《冲虚至德真经鬳斋口义(林希逸)》Vol. 2

Five people brought him fermented drink first and offered it to him. Bo Hun Wuren said, “If that is so, why are you still surprised?” Liezi replied, “I have not yet truly understood it in my heart.” Bo Hun Wuren asked, “Why have you changed your mind again?” Liezi said, “I really am surprised. What surprises me? I ate at ten households that sell fermented drink, and five of them rushed to offer it to me first.” Bo Hun Wuren said, “If that is so, why are you still surprised?” Liezi replied, “My inner sincerity has not yet reached through, yet outwardly it gives off a radiance. Using this outward display to awe people, I make them look down on elders of high De and standing, then set about dealing with what those elders worry about. The drink sellers make their living by selling drink and soup; they have little wealth to spare. Their gains are meager, and their influence limited, yet even they behave this way. How much more so a ruler of a great state with ten thousand chariots, who bears the burden of governing and expends all his intelligence on affairs of state. He would surely entrust me with responsibilities and demand that I produce results. That is why I am afraid.”

Bo Hun Wuren said, “You see this clearly. Just keep to yourself, and people will naturally turn to you.” Before long, Bo Hun Wuren came to Liezi’s house again. Shoes belonging to guests crowded the space outside the gate. Bo Hun Wuren stood facing north, leaning on his staff with his chin resting on it. He stood there for a while, then left without a word. The gatekeeper told Liezi what had happened. Liezi picked up his shoes and ran barefoot to the gate. “Since you have come, sir, will you not stay and have a meal?” he asked. Bo Hun Wuren said, “Never mind. I already told you that people would turn to you, and sure enough, they have. It is neither your power that makes people turn to you nor your power that can stop them from doing so. What is there to care about in this kind of response? When something elicits a response, it reveals signs of what is to come in advance. Even if a response is bound to occur, it will unsettle your own foundation. What purpose does that serve? Has no one you associate with told you this? The little doctrines they speak of are all like things that poison people. If they neither notice nor awaken to this, how can they examine and understand one another?”

“What direction did you come back from?” means: Where did you return from, and to what place?

A man went to ten people who sold fermented drink to ask for water. Before he could buy any, five of them offered him water. They respected him because he had cultivated a harmonious energy within himself, which showed naturally on the outside. This is the teaching of the Confucian sages. But the sincerity within the man called Mou had not yet melted into a state of complete wholeness without trace; “melt” means to dissolve. “Trace” refers to action, and “outward traces” means one’s appearance and behavior. “Radiate brilliance” means to show one’s splendor: one’s inner cultivation shines through outwardly. Here, however, this is treated as a form of learning that leaves discernible traces.

In “influence people’s hearts from outside,” “influence” means to make others trust and accept someone. Mou had not yet reached a state of being without trace, so others could see his cultivation and, as a result, were sincerely persuaded by and respected him. Chan Master Zhaozhou said, “This old monk’s practice is weak; the spirits have seen through me.” He meant the same thing.

“Esteemed for old age” means that elderly people are often treated with respect. Mou was neither old nor distinguished, yet the drink sellers looked down on those who were old and eminent while respecting him. This shows that his reputation had already surpassed theirs. “Accumulate” means to gather and build up. Over time, such things become a source of trouble: the more visible one’s reputation and conduct, the harder it is to escape the world’s misfortunes. “No surplus gain” means that little profit remains after what has been gained. The original passage has an extra “no” compared with the Zhuangzi, which changes its meaning. “Gain” means profit.

People in power can control and judge others. The drink sellers were low in status and had no power to influence anyone, yet they respected Mou so deeply. How much more so would a ruler? A ruler, though at the height of his power, had already exhausted his own intelligence. He was bound to seek Mou out and employ him, asking him to contribute to the work of governing the state. This is the trouble that “accumulation” brings.

Mