depart from its true state. Hence the saying: “What is called unborn is not the root that was originally unborn; what is called formless is not the root that was originally formless.”

By the nature of things, everything that comes into being must eventually end. Its end is inevitable, just as its coming to life is inevitable. To wish for life to continue forever and for the end never to come is to be deluded by the fixed course of things.

The spirit belongs to the domain of Heaven, while the bones belong to the domain of Earth. The spirit, belonging to Heaven, is clear and numinous, and disperses as it departs; the bones, belonging to Earth, are heavy and turbid, and gather together. When the spirit leaves the body, each returns to its true nature. This is why it is called a gui—a “ghost” or “spirit”: gui means “to return,” to go back to one’s proper home. The Yellow Emperor said: “The spirit enters its portal, and the bones return to their root. What, then, remains of me?”

Death and life are natural principles, yet those who cling to life always seek longevity. “Hua” means to stop; “to stop its ending” means wanting life to come to a halt, so that it does not reach its end. People are misled by the fixed measure of how long or short their lives will be. The spirit returns to Heaven, and the bones to Earth: this refers to the four great elements of Heaven and Earth that make up the human body—earth, water, fire, and wind. “Each returns to its own place” means that spirit and bones go back, separately, to their respective origins. After death, a person returns to the place of origin, the place from which they first came. Once spirit and bones have each returned to their source, where is the “I” that exists now? This is just what the Sutra of Perfect Enlightenment means when it asks, “Where, exactly, is my Dharma-body—the true body that transcends the physical body—now?” Zhu Xi believed that Buddhism had copied this idea, but that may not be the case. Such discussions have existed in the world since ancient times, and Yuan Rang was one such figure. Buddhism came from the West; why would it have specifically copied this passage? To make such an accusation goes too far and is unfair.

From birth to death, a person undergoes four transformations: infancy, youth, old age, and death. In infancy, the breath is undivided and the mind is pure. Body and mind are perfectly harmonious, untouched by harm from external things, and De (Virtue) reaches its height. In youth, vital energy surges, desires and thoughts multiply, and one is easily disturbed by external things; De therefore declines. In old age, desires and thoughts gradually subside, and the body too begins to weaken. External things no longer hold sway. Though one is no longer as completely pure and harmonious as in infancy, things have settled compared with youth. At death, one comes to rest and returns to the ultimate point of life’s transformations.

When a person’s blood and Qi have not yet settled, they are in a stage of vigorous, forceful vitality. As that strength declines, the sage divides human life into three stages. Here, however, it is divided into four. The Zhuangzi says, “Nature gave me my form, made me toil for my livelihood, gave me ease in old age, and let me rest in death.” This, too, divides life into four stages.

Laozi describes a gentle, harmonious De through the state of an infant, with great clarity. An infant’s blood and Qi are vigorous and active; this is precisely what the sage calls “being in one’s prime.” “Desires and thoughts surge up” means being driven by desires and concerns, busy with making a living. Wanting wealth and status is desire; repeatedly planning and calculating for the future is thought. “Surge” means to become abundant, while “up” means to keep welling forth, difficult to restrain. As external things continually disturb the heart, the infant’s gentle, harmonious De gradually declines.

In old age, desires and thoughts remain, but a person can no longer rely on physical strength to forcefully pursue them. Zhuangzi calls this “giving me ease in old age”: the body is about to rest. The wording here differs, but the meaning is the same. “Nothing takes precedence” means that one can no longer contend to get ahead of external things. A person naturally yields. Though they have not yet returned to the infant’s state of living in harmony with external things without being harmed, this is already very different from the way external things disturb them in their prime.

When both the body and the breath are exhausted, a person returns to the origin. This is what Zhuangzi calls “letting me rest in death.” “Ultimate” here is the “ultimate” of Taiji, and refers to the beginning of the bodily transformations described earlier.

When Confucius was traveling on Mount Tai, he saw Rong Qiqi walking in the countryside near Cheng. He wore a coat made of deer hide, tied a cord around his waist, and sang as he played the zither. Confucius asked, “Sir, what makes you so happy?” Rong Qiqi replied, “I have many reasons to be happy. Heaven brings forth and nourishes all things, and among them, humans are the most honored. I have been fortunate enough to be born human: that is my first joy. Among humans, men are considered superior to women, so being a man is regarded as more fortunate. I have been fortunate enough to be a man: that is my second joy. Some people die young before ever seeing the sun and moon, without living long enough to outgrow their swaddling clothes. I have already reached the age of ninety: that is my third joy. Poverty is the ordinary lot of a scholar, and death is the end of human life. If I accept what is ordinary and live on until life’s end, what is there to worry about?” Confucius said, “Well said! You truly know how to put your own mind at ease.”

Rong was his surname, and Qiqi his given name. He made his coat from deer hide and used a cord for a belt. Among all the beings in Heaven and Earth, humans are more honored than other creatures; among humans, men are considered more honored than women. The three joys Rong Qiqi described are all grounded in ordinary human experience. This chapter uses a story to teach people how to understand wealth and poverty, life and death. Rong Qiqi did not comfort himself because he had fully grasped the Great Dao; rather, he reasoned from the natural order of things and found reassurance in it. Du Fu expressed the same idea in his poem: “A kingfisher nests in a little hall by the river; beyond the tombs along the ridge, qilin stand. Reflecting deeply on the way things are, one should enjoy life. Why let empty fame bind this body?”

Lin Lei was nearly a hundred years old. In spring, he still wore a fur coat, picking up ears of grain left behind in an old field as he walked along singing.

When Confucius came to the state of Wei, he saw him out in the countryside and turned to his disciples. “That old man is someone you can talk with. Go and speak to him.” Zigong asked to go. He walked to the end of the field ridge, met Lin Lei, and sighed as he faced him. “Sir, do you never regret anything? You walk along singing while picking up ears of grain.”

Lin Lei did not slow his steps, and his singing did not stop. Only after Zigong pressed him again and again did he look up and answer, “What have I to regret?”

Zigong said, “When you were young, you did not work hard; when you grew up, you did not seize your opportunities. Now you are old, with no wife or children, and death is near. What joy can there be in such a life, that you pick up ears of grain and sing?”

Lin Lei smiled and said, “I think the reasons for joy are there for everyone, yet people take them for sorrow. Because I did not work hard when young or seize opportunities when grown, I have been able to live this long. Because I am old, have no wife or children, and am near death, I can be joyful like this.”

Zigong said, “A long life is what people wish for, and death is what they fear. Why, then, do you treat death as something joyful?”

Lin Lei replied, “Death and life are only one parting and return. If I die here, how do I know I will not be born again there? I know only that death and life are not the same. How do I know that rushing about without rest to pursue life is not a delusion? And how do I know that my death now will not be better than my life before?”

Zigong heard this but could not grasp its meaning, so he returned and told Confucius. Confucius said, “I knew he was someone you could talk with, and so it proved. But although he has understood this principle, he has not yet understood it completely.”

“Spring at its height” means that it was springtime; “walking and singing together” means walking along while singing.

Walking and singing in spring means singing while making one’s way along. Zigong said that when he was young, he had not worked diligently, so he gained no reputation; when he grew older, he did not seize opportunities, so he could not compete with others for fame and profit. Lin Lei, however, believed that precisely because he had not busied himself or struggled with others, he had lived to such an age. Had he worn himself out in body and mind pursuing fame and profit outside himself, he might have died halfway through his life. Zigong and Lin Lei are both figures in parables.

Death and life are a departure and a return: to go from life to death is like setting out on a journey that must eventually bring you back. How can those who die here know they will not be born again somewhere else? This is what Buddhists call present and future lives, and former and later existences. “I know they are not the same” means: how can we be certain that this life is necessarily worse than the next, or that a later existence is necessarily worse than an earlier one? “Death now may not be better than life before” comes close to the Zhuangzi’s saying, “One who left home young and lost the way back does not know the way home”: people do not understand life’s comings and goings, just as someone who left home in childhood might forget the way back. Though Lin Lei understood the principle of life and death, he had not yet plumbed its mysteries. The Liezi often speaks of Confucius with reverence, and its parables therefore often use Confucius as a mouthpiece for their arguments. Whether these words truly came from Liezi is difficult to determine.

Zigong had grown tired of studying and said to Confucius, “I hope I can rest for a while.” Confucius replied, “As long as you are alive, there is no time to rest.” Zigong asked, “Then is there nowhere I can rest?” Confucius said, “There is. Look at a cemetery: some mounds rise high and others lie low; some resemble a roof ridge, some a rooftop, some swell like burial hills, and some are shaped like pot lids. There you will understand where rest can be found.” Zigong said, “Death is truly great! There the noble rest, and there the lowly too lie at peace.”

Confucius said, “Ci, you understand now. People know that life is joyful, but not that life also has its hardships; they know that old age brings worry, but not that old age also brings ease; they know that death is frightening, but not that death is also a rest.”

We grow weary of learning because, though we keep studying, we have not yet grasped its essential principles. After a long time of effort, we become disheartened. “Rest” means to stop, as Confucius said: “I have only seen him press on without pause; I have never seen him stop.”

Liezi uses the story of Zigong seeking instruction and wanting to know where one may rest to explain the meaning of life and death. Confucius tells Zigong that the living never truly come to rest: as long as one has a body, one must grow tired. When, then, can one rest? Only after death. Zigong does not understand and asks where, exactly, one rests after death. Confucius answers by pointing to the grave. “Gaozai” and “fenge” both describe the mounded shape of a grave. The noble person therefore understands death as the final rest. Even the petty person, though clinging greedily to life and unwilling to let go, must submit when faced with the grave.

Although this passage is directed at those who fear death and cling to life, it also carries a deeper meaning and is not only about life and death. It can also help us understand Zen expressions such as “letting the mind die” and “bringing the dead back to life.”

Yan Zi said, “The ancients regarded death as a good thing. Through it, the virtuous find rest, and the unvirtuous come to an end. Death is where virtue is finally settled. The ancients called the dead ‘those who have returned.’ Since the dead are those who have gone home, the living are travelers still on the road. To travel the road without knowing how to return home is to have lost one’s home. When a person loses their home, everyone in the world blames them; yet when everyone under Heaven has lost their home, no one knows whom to blame.

“Someone leaves their native place, abandons their family, neglects their household, and wanders everywhere without returning. What sort of person are they? The world would surely call them unruly and unrestrained. Now consider someone who prizes their bodily life, shows off their abilities, polishes their reputation, and boasts before the world, yet does not know how to turn inward and examine themselves. What sort of person are they? The world would surely regard them as intelligent and resourceful. In truth, both kinds of people have lost their way. The world approves of one and condemns the other; only the sage knows what to approve and what to cast aside.”

Lin Xiyi explained: “‘The virtuous and the unvirtuous’ is another way of speaking of the gentleman and the petty person. ‘Jiao’ means ‘to reach an end.’ Here, it means that virtue is finally determined only after death. This expresses a return to one’s original nature and a return to the root, using the great matter of life and death to make the point. ‘Having lost one’s home’ alludes to the image of ‘having left home while young’ in the Zhuangzi: someone who left home as a child and forgot the way back. The characters ‘zhong,’ ‘xian,’ and ‘shi’ are transcription or pronunciation errors and should be understood as ‘prizing bodily life,’ that is, valuing the body and life. The world thinks that being unruly and unrestrained is wrong, so it disapproves of such people and instead admires those who are intelligent and resourceful. But it does not realize that relying entirely on cleverness also fails to accord with the Dao. The sage measures what to take up and what to cast aside by the Dao. That is why it says the sage knows what to approve and what to cast aside.”

Someone asked Liezi, “Why do you prize emptiness?” Liezi replied, “There is nothing precious about emptiness itself.”

“Emptiness” here refers to a state of stillness and clarity. Liezi’s reply means that emptiness is not an object to be cherished or pursued. The sage measures what to take up and what to cast aside by the Dao, and does not become attached to the label “emptiness.”

To esteem and exalt emptiness is to regard “emptiness” as the most precious state. If even the thought of esteeming it is absent, then emptiness is no longer something to be exalted—so what could there be to esteem?

Master Liezi said, “Only by not clinging to names can one know stillness; nothing brings a person to rest more than emptiness. Stillness and emptiness are where all things settle themselves. As soon as one makes distinctions, gives, or receives, one loses that original ground. It was only after the Great Dao was broken apart that people began displaying benevolence and righteousness. That way of conduct cannot be restored.”

Here, “not having its name” means that once a name is attached to something, it is no longer in its original state. The Dao De Jing says, “The Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao,” and means the same thing. Emptiness and stillness have no traces and no fixed names. By not clinging to names or traces, one can rest in one’s original nature. The moment one makes distinctions and chooses between things, one departs from that original nature. The names of benevolence and righteousness appeared only after the Great Dao had been broken apart. “Broken apart” means dividing the Great Dao. People of the present age treat benevolence and righteousness as performance and trickery, making it difficult to restore a way of life that is simple and sincere. “Performing benevolence and righteousness” is like what we today call “showing off with the law”: it means posturing and making a display under the name of benevolence and righteousness.

Zhou Xiong said, “The movements and transformations of things never cease, and Heaven and Earth change quietly. Who can perceive it? So some things diminish over there and increase here; they take shape here and become depleted elsewhere. Diminution, fullness, formation, and decline follow one another continually as events change. They come and go in succession, with almost no interval between transformations. Who can perceive it? A current of Qi does not suddenly increase, nor does a body become depleted all at once. That is why people do not notice its formation or its decline. It is like a person growing from birth into old age: appearance, complexion, intelligence, and expression all change day by day. Skin, nails, and hair also continually fall away over time; they do not remain unchanged from infancy onward. The changes are almost imperceptible, and only later, looking back, does one realize that things have become different.”

“Zhou Xiong” borrows the name of an ancient sage. The movements of Heaven and Earth never cease: Heaven completes a circuit each day, while Earth keeps turning without a moment’s pause. People live between Heaven and Earth but do not notice this, just as someone sitting in a boat does not feel that the boat is moving. Who can perceive the transformations of Heaven and Earth? Here, “subtle” means that change is so hidden that it is difficult to detect.

All things diminish and increase, take shape and decay. These changes also happen quietly between Heaven and Earth, and people often fail to notice them. Life and death come and go in cycles, following one another without end, with no clear interval for people to see. Rivers are formed by streams flowing together, and their waters surge onward; generations consist of people succeeding one another, while each person gradually approaches old age. In every era, are there not people being born? Can anyone in any era remain forever unchanged and never grow old? This is precisely the point. “Following the world” means changing along with life. The seasons of cold and heat alternate gradually, so Yin-Yang Qi does not complete its transformation all at once.

High banks can become deep valleys, and deep valleys can become hills. Even an object as small as a single implement gradually wears away. Thus, no form is diminished all at once. Because change does not happen suddenly, people fail to notice it. The same is true of a person growing from youth into old age: there is no clear interval between the changes. Often, only when the time comes do people realize they have grown old. Hence the saying: “The intervals between changes are difficult to detect; only when the result appears do we know.”

“Bearing” refers to physical appearance, while “wisdom” refers to one’s views.

In the state of Qi, a man feared that the sky might collapse and the earth cave in, leaving him nowhere to live. He became so worried that he could neither eat nor sleep. Another man, concerned about what he feared, went to reassure him. “The sky is simply gathered Qi, and there is nowhere that is not Qi. You breathe in and out, stretch and bend, and move about within the sky all day long. Why worry that it will collapse?”

The man asked, “If the sky really is only gathered Qi, won’t the sun, moon, and stars fall down too?” The other replied, “The sun, moon, and stars are things that shine within the Qi. Even if they fell, they would not hurt anyone.” The man asked again, “Then what if the earth caves in?” The other answered, “The earth is simply gathered clods of soil, filling all the space in every direction. There is nowhere that is not soil. You take steps and tread on the ground, moving about on the earth all day long. Why worry that it will cave in?” Only then did the man set his mind at ease, and he was very glad. The man who had reassured him was glad too.

When Changluzi heard about this, he laughed and said, “Rainbows, clouds, mist, wind, rain, and the four seasons are formed in the sky from gathered Qi. Mountains, rivers, seas, metals, stones, water, and fire are formed on the earth from gathered matter. Since we know they are gathered Qi and clods of soil, how can we say they will never be destroyed? The heavens and earth are tiny things within the vastness of space, yet among all things they are the greatest. Their reach is inexhaustible; that is simply how things are. They are difficult to fathom and difficult to understand; that, too, is simply how things are. To worry that the heavens and earth will be destroyed is indeed to think too far ahead; to say they will never be destroyed is also wrong. In the end, the heavens and earth cannot escape destruction: eventually they will return to it. If you happen to be alive when they are destroyed, why not worry?”

When Liezi heard this, he laughed and said, “To say that the heavens and earth will be destroyed is wrong; to say that they will never be destroyed is equally wrong. Whether they will be destroyed or not, I cannot know. Even so, life and death, coming and going, are one and the same. Thus, in life we do not know what comes after death, and after death we do not know what came before life. We do not know, upon arriving in the world, that we will depart; nor, upon departing, do we know that we once arrived. Why should I trouble myself over whether the heavens and earth will be destroyed?”

Every movement of contraction and extension and every breath a person takes resonates with the Qi between Heaven and Earth. Thus, human beings, too, are natural things formed from gathered Qi. The light emitted by the sun, moon, and stars also comes from this Qi.

“Even if” means “even supposing.” “The four voids” refers to the farthest reaches of space in the four directions. “Hesitant steps” means to wander back and forth indecisively; “treading” means to step upon something. The passage says that, apart from space itself, all things within Heaven and Earth are forms made of gathered Qi. Since anything that gathers will eventually disperse, how could it remain undestroyed forever? These words explain that Heaven is formed from gathered Qi and Earth from gathered clods of soil, and that both will ultimately be destroyed. The Book of Changes says, “If Heaven and Earth are destroyed, there is no way for the Dao to appear.” This means that once Heaven and Earth are destroyed, the Dao can no longer manifest. The sage had a similar idea, though he did not state it explicitly.

Space has neither form nor boundaries. Heaven and Earth, situated within it, are only tiny things. Yet from the human point of view, Heaven and Earth are the largest of all things that have form. These two lines are remarkably subtle. Heaven and Earth are impossible to exhaust and impossible to measure or discern; the point is that people cannot truly understand them.

The passage then turns to say that when we arrive, we do not know where we come from, and when we depart, we do not know where we are going. This means that those who study the Dao should not cling to distinctions such as existence and nonexistence, coming and going. Chan Buddhism has similar sayings today.

Shun asked Zheng (written as “Cheng” in the Zhuangzi, where he is a fictional character), “Can the Dao be claimed as one’s own?” Zheng replied, “Even your body does not belong to you. How, then, could you claim the Dao as your own?”

Shun asked, “If my body does not belong to me, whose is it?” Zheng said, “The body is a form temporarily gathered together by Heaven and Earth. Life is the temporary harmony of Heaven and Earth’s Yin-Yang Qi. Nature and life embody the natural principles of Heaven and Earth. Descendants, meanwhile, are like cicadas shedding their shells: they are the result of one generation giving way to the next. Thus, when you walk, you do not know where you are going; when you stay, you do not know what there is to hold on to; and when you eat, you do not understand what is making you eat. The vigorous Yang Qi moving through Heaven and Earth is nothing more than Qi. Since all these things are only the temporary gathering and movement of Heaven and Earth, how could you claim them as your own?”

Lin Xiyi explains that “wei” means “to gather.” The body is temporarily formed by the gathering of the Four Great Elements—the constituents of the human body, such as earth, water, fire, and wind—so it is called “the gathered form.” Yin and Yang come into harmony, and from this all things are born; for this reason, life is called “the gathered harmony.” “Shun” means following the natural principles, from which nature and life also arise; hence the term “the gathered accord.” Generations succeed one another like cicadas shedding their shells, so descendants are called “the gathered transformations.” “Not knowing what there is to hold on to” means that there is nothing to cling to or claim. “Vigorous Yang Qi” refers to the vital energy that sets all things in motion. A person’s walking, staying, and eating are all driven by this Qi; they are not entirely under one’s own control.

Lin Xiyi considers this passage identical in content to a passage in the Zhuangzi’s “Knowledge Wanders North.” He also notes that “Zheng” may be a copying error, since the Zhuangzi has “Cheng.”

A man from the Guo family in the state of Qi was very wealthy, while a man from the Xiang family in the state of Song was very poor. The man from the Xiang family traveled from Song to Qi and asked the man from the Guo family how to become rich. The man from the Guo family told him, “I am skilled at ‘taking.’ When I first began, I could support myself within a year; after two years, I had a surplus; and by the third year, I was prospering in abundance. After that, I shared my harvest with the people of my village.”

The man from the Xiang family understood what the man from the Guo family meant by “taking,” but not the Way of taking he had described. So he climbed over walls and broke into houses, stealing whatever he could reach or see. Before long, he was caught with stolen goods and convicted, and his existing property was confiscated. Believing the man from the Guo family had deceived him, he went to confront him.

The man from the Guo family asked, “How did you go about ‘taking’?” The man from the Xiang family explained what he had done. The man from the Guo family sighed. “Alas, you have misunderstood the Way of taking to this extent! Let me explain it now. I have heard that Heaven has its seasons and Earth has its produce. I make use of Heaven’s seasons and Earth’s advantages, and with clouds and rain to nourish the land and mountains and marshes to sustain life, I grow grain and tend crops, build walls and put up houses. The birds and beasts on land, and the fish and turtles in the water, are also things I make use of. Grain, wood, earth, birds and beasts, fish and turtles—all are nurtured by Heaven. Can they really be my personal property? I make use of what Heaven and Earth produce, and suffer no misfortune for it. As for gold, jade, precious treasures, grain, cloth, and goods, these are things people have gathered together. Were they bestowed on you by Heaven? If you steal them and are convicted, whom can you blame?”

The man from the Xiang family was deeply perplexed. Thinking that the man from the Guo family was deceiving him with even more abstruse words, he went to ask Master Dongguo. Master Dongguo said, “Was your body not formed and sustained through the harmonious interaction of Yin-Yang? And as for things outside your body, which of them does not come from Heaven and Earth? In truth, all things under Heaven are connected. To insist that something belongs to you alone is to be deluded.

“The ‘taking’ described by the man from the Guo family accords with what is just, so it brings no misfortune. Your taking arose from selfish motives, so you were convicted. To insist on dividing things into public and private is itself to make distinctions and choices. Only when you are not attached to the distinction between public and private do you accord with the De of Heaven and Earth. Once you understand the De of Heaven and Earth, what can be called ‘taking,’ and what cannot?”

“Untimely” means that something cannot be reckoned according to the seasons. “Previously accumulated” refers to things stored up by earlier generations. “Deceiving oneself” means just that: fooling oneself. “Going there and resenting it” means going to see what has happened and then voicing resentment. “Seasonal and geographical advantage” refers to favorable timing and terrain; “soaking nourishment” means permeation.

Crops and seedlings, earth and timber, birds and beasts, fish and turtles—all are born from Heaven and Earth beyond us. Could the Yin-Yang Qi within the human body really belong to us ourselves? This, too, is the creation of Heaven and Earth. “Sincerity” means that things are indeed so. The myriad things of Heaven and Earth cannot be separated from one another, because every thing comes from Heaven and Earth, and none can exist apart from them. The character for “claim as one’s own” is used interchangeably with the character for “recognize”: to claim these things as one’s own is a foolish and deluded view.

The general point of this chapter seems to be that people live between Heaven and Earth and sustain their lives with things drawn from what belongs to Heaven and Earth, yet they treat those things as their own, as though they could exist apart from Heaven and Earth. This is a heterodox view. From favorable timing and terrain to birds and beasts, fish and turtles, all belong to Heaven and Earth, and people take them for their use. The sage says, “Use the way of Heaven and draw upon the benefits of the earth.” Liezi uses this argument to emphasize his own position. The metaphor in Liu Zongyuan’s “Discourse on Heaven” also derives from this passage.

The meaning of the final turn is the same as that of what came before. “The public Way” is a principle shared by everyone; “the private Way” is not. In human discussion, there are things that are public and things that are private. In the virtue of Heaven and Earth, however, there is no distinction between public and private. What is called public is simply how things naturally are; what is called private is likewise formed by Heaven and Earth. From the perspective of Heaven and Earth’s virtue, to judge something as “theft” or “not theft” is still to make an intentional distinction. This passage seems to mean that if approving of good and condemning evil both arise from deliberate distinctions, then even good will become evil. The Laozi says, “When all under Heaven recognize beauty as beauty, ugliness arises.” That is precisely the point. The phrase “and similar cases” in the text seems not to appear in the original Liezi.

End of Volume One of The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing Yanzhai Kouyi.

Collation notes: The Ming edition has “carry” instead of “again”; “mountain” instead of “beast”; “great” instead of “premature death” in the original, here corrected according to the Ming edition; and “the passing of days” instead of “long departure.”

Volume Two of The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing Yanzhai Kouyi, with commentary by Lin Xiyi of Yanzhai.

Chapter Two: The Yellow Emperor

Fifteen years after ascending the throne, the Yellow Emperor took pleasure in having the people of the realm rally around him. He nurtured his life, enjoyed the delights of sight and hearing, and indulged the desires of his nose and mouth. As a result, his spirit and appearance grew haggard, his complexion dull, and his mind clouded; his senses and emotions had all gone astray. Another fifteen years passed…

Fifteen years after ascending the throne, the Yellow Emperor was pleased that the people of the realm supported him. He devoted himself to caring for his body, indulging his eyes and ears, and satisfying his appetites for food and drink. Gradually, however, he grew haggard and thin, his spirit became clouded and unsteady, and his emotions and senses fell out of their normal state.

Another fifteen years passed. Worried that he was failing to govern the realm well, the Yellow Emperor exerted his keenest powers of sight and hearing and his sharpest intellect, using every measure of strategy and force to rule the people. Yet he remained haggard and thin, his spirit clouded and unsteady, and his inner life, too, fell out of balance.

The Yellow Emperor sighed and said, “My mistakes have gone too far! I cared only for my own well-being, and this brought me such troubles; I governed all things, and this brought me troubles as well.” He then set aside the burdens of government, dismissed his officials and attendants, took down the suspended bells and chime stones, reduced his meals, and withdrew to the Great Court Pavilion. There he fasted, quieted his mind, and gathered in his form, leaving the affairs of state untouched for three months.

One day, while asleep in the daytime, he dreamed that he traveled to the land of Huaxu. This country lay west of Yanzhou and north of Taizhou, an unknowable many tens of millions of li from the state of Qi. It was beyond the reach of boats, carriages, or one’s own feet; one could visit it only by journeying freely in spirit.

The land of Huaxu had no ruler; everything followed its own nature. Its people had no desires for gain; they, too, followed their own nature. They knew neither attachment to life nor hatred of death, so no one died before their time. They showed no special closeness to their own kind and no distance from other things, so they had neither favoritism nor aversion. They knew neither resistance nor insistence on compliance, and so there were no struggles over benefit or harm. They had nothing to cherish and nothing to fear. They could enter water without drowning and fire without being burned. They were unharmed by blows from blades or lashes, and felt neither pain nor itching when touched. They moved through the air as though walking on solid ground, and lay in emptiness as though sleeping in a bed. Clouds and mist could not obscure their vision, thunder could not disturb their hearing, beauty and ugliness could not unsettle their hearts, and mountains and valleys could not impede their steps. All this was simply because their spirits moved freely.

When the Yellow Emperor awoke, he felt lighthearted and content. He summoned Tian Lao, Li Mu, and Taishan Ji, and said to them, “For three months I lived in seclusion, quieting my mind and gathering in my form. I sought ways to nourish the body and govern all things, but found none. Exhausted, I fell asleep and dreamed of this vision. Now I understand that the utmost Way cannot be sought through human thought and feeling. I know it and have grasped it, yet I cannot put it into words for you.”

Another twenty-eight years passed. The realm was governed so well that it was almost like the land of Huaxu. Later, when the Yellow Emperor died, the people wept for him, and their mourning continued for more than two hundred years.

The “Land of Huaxu” mentioned here means the same thing as the Land of Jiande and the Land of the Huaxu clan in the “Shanmu” chapter of the Zhuangzi. “The Emperor ascended and departed” means that the Yellow Emperor died. The people mourned him loudly, and their lamentations continued for more than two hundred years.

This passage explains that when the Yellow Emperor governed the world, he initially acted with intention, but later reached a state of mindlessness and Wuwei (non-action). “Proper destiny” refers to a person’s nature and life; “proper” means taking nature as the standard. The character for “nature” was miscopied in transmission. “Skin darkened and withered” means that the skin was rough and dark, and the body was thin. “Confused and dazed” means that the five emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, pleasure, and desire—had lost their normal balance, leaving people bewildered and disoriented. “Praise” should be read as “lament.” “Excessive” describes a condition that has become too severe, as if water had overflowed and spread everywhere; some commentators believe the word should instead mean “deep.” “Attendants on duty” refers to those who serve and await orders. “Suspended” refers to a bell frame, and “the Great Court” corresponds to the inner palace grounds. “Cultivating the form” is similar to what is now called “cultivating the breath,” meaning the regulation of the body and breathing.

The Huainanzi says that the far west was called Yanzhou and the northwest Taizhou. This passage refers to lands beyond the Nine Provinces, comparable to the western “Qu’ni” and southern “Yanfutu” mentioned in Buddhist scriptures. “Leave” means to depart; “the state of Qi” refers to the central region. Thus, “leaving the state of Qi” means traveling westward for ten million li from the central region.

“Natural” refers to a state free of conscious intention. “Without preference or aversion, opposition or compliance” means that the mind makes no distinctions or choices. One could enter water without drowning and enter fire without feeling burned, remaining at ease wherever one was. Even when struck or cut, one felt no pain; when touched or pierced, one felt no numbness or itching. This means that although one still had a physical body, one behaved as if one had no body. “Obstruct” has the same meaning as “hinder.” “The spirit moves” means that one acts without leaving a trace.

Tianlao, Limu, and Taishan Ji were three ministers of the Yellow Emperor. “Ascended and departed” has the same meaning as “ascended to the distant realm,” referring to death; the word “departed” should be written as “distant.” Similar expressions often appear in the Zhuangzi as well. Some people believe the Liezi surpasses the Zhuangzi, but that may not be the case.

Mount Liegushe stands on an island in the Hai River. A spirit being lives on the mountain. He breathes the wind and drinks dew, and eats no grain. His mind is as still as a deep pool, and his form as graceful as a young woman’s. He shows no favoritism or attachment; immortals and sages willingly serve him as subjects. He neither fears nor grows angry, and honest, simple people all willingly serve him. He makes no deliberate show of kindness, yet all things naturally flourish. He gathers no wealth, yet lacks nothing himself.

Under his rule, Yin-Yang remains in harmony, the sun and moon shine brightly, the seasons proceed smoothly, and wind and rain are evenly distributed. Birds and beasts reproduce in their proper seasons, and crops yield abundant harvests year after year. No epidemic diseases afflict the land; people suffer neither premature death nor calamity; all things are free of illness, and ghosts and spirits do not appear to work mischief.

What is written here is broadly in keeping with the meaning of the Zhuangzi: both depict a realm governed through Wuwei (non-action). “The mind is like a deep spring” means that the mind is as calm as still water. “Shows no favoritism” means that he does not favor one side; like “shows no attachment,” it refers to giving no preference to any particular party. “Neither fears nor grows angry” describes equanimity. “Makes no deliberate show of kindness” means that he does not intentionally bestow favors, while “gathers no wealth” means that he neither takes nor accumulates. Since all things naturally flourish, he himself lacks nothing. “Reproduction and nurture” refers to the breeding and bearing of young by birds and beasts; “epidemic afflictions” refers to outbreaks of disease; “illness” refers to sickness; and “ghosts and spirits do not appear to work mischief” means that no supernatural beings manifest to cause trouble.

Liezi once studied under the teacher Lao Shang and befriended Bo Gaozi. He learned the arts of the Dao from them, and later rode the wind home. Yin Sheng heard of this and went to stay with Liezi, remaining for months without leaving. In his spare time, he repeatedly asked to learn the skill of riding the wind. He asked ten times, and Liezi refused him all ten times. Dissatisfied, Yin Sheng announced that he was leaving, but Liezi did not try to stop him. Yin Sheng went away.

Several months later, still thinking about the matter, he returned to follow Liezi. Liezi asked, “Why do you keep coming and going so often?” Yin Sheng replied, “Before, I respectfully sought your instruction, but you would not tell me, so I held a grudge. Now I have let it go, and so I have come back.” Liezi said, “Before, I thought you understood the Dao. Now I see that you are surprisingly shallow. I will tell you what I learned from my teachers.

“When I served my teacher and associated with that gentleman, three years passed before I no longer dared to think about what was right or wrong, or to speak of what was beneficial or harmful. Only then did my teacher look at me. After five years, I began again to think about right and wrong and to speak of benefit and harm; only then did my teacher smile at me for the first time. After seven years, I no longer clung to right and wrong, benefit and harm, in either my thoughts or my speech. Only then did my teacher invite me to sit beside him. After nine years, I let my thoughts and words flow freely, without distinguishing between my own or another’s right and wrong, benefit and harm. I no longer made a distinction between my teacher as my master and that gentleman as my friend; the boundaries between my inner self and external things had dissolved. From then on, my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth seemed to communicate with one another, without distinction.

“At that time, my mind and spirit were still and settled, while my body seemed to dissolve, its bones and flesh as if they had melted away. I felt no support beneath my body and nothing beneath my feet. I simply followed the wind east or west, like a withered leaf or a dry husk. I could not tell whether the wind carried me or I rode the wind.

“Now you have been under that gentleman’s guidance for less than a month, yet you have already been resentful and dissatisfied two or three times. Your body cannot even contain Qi; one of your limbs cannot even bear the weight of the earth. How, then, could you tread the void and ride the wind?”

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

“Not setting the mind at rest” means that the mind and spirit cannot return to stillness and settle down. “Resentment” means hatred. Yin Sheng asked Lao Shang many times, but Lao Shang would not tell him, so he wanted to take his leave and return home. Lao Shang did not tell him to withdraw, but let him leave of his own accord. Later, Yin Sheng returned and followed him again. “Zhang Dai” is Yin Sheng’s name. “Ji” should be pronounced “Ju”; the other reading is a copying error. “Master” refers to Lao Shang, and “that man” refers to Bo Gaozi.

The claim that for three years there were no thoughts of right and wrong in the mind and no talk of right and wrong means that Yin Sheng kept himself in silence and stillness, fearing even the slightest unwarranted movement of thought. “Geng” means to change or turn in a new direction. First, one puts aside thoughts about right and wrong, gain and loss, and does not speak of them. Later, even when thoughts arise and one speaks again, the mind is already settled, and one’s thoughts and words naturally become upright. “Following” means allowing things to take their course: what one thinks and says proceeds naturally, without fixing the mind on right and wrong, gain and loss. The mind and principle then become one, and one no longer deliberately distinguishes or chooses. “Unrestrained” means letting thoughts flow naturally, without deliberation, and allowing words to find free expression, no longer constrained by right and wrong, gain and loss. In this way, mind and principle come together, and even the impulse to make distinctions gradually falls away.

These four stages describe the progression of cultivating the Dao. Once the mind has joined with principle, one’s conduct and responses change accordingly; thus, inner and outer cultivation advance together. When the use of the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and other senses is no longer constrained by attachment to distinctions, one has reached a state of transformation in which attachment is forgotten. The Buddhist phrase “the six functions have a single source” conveys a similar idea. “Trunk” refers to the body, and “trunk shell” means the shell shed by a cicada. “A leaf of wood, a shed shell” means no longer being attached even to one’s own body. Only after forgetting oneself can one ride the wind. The resentment in your heart...

While the burdens of body and mind remain, even a part of the body cannot be borne by Heaven and Earth, let alone the whole body. This chapter says that the ability to ride the wind can be attained only by cultivating until the body seems almost not to exist. This is no empty claim; only those who study the Dao can experience its truth.

Liezi asked Guanyin, “Those who have reached the highest level of cultivation can enter water without drowning, walk into fire without feeling heat, and move among all things without fear. How can one reach such a state?” Guanyin replied, “It comes from holding fast to pure, undivided Qi; it is beyond what can be achieved through wisdom, skill, or courage. Ji, let me tell you: everything that has form, appearance, sound, or color belongs to the realm of formed things. What could account for such vast differences among formed things? How could they surpass one another and reach a more fundamental state? They are all merely forms and colors. All things arise from the formless and ultimately return to what no longer changes.”

How could someone who understands this principle and has explored it completely be swayed by external things? Such a person rests in the boundless, finds shelter in the inexhaustible patterns of change, and wanders among the arising and passing away of all things. They bring their nature back to purity and unity, nurture their own Qi—the vital energy that sustains life—and embody natural De, thereby connecting with the source from which all things arise. In such a person, innate integrity remains whole and the spirit has no openings. How, then, could external things find a way in?

Guan Yin was named Xi, and he was someone who had met Laozi. These words may have been passed down from generation to generation among teacher and student or among friends; they may also have been written under Guan Yin’s name. Guan Yin’s writings include another book. Although it contains passages added by later writers, some of its profound and subtle ideas still reach beyond what most of the other masters could attain.

“Walking through emptiness without falling” means moving through empty space as though the ground beneath one’s feet were still solid. “Above all things” describes a lofty state of realization. People who practice health cultivation today also value “guarding pure Qi”: nourishing one’s original Qi by holding nothing in the heart, rather than relying on clever schemes, strategic thinking, boldness, or physical strength. The “Attaining Life” chapter of the Zhuangzi expresses a similar idea. This is the central teaching passed down in one line of transmission, and the thread that runs through the whole passage.

“Ji” means “to dwell”; “yu” means “I,” its pronunciation having been corrupted over time. Form, sound, and color are all things with form. If one remains confined by them, how could one reach a lofty state? Only by holding nothing in the heart can one transcend the limits of all things. “First” refers to the beginning of creation. The question “How could one reach the beginning?” means that, if confined by things with form, one cannot know the origin of creation. Form, sound, and color were mentioned earlier; here only “color” is used, as a stylistic shortening.

“Formless” refers to the time before Qi has appeared; “without transformation” refers to the beginning before creation has stirred. “Creation” is where all things come into being; “abode” is where they reside. If one does not understand the subtle principle of what is formless and not yet transformed, but seeks the source only among things that have already taken shape, how could one be said to have penetrated deeply?

“Correct” means ultimate. “A measure that is not deep” means that the principle lies right before our eyes, yet is so familiar and near that people fail to see it. “Without beginning” means having no beginning; “measure” means a rule, and “guiding thread” means a governing principle. The passage says that although the things before us have their rules, people do not know where those rules come from. The hidden workings of creation are difficult to understand, much as Confucius meant when he said, “I have nothing to conceal.”

The end and beginning of all things, and the source from which they arise, all belong to creation. “Unify one’s nature, nourish one’s Qi, and hold one’s De within” means to make one’s nature single, nourish one’s original Qi, and keep within oneself the De one has attained. In principle, this is nature; in terms of life, it is Qi; as embodied in oneself, it is De. In this way, one preserves one’s innate nature intact, and the heart’s purity is not disturbed. “Without retreating or wavering” means being settled and unmoving. When the heart is pure and settled, external things cannot shake it. Hence the question: “Where, then, could external things enter?”

A drunken man who falls from a moving cart may not be killed, even if the cart is traveling very fast. His joints are no different from those of an ordinary person, yet he is unlike others when struck or injured. This is because his spirit has not been disturbed. He does not know when he is riding in the cart, nor when he falls from it. Life and death, fear and alarm, have not entered his heart, so he is not afraid when he encounters things outside himself. If a drunken man can preserve himself by the power of wine, how much more can one who follows nature and preserves his inborn nature? The sage settles himself within the Way of Heaven, and so nothing external can harm him.

This passage is the same as one in the Zhuangzi. “Struck and harmed” means falling and being injured. The man is so drunk that he is unaware both while riding in the cart and when falling from it; he feels no fear, and his spirit is therefore undisturbed. Because his spirit remains whole, even if his body is injured, he does not die. “Encountering things” means meeting things outside oneself without being knocked off balance by them; “unafraid” means feeling no fear. “Settling oneself in Heaven” means following one’s inborn nature, harboring no calculating intent, and forgetting oneself. The author uses the drunken man as a metaphor to explain the sage’s state of resting in nature with an undisturbed mind and spirit. These few lines are expressed with great precision.

Lie Yukou (Liezi) demonstrated archery for Bohun Wuren, a man’s name. He drew his bow to its full extent, placed a cup of water on his elbow, and then shot. Arrow after arrow flew: while the first was still in the air, the next followed close behind. At that moment, Lie Yukou looked like a wooden puppet. Bohun Wuren said, “You are shooting by means of archery skill, not shooting with an untroubled mind. Come with me to the top of a mountain. If you stand on a sheer rock at the edge of a hundred-zhang-deep abyss, will you still be able to shoot?”

Bohun Wuren then climbed the mountain, stepped onto a perilous rock, and went to the edge of the abyss. He turned around and slowly backed away until two-thirds of his feet hung beyond the cliff. Then he bowed to Lie Yukou, inviting him forward. Lie Yukou threw himself face down on the ground, his sweat running all the way to his heels. Bohun Wuren said, “One who has reached the state of the Perfected can look upward to the blue sky and plunge downward into the Yellow Springs; their spirit and bearing extend in all directions without changing. But now you look frightened, and your eyes dart about. It seems your heart is not at rest. I doubt you will be able to shoot.”

This passage is identical to the “Tian Zifang” chapter of the Zhuangzi. “Drawing it to full tension” means pulling the bowstring taut. “The forward hand straight and held level” refers to extending the hand that grips the bow and keeping it steady—even to the point of balancing a cup of water on the elbow without spilling it. This describes a body settled and motionless.

“Release” means to shoot an arrow, “depart” means to leave, and “follow” means to come next, or to happen again. The moment one arrow has been shot, the next is already nocked on the string: the movements follow one another with astonishing speed. “Placed on the string” means that just as the first arrow leaves the bow, the next has already been set on the string.

The “wooden figure” is a puppet. “Backing away” describes him facing a high mountain with a deep abyss behind him, while his body keeps retreating. Only one third of his foot is on the bank; the other two thirds hang in the air, leaving him in extreme danger. Yet Bohun can remain steady in this situation. This is what is meant by “guarding the pure Qi”: keeping the mind and spirit wholly focused so that outside things do not disturb them.

Standing on level ground to shoot is the usual way of shooting, so this passage is not describing “shooting without shooting.” The real question is whether the mind and spirit can remain focused: even when gazing up at the blue sky, looking down into the Yellow Springs, or ranging across the farthest reaches in every direction, the heart must not change. If someone is still afraid on level ground or in danger, and their eyes dart about with fear, they have not yet achieved single-mindedness and do not understand how the perfected person cultivates the mind and spirit. In such a state, it would be hard to attain the subtle skill of hitting the target. Hence the saying: “If you want to hit the target, I fear it will be difficult.”

“Fear” means to be afraid; “move” means to stir; “restless eyes” means eyes shifting with unease; and “difficult” means hard to achieve.

The Fan family had a son named Zihua, who was skilled at cultivating his own reputation. People throughout the country all revered him. He enjoyed the deep favor of the ruler of Jin. Though he held no office, his standing was higher than that of the Three Ministers, Jin’s three chief officials. Anyone he took a liking to was granted a noble title by Jin; anyone he disliked was dismissed by the state. Those who came to stroll in his family courtyard behaved as though they were attending court on official business. Zihua had his retainers pit cleverness against foolishness and set the strong against the weak. Even when someone was injured on the spot, no one gave it a second thought. Day and night, they treated these things as entertainment, until the practice had nearly become a national custom.

Hesheng and Zibo were senior retainers of the Fan family. Once, while traveling, they passed through the countryside and lodged at the home of Tian Geng Shangqiu. In the middle of the night, Hesheng and Zibo spoke of Zihua’s power and influence, saying he could make the living die and the dead live again, make the rich poor and the poor rich. Shangqiu Kai, who was then suffering from hunger and cold, hid north of the window and listened in secret. So he borrowed grain, shouldered a carrying basket, and set off for Zihua’s home.

Zihua’s retainers were all scions of noble families. They wore white silk robes, rode in fine carriages, walked at an unhurried pace, and looked at others with arrogance. Seeing Shangqiu Kai—old and frail, dark-faced, and untidily dressed—they regarded him with contempt. Then they drew him close, mocked him, and played tricks on him, pushing, jostling, and shoving him in every possible way. Shangqiu Kai never grew angry. Gradually the retainers ran out of ways to tease him, and became exhausted from their games.

They then climbed a high platform with Shangqiu Kai and casually announced in front of everyone, “Whoever can jump down from here will be rewarded with a hundred pieces of gold.” Everyone eagerly agreed to try. Shangqiu Kai took them at their word and jumped first. He drifted down like a bird and landed with almost no injury. The Fan retainers thought it was merely chance and paid little attention. Next, they pointed to a deep bend in the river and said, “There’s a pearl down there. You can get it by diving.” Shangqiu Kai followed them into the water and emerged with the pearl in his hand. Only then did everyone begin to feel astonished and uneasy.

Zihua ordered that Shangqiu Kai be seated among the guests who ate meat and wore silk. Before long, a fire broke out in the Fan family’s storehouse. Zihua said, “Whoever can enter the fire and bring out brocade may keep as much as they can carry.” Without hesitation, Shangqiu Kai went in and retrieved the goods. He went in and out repeatedly without a speck of soot on him or a single burn. The Fan retainers thought he possessed Daoist arts, so they all apologized to him. “We didn’t know you had such arts, so we deceived you; we didn’t know you were a wonderous person, so we insulted you. Just regard us as foolish, deaf, mute, and blind. May we ask what arts you possess?”

Shangqiu Kai said, “I have no special arts, and I don’t even know how this happened. But there is something I can tell you. When those two guests stayed at my home, I heard them praise the power of the Fan family, saying they could destroy those who lived and revive those who had perished, make the rich poor and the poor rich. I truly believed them, without the slightest doubt, and so I did not mind the distance when I came here. After arriving, I heard you retainers say things that all seemed true. I feared only that I might not believe enough or act with enough conviction. How could I have spared a thought for my own safety, or for gain and loss? With my mind wholly single-minded, external things could not act against me. That must be how it was.

“Now I know that you were deceiving me. Suspicion has entered my heart, and I keep watching and listening for what may happen around me. When I think back on how I escaped being burned or drowned, I become afraid. My heart grows hot, and my whole body trembles with dread. How could water and fire still dare come near me?”

From then on, whenever the Fan retainers met a beggar or a veterinary doctor on the road, they did not dare slight them. They would always get down from their carriages and bow. Zai Wo heard of this and told Confucius. Confucius said, “Do you still not understand? When sincerity reaches its utmost, it can move external things and stir Heaven, Earth, and the spirits. It can travel everywhere without obstruction. How could it be limited to braving danger or entering water and fire? Shangqiu Kai believed a false claim, yet external things could not act against him. How much more so when both sides meet one another with sincerity? Young man, remember this.”

This passage analyzes the word “sincerity” with great precision: once its meaning is truly understood, one can learn the Dao.

“Private reputation” means a person’s own standing, and “private enterprise” means a person’s own career. People in Zhejiang call this “the private self.” “Favoring what pleases one’s own mouth” means judging and criticizing others according to one’s personal likes and dislikes. In the state of Jin, such likes and dislikes were used to decide who would be promoted and who dismissed. “Wisdom and folly” means cleverness and ignorance; “injury and damage” refers to the harm caused by rivalry and competition. At that time, the people of the whole state treated this way of doing things as customary.

He Sheng and Zi Bo are the names of two guests. “Beyond the fields” means out in the countryside; a “field elder” is an old man from the village. “Three Elders” and “Five Elders” are both forms of address for older people. “Clothes and cap in disarray” means that one’s garments and headwear are worn out and untidy. “To look down on” means to show contempt. The characters dang, bi, ai, and zhen all refer to teasing, humiliating, and shoving someone. “Exhausted from rough play” means being worn out by the horseplay; “casually” means speaking offhandedly. “The bones suffered no harm” means that no bones were injured. A “swirling eddy” is a whirlpool formed where the current circles back on itself.

“Beginning” means to start. At first, the story says, he was ordered to wear silk and eat meat with the guests. “Not even dust could cloud his eyes” means that smoke and dust could not even obscure his vision. “My sincerity has no second thought” means being wholehearted and free of doubt. “Not knowing what to do with one’s body” means forgetting one’s own body; “not knowing where benefit and harm lie” means being insensible to the dangers of the world. Once the mind is wholly single, external things can neither go against nor disturb it.

Later, he realized that Zi Dang’s words were deceptive, and doubt arose in his mind. The sights and sounds around him then began to confuse him. Looking back, even when he had crossed fire and water before, he had merely been lucky not to be burned or drowned. The point is that if the mind can be wholly single, benefit and harm, fortune and misfortune cannot unsettle a person. The moment a trace of calculation or concern arises, this becomes impossible. The Chan Buddhist term “leakage” aptly describes a mind that has let something slip in and is no longer pure and single.

Even a horse doctor who comes seeking instruction can learn the Dao if his heart is sincere; that is why the master dismounted to welcome him. This also reflects the teaching in the Sutra of Perfect Enlightenment not to look down on beginners. “Utmost faith” means utmost sincerity. If believing another person’s false words as though they were sincere can have such an effect, how much more so must true sincerity?

Among the attendants of King Xuan of Zhou’s director of animal husbandry was a servant named Liang Yang, who was skilled at raising wild birds and fierce beasts. He put food out in the gardens and courtyards, and even animals such as tigers, wolves, eagles, and ospreys became docile and tame. They lived in pairs, male and female, and bred in groups. Different kinds lived together without fighting or devouring one another.

King Xuan worried that Liang Yang’s skill would be lost when he died, so he ordered Mao Qiuyuan to learn from him. Liang Yang said, “I am only a lowly servant. What skill could I teach you? I am afraid only that the king may think I am hiding something, so I will tell you, for what it is worth, how to raise tigers. A tiger is pleased when you go along with it and becomes angry when you oppose it. This is the nature of living beings endowed with blood and vital energy. But do its pleasure and anger arise without cause? They are brought on by opposition and offense.

“Those who feed tigers dare not give them live prey, for fear that killing it will stir up their anger. Nor do they give them whole carcasses, for fear that tearing the food apart will stir up their anger. You must understand when they are hungry or full, and be attentive to their anger. Though a tiger is not of the same kind as a human, it grows close to the person who feeds it because that person follows its nature. To kill it would be to oppose it. So how could I dare oppose it and provoke its anger? Yet I cannot simply indulge it and make it pleased, either. Pleasure taken to the extreme turns to anger, and after anger there is often a return to pleasure. Neither is an appropriate state.

“Now my mind neither opposes them nor makes a point of indulging them. The birds and beasts regard me as one of their own kind. Thus, the birds and beasts that roam in my garden do not yearn for the trees high in the mountains or the vast lakes and marshes. Those that sleep in my courtyard do not long to return to remote mountains and secluded valleys. This is what comes about naturally when one follows the way things are.”

A note at the beginning of the original also compares this with the Sutra of Perfect Enlightenment’s admonition not to look down on beginners. It suggests that Liang Yang’s skill, despite his lowly status as a servant, illustrates this principle. The note also explains that “utmost faith” means utmost sincerity, while “trusting falsehood” means believing another person’s deceitful words to be sincere.

The Shepherding Inspector was an official in charge of tending animals. “The attendant” refers to someone he had dispatched. Worried that the method of raising tigers might be lost, the Inspector sent him to teach Mao Qiuyuan how to raise them. The scripture does not say to raise other animals; it singles out tigers because they are the hardest to tame. The Inspector did not dare feed a tiger live prey or an entire carcass, for fear that this would stir its anger. Though a tiger is not of the same kind as a human being, its keeper will always cherish and placate it, because this accords with its nature.

These lines are the same as those in the “In the Human World” chapter of the Zhuangzi. One should neither go against it and provoke its anger nor deliberately cater to it and make it pleased, for after pleasure must come anger, and after anger, pleasure again. These lines describe human feelings and the principles of things with great subtlety. “Not fitting” means that what is said does not accord with reason. To harbor no thought of opposition or compliance in the heart is to have no preconceived notions; without such notions, one can forget oneself in the presence of external things. This passage chiefly explains the principle of having no mind.

Yan Hui asked Confucius, “I once crossed a very deep pool. The ferryman handled the boat with a skill that seemed almost divinely inspired. I asked him, ‘Can boat handling be learned?’ He replied, ‘A person who can swim can be taught; a skilled swimmer will learn quickly. As for someone who can dive, even if he has never seen a boat, he can handle one with ease.’ I asked him again, but he did not answer. What does this mean?”

Confucius said, “As for the art of healing, you and I have been pondering its words for a long time, yet we still do not understand its true substance. How, then, could I force an explanation of its principles? A person who can swim can learn to handle a boat because he is not afraid of water; a skilled swimmer learns quickly because he has already forgotten the existence of water. As for the diver, he can handle a boat without ever having seen one because he sees a deep pool as if it were a hillside, and a capsizing boat as if it were a cart rolling backward. Boats capsizing and carts rolling backward—though all kinds of things appear before him, they cannot disturb his mind. Where could such a person go and not feel at ease?”

“Deep Pool” is the name of an abyss. “Swimming” means moving along the surface of the water; a “skilled swimmer” is someone familiar with the water, while a “diver” can go beneath it. If all the things of the world turn and change, appearing in profusion before us, yet none can enter the place where the mind and spirit dwell, then wherever we go, what could leave us without time to be at ease?

Water is used here to explain an understanding of the Dao. Someone who is unafraid of water can be taught to swim. Someone initially unfamiliar with the water can learn through repeated practice. A diver, by contrast, can handle a boat without special training, because water seems to them just like dry land. However much the myriad things may change, even when they are displayed before us, they cannot disturb the heart within. Wherever we find ourselves, we can remain calm and at ease. This is a general account of how things work. The heart is where the spirit resides; for external things not to enter the heart means they cannot unsettle it.

When throwing a tile, one is nimble; when throwing a belt hook, one becomes wary; when throwing gold, the mind and spirit grow confused. The throwing skill is the same throughout. It is only because one cherishes or worries about what is at stake that one’s attention turns to an external object. Whoever places great value on external things will have their heart held in check.

These lines match a passage in the “Attaining Life” chapter of the Zhuangzi, though the Zhuangzi has the character “zhu” where this text has “kou.” The characters differ, but their meanings are similar. “Kou” means to throw. A tile is light, a belt hook is heavier, and gold is more precious still. The thrower’s skill is originally the same, but once there is something to cherish, the mind becomes bound to the external object. The heart is thereby obstructed and hesitant, even confused; a person who was nimble can become clumsy.

Confucius was watching a waterfall at Lüliang. Water poured down from a great height, plunging thirty ren and churning into foam that stretched for thirty li. Even turtles, alligators, fish, and soft-shelled turtles could not swim in it. Yet Confucius saw a man swimming in the water. Thinking that the man might be in distress and trying to take his own life, he sent his disciples downstream to rescue him.

After swimming several hundred paces, the man came ashore. With his hair hanging loose, he sang as he walked along the bank. Confucius caught up with him and asked, “The waterfall at Lüliang plunges thirty ren, and the foam in its torrents stretches for thirty li. Even turtles, alligators, fish, and soft-shelled turtles cannot swim through it. When I saw you in the water just now, I thought you were in distress and trying to take your own life, so I sent my disciples downstream to rescue you. When you came out with your hair hanging loose and singing, I thought you were a ghost. Looking more closely, I saw that you were a man. Tell me, do you have some knack for swimming?”

The man replied, “No, I have no special knack. At first, I thought you were going to follow the current and come to rescue me. When you came out with your hair hanging loose and singing, I thought you were a ghost. Looking more closely, I saw that you were a man. You ask whether I have some knack for swimming? No, I have no special knack. I began with what was familiar to me, grew in keeping with my nature, and in the end followed my destiny. I enter the water with my whole self and come out with its current. I follow the water’s way and do not force anything according to my own wishes. That is why I can swim through the torrents.”

Confucius asked, “What do you mean by beginning with what is familiar, growing in keeping with your nature, and in the end following your destiny?”

The man replied, “I was born in the hills and grew accustomed to life there; that was what was familiar to me. When I grew up, I lived by the water and became accustomed to it; that was my nature. As for why I became this way, I cannot say. That is my destiny.”

Lüliang is a place name. “Hanging water” means a waterfall. “The flow of water and foam” refers to the foam and current churned up by the waterfall, stretching thirty li across; it describes the force of the water. “Moving with the current” means going against the flow to rescue someone who has fallen in, and “receive” means to catch or support them. The annotated text reads “Tangxing,” but it should be “below the embankment.” In the “Understanding Life” chapter of the Zhuangzi, the character is written “qi,” referring to a place where the current swirls and scours the ground. The character “ji” here is also a misprint. “Gu” refers to a place where the water surges. “Rise and fall” means bobbing up and down with the current.

To act according to the way of water, without mixing in one’s own intentions, is to follow the current without selfish motives. If one’s life is in the mountains, one settles into mountain life; if one grows up by the water, one settles into life by the water. Both mean adapting to one’s own surroundings without knowing why. Thus, “life,” “growth,” “nature,” and “destiny” are not deliberately distinguished here; the wording simply takes this form. To insist on finding different meanings in the words “life” and “growth” would be a mistake. Mencius said, “To speak of nature is merely to speak of what it is originally like.” This passage refers to precisely that: things being as they are by nature.

Confucius was traveling to the state of Chu when he passed through a grove and saw an old man with a hunched back catching cicadas. His movements were as light and effortless as picking something up from the ground. Confucius said, “What remarkable skill! Do you have a special technique?”

The old man replied, “I do. After practicing for five or six months, I could balance two clay pellets on the end of my pole without letting them fall while catching cicadas, and I missed only rarely. When I could balance three pellets without dropping them, my misses fell to one in ten. When I could balance five without dropping them, catching cicadas became as easy as picking something up from the ground.

“When I stand, I am like a tree stump; when I raise my arm, I am like a dry branch. No matter how vast Heaven and Earth are or how many things fill the world, my mind is occupied only with the cicada’s wings. I pay no attention to changes outside me, and I let none of the world’s distractions displace my focus on those wings. How could I fail to catch a cicada?

“Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “When the mind is wholly focused and undivided, one enters a realm close to the miraculous. This must be what the old man with the hunched back has achieved.”

But the old man said, “You wear a wide robe, yet you are merely a scholar. What do you know, that you come asking about such things? First practice what you ought to practice, then come and discuss these principles.”

This passage is the same as the “Reaching Understanding of Life” chapter of the Zhuangzi. “Catching cicadas” means using a pole to catch them. He stacked pellets on the tip of the pole, gradually increasing the number from two to five, without letting any fall. This shows that his mind and spirit were so focused and steady as to reach an extraordinary level. When commenting on the Zhuangzi, Guo Xiang used the two characters “still and attentive,” which is also apt.

“Jue zhu ju” refers to what we now call a wooden post. “Ji” means a post, “zhu” is a word for wood, and “ju” conveys fixing or settling something in place. Perhaps the ancients used these three characters to describe this condition. “Unresponsive and unfathomable” simply means that the mind and spirit are settled. While catching cicadas, his body was as motionless as a post, and his arm as steady as a withered tree. His thoughts were entirely on the cicadas, with no attention given to anything else; his concentration was absolute. “Keeping the intention undivided” means that the mind is single and unwavering; “concentrating in the spirit” means that the mind and spirit settle into a wondrous state.

The story of catching cicadas is used here to explain the principle of preserving the Qi in its original purity. This skill does exist in practice, and some people can still perform it today. Yet people often regard it as merely a technique, without recognizing the principle it embodies. “Hunchback” refers to a person with a bent back, and “long robes” are the garments worn by Confucian scholars. Confucius says to first practice the principle you have discussed today; only after that may you speak of more profound principles. The meaning is that the wondrous Dao contained in it goes further still. “To continue speaking” means to discuss the matter further, that is, to speak of principles on a still higher level. The rest of the passage is the same as in the Zhuangzi. The Zhuangzi has “pellet” here; “wang’er” in this text is probably a mistaken character. Where this text has “doubt,” the Zhuangzi has “settled”; the Zhuangzi’s reading is correct.

There was a man by the sea who loved gulls. Every morning he went to the shore to play with them, and as many as a hundred would fly over without avoiding him. His father heard about this and told him to catch a few and bring them home for him to play with. The next day, when the man returned to the shore, the gulls circled overhead and would not come down. Hence the saying: “The highest words are not expressed in words; the highest actions are performed without deliberate effort.” The gulls had drawn close to him because he had no intention of catching them. Once he formed that intention, the birds sensed it and kept away. Understanding things through a mind that merely divides and calculates can only yield shallow knowledge.

“Ou” and “ou” are interchangeable. “A hundred visits, yet it does not stop” means that the birds come and go frequently, far more than a hundred times. “It dances but does not descend” is probably because the bird remains wary of the person: as soon as even the slightest thought arises in the mind, it has already shown itself. How, then, could one achieve complete forgetting of self and things?

Here, “mind” is a fitting metaphor for speech without words, action through Wuwei (non-action), and knowing without being aware of knowing. Wuwei, wordlessness, and not-knowing all mean that the mind harbors no deliberate intention. The deepest speech does not depend on words, hence “the utmost words leave words aside”; the highest action requires no deliberate action, hence “the utmost action is Wuwei.” People do not understand what they cannot know, yet treat whatever they can know as knowledge, and so their understanding remains shallow. Hence the phrase “all know what they know”: “all” here means “the same,” or “everyone.” These three statements are identical to those in the “Dashing Around” chapter of the Zhuangzi.

Zhao Xiangzi led a hundred thousand men to hunt in Zhongshan. They set fire to the woods, and the flames raged so fiercely that everything within a hundred li was scorching hot. A man emerged from a cliff face, rising and falling with the smoke and flames. Everyone thought he was a ghost or monster. When the fire had passed, he came out slowly, as though he had never been through the blaze.

Amazed, Zhao Xiangzi kept him there and examined him closely. His appearance and facial features were like those of an ordinary person, as were his breathing and voice. Zhao Xiangzi asked, “By what means do you live inside stone? And how do you enter fire?” The man asked in return, “What do you mean by stone? What do you mean by fire?” Zhao Xiangzi said, “The place you just came out of is stone, and the place you just walked through is fire.” The man replied, “I don’t know.”

When Marquis Wen of Wei heard of this, he asked Zixia, “What kind of person was that?” Zixia said, “According to what I heard from Confucius, those whose minds and spirits are in harmony become one with all things. Then external things can neither harm nor obstruct them. That is why they can walk among metal and stone and tread across water and fire.” Here, “harmony” means that one’s state of mind becomes one with all things, without setting oneself against the external world.

Marquis Wen said, “Why don’t you do the same, Master?” Zixia replied, “I still cannot cut away my selfish desires and abandon clever contrivances. But I can try to explain this teaching when I have time.” Marquis Wen then asked, “Why didn’t Confucius do the same?” Zixia said, “The Master had this ability, but chose not to use it.” Marquis Wen was delighted to hear this.

“Jiureng” means laying down grass. Setting fire to the woods while hunting on the grass is called fire hunting. What counts as stone? What counts as fire? This, too, illustrates the principle of “knowing without knowing.” The account of passing through fire means the same thing as the story of Shang Qiu Kai. “Harmony” means being wholly at one with all things; here, it refers to the workings of creation. When the mind is one with the workings of creation, nothing among the myriad things is different, and so nothing can harm it. Emptying the mind and casting aside clever contrivances is “knowing without knowing.”

In “try telling him,” “try” means to make an attempt. The point is that I have spent a long time explaining this principle in particular. Confucius was able to do this: he could act without deliberate effort. It is like the time Huangbo met an extraordinary monk crossing a river. Huangbo thought the monk was performing some supernatural trick. The monk turned back and thanked him, saying, “You are a vessel of the Mahayana; I cannot compare with you.” This is precisely the principle being discussed.

A spiritual seer came from Qi to Zheng and settled there. His name was Jicheng. He could discern people’s life and death, fortune and misfortune, and the length of their lives; he could even name the year, month, and day when events would come to pass. His predictions were as accurate as those of an immortal. The people of Zheng fled whenever they saw him. Liezi, however, was captivated by him. When he returned, he told his teacher, Huzi:

“At first I thought your Dao had reached its ultimate limit. I never imagined there could be a higher state.”

Huzi said, “What I have discussed with you is only the outward expression of the Dao. I have not yet spoken of its substance. How, then, could you assume that you had grasped the Dao? A flock of hens with no rooster—how could they lay eggs? You set the Dao against the ways of the world, revealing that you inevitably trust in external things. That is why the seer could read the signs of good and ill fortune in your appearance. Try bringing him here to look at me.”

“Year, month, and day” refers to how soon or how far in the future the predicted event will occur. “A flock of hens with no rooster—how could they lay eggs?” is a metaphor: knowing only appearances while lacking the root makes it impossible to accomplish anything. “Setting oneself against the world” means using the Dao to contend with worldly ways. Doing so reveals a tendency to trust external judgments, and that is why one becomes subject to face reading.

Year, month, ten-day period, and day indicate stretches of time, long or short. A spirit medium is someone skilled at reading people’s faces. Everything he said came true, as if he were a deity. The man therefore feared that his own words might come true as well, and fled, leaving the spirit medium behind. “Intoxicated at heart” means deeply convinced. “Seeing only the outward signs” means perceiving only what appears on the surface; “not yet seeing the inner reality” means not having discerned the truth within. Here, “you” is the meaning of the word “er.” If you have not fully seen the inner reality, on what basis can you claim that you have attained the Dao? Here, “gu” suggests that one has not yet attained something but imagines that one has. Its meaning depends on the surrounding context.

There must be both female and male for life to reproduce and for eggs to come into being. Without the male, how could there be eggs? This is a metaphor: if the mind has not changed, traces will remain. Liezi’s mind had not yet changed completely, so the spirit medium could still discern clues from his outward appearance. “Kang” means high. Liezi believed that his Dao was higher than that of ordinary people, and wanted others to be sure to believe him. This showed that traces remained and his state of mind had not yet been transformed. The spirit medium could therefore see what was going on with him.

The next day, Liezi took the spirit medium to meet his teacher, Huzi. When the medium came out, he said to Liezi, “Alas, your teacher is near death. He cannot be saved; he will not live more than ten days. I saw strange signs, and an appearance like damp ashes.” Liezi went inside and wept until his tears soaked his robe, then told Huzi what the medium had said. Huzi replied, “Just now I showed him the ‘earth pattern,’ an appearance as still and silent as the earth. Perhaps I showed no sign of movement, so he could not discern anything. What he saw this time was probably my Qi, with my De concealed and not yet revealed.”

“Damp ashes” describes a person whose vital energy is nearly spent, like wet ashes on the verge of going out. “Earthly pattern” is a term for a form of contemplative practice. The character “crime” should be read as “sprouting”: a state that seems about to come forth but has not truly emerged. “Not shaken” means unmoving. “Not stopping” should be read as “not fixing.” Here, “fixing” does not mean settling on any particular state; its sense is close to “fixing” in the Mencius phrase, “There must be something to which you attend, but do not fix its outcome” (hold to the matter without deciding its result in advance). This state appears as though something is stirring, yet nothing has actually moved. So the spirit-medium Jixian took it for damp ashes, as if a living fire were about to go out.

“Concealing the subtle signs of De” is also a term for a form of contemplative practice. “Subtle signs of De” means the first traces of life emerging; “concealing” means storing away and stopping. When the stirrings of vitality are held back and kept from showing, life appears to be fading. That is why Jixian thought that the Pot Master had no vital energy left.

A day later, Liezi again accompanied Jixian to visit the Pot Master. The next day, after seeing the Pot Master come out, Jixian said to Liezi, “Fortunately, your teacher met me. His condition has improved; he shows some signs of life. I saw the subtle signs of his vitality being concealed.” Liezi went inside and told the Pot Master what he had said. The Pot Master replied, “Just now, what I showed him was the state in which Heaven and Earth are still undivided. Neither reputation nor actual traces could enter it, yet the first stirrings of life showed themselves at the heels. This is the state of concealing the subtle signs of change. He probably saw one of the signs I am skilled at showing.”

“Du Quan” refers to movement within stillness: change takes place inside, though nothing can be seen on the surface. “Quan” and “Ji” have similar meanings, but “Ji” is a subtle movement not yet manifest, whereas “Quan” has already become apparent. In the deep quiet of seclusion, signs of movement had begun to show in Huzi, so Jixian believed that his inner life force was abundant.

The word “hui” should be read as “complete.” “Tianrang” is also a term used in physiognomy, with a meaning close to “tiantian.” It does not mean land in the sky, but the place where the breath naturally generated within the body moves. Just as practitioners call the tongue “Tianjin” and the crown of the head “Nijiu,” the term here describes life force stirring below and moving upward. “Names and realities do not enter” means setting aside both being and nonbeing, and remaining undisturbed by notions of names and appearances or of reality. “The Ji issues from the heel” describes Qi moving upward from the heel; because this movement is subtle and hard to perceive, it is called “Ji.” What is meant by “goodness” is the point where one’s nature and disposition first begin to stir.

A day later, Jixian went with Liezi to see Huzi again. After they had left, he said to Liezi, “Your teacher sat there with his mind and spirit not gathered in the discipline of fasting; I could not discern his appearance. Once he has fasted, I will return and read his features.” Liezi went inside and reported this to Huzi. Huzi said, “Just now, I showed him ‘Supreme Emptiness Without a Sign’—a state of utter stillness in which no sign can be discerned. He probably saw that my Qi mechanism was in a state of ‘balance.’”

“Supreme Emptiness Without a Sign” is also a term used in physiognomy. “Supreme emptiness” means an immense void, while “without a sign” means that no trace or indication can be seen. “Balance” means equilibrium, or being in the middle. When the movement of the Qi mechanism reaches a balanced midpoint, it appears half active and half still. The spirit medium therefore said Huzi was not gathered in the discipline of fasting, meaning that the movement and stillness of his Qi mechanism had not yet settled.

The deep pool formed by a spiraling whirlpool is called an “abyss”; the whirlpool in still water is called an “abyss”; the whirlpool in flowing water is called an “abyss”; the whirlpool in floodwater is called an “abyss”; the whirlpool where water pours down is called an “abyss”; the whirlpool in sinking water is called an “abyss”; the whirlpool in obstructed water is called an “abyss”; the whirlpool in the Qian River is called an “abyss”; and the whirlpool in the Fei River is called an “abyss.” These are the so-called “Nine Abysses.”

“Nine Abysses” in this passage is a term for a practice of visualization. Buddhists today call it “contemplation,” while the ancients called it an “abyss.” There are nine names for the abysses, perhaps resembling what are now called the Twelve Contemplations. The Zhuangzi mentions only three of them; since nine are listed here, they seem unlikely to have appeared in the original Liezi and were probably added later. The character “Pan” should be read as “Shen,” in keeping with the wording of the Zhuangzi. “Shen” means to believe or be certain. The names of the Nine Abysses are all metaphors, so the passage says: liken “belief” to one abyss, and use another abyss as a metaphor for “belief.”

“Ni” is a large fish; “xuan” means to circle around. The Zhuangzi has “Huan,” which is more appropriate. A large fish in the water appears partly still and partly in motion; this is what is meant by “the Qi mechanism in balance.” Still water is motionless, which is called “restraining the mechanism by which De stirs into action.” Flowing water is in motion, which is called “the mechanism that follows what is good.” The Zhuangzi says there are nine names for the abysses, and this passage gives three of them. These three metaphors are used precisely to support the point made earlier.

From the flow of the text, it seems to have strayed from its original meaning. This also shows the differences between the wording in the Liezi and the Zhuangzi. “Overflowing water” wells up from below and surges upward; “pouring water” flows down from above. In some editions, “sinking water” is written as “Si”; here it should be “Wan,” referring to water flowing out through a hole at the side. “Blocked water” is water obstructed from flowing, not water that is naturally still. “Qian water” is spring water that wells up unseen and gathers into a stagnant pool. According to the Mao Commentary on the Book of Odes, “Fei water” refers to water whose source is shared but whose channels flow in different directions. Most of these water names appear in the Erya, so later writers likely added them by drawing on its terminology.

The commentator says that rushing, calm, flowing, and still waters are like the heart of the Perfected Person, which takes on different states of movement and stillness, advance and retreat, according to the ease or difficulty presented by external things. This interpretation is mistaken. Guo Xiang’s commentary on this passage in the Zhuangzi has a similar problem.

Later, Liezi once again brought the man to meet Huzi. The next day, he took him to see Huzi again. The man had barely stopped before he turned and fled as if he had lost his senses. Huzi said, “Go after him.” Liezi pursued him but failed to catch up. When he returned, he reported to Huzi, “He has vanished. He is nowhere to be seen. I cannot catch him.”

Huzi said, “What I showed him just now was a state that had never departed from the source. I appeared to him as emptiness, yielding to change. He could not tell what I was, so I scattered like bent grass and trees, and flowed without fixed form like rippling water. That is why he fled.”

“Vanished” and “nowhere to be seen” mean that the man could no longer see Huzi. “Never departed from the source” is also a name for this state. “Emptiness” means nothingness; “yiyi” should be “weiyi,” describing change that follows the flow of circumstances. Huzi appeared as if there were nothing there, yet also as if something were manifesting, leaving the man unable to identify him. Hence the phrase, “he did not know what it was.” “Bent and scattered like grass” describes plants laid low and disordered; “flowing like waves” describes water rippling without a fixed shape. Unable to make out what Huzi was showing him, the man saw only confusion and flux before him, lost his senses, and fled.

After this, Liezi felt that he had not yet truly learned anything, so he went home and did not go out for three years. He cooked for his wife and fed pigs as though they were people. He no longer drew close to or clung to external things. He cast off ornament and refinement and returned to simplicity. Calm and self-contained, he stood alone like a stone, present in the world only through his own form. His resolve was single-minded and steadfast, and remained so.

“Cooking for his wife” means that Liezi took her place at the stove and prepared the meals. “Feeding pigs as though they were people” means that he devoted himself to inner cultivation and no longer made special distinctions among external things. The closing phrases of the text, “in serving others, cast off refinement and return to simplicity,” speak of not clinging to external things, removing ornament, and returning to simplicity. “Quietly standing alone in his own form” describes a state of calm independence.

He tended the fire and cooked for his wife, keeping watch over the flames between the cooking pot and the stove without ever leaving them. When he ate pork, he treated it with the same solemn care as human food. This means that he gathered his spirit inward and paid no attention to external things. The phrase “doing things without regarding them as one’s own” means that although he carried out tasks, he did not feel that he had deliberately done them himself; it was as if they had come about naturally.

“Grinding away cleverness and contrivance, and returning the heart and nature to simplicity” refers to relinquishing attachment to the body and putting aside clever schemes. The body stood alone like a clod of earth, like a wooden puppet. Here, “feng” means edges and boundaries, while “fen” means many and varied. Once the body has become like a puppet, how could it have many edges and boundaries? “Remaining this way throughout one’s life” means maintaining this state for an entire lifetime. In the text, “fen” should be written as “fen,” and “rong” as “zai”; both are errors from copying. Zhuangzi and Liezi belonged to the same school. These remarks were probably something they had heard together in the past, which is why they appear in both books.

Liezi set out for the state of Qi, but turned back halfway there and met Bohun Wuren, a personal name. Bohun Wuren asked, “Why have you turned back halfway?” Liezi said, “I was frightened.” “What frightened you?” Liezi said, “I ate at ten soup shops…”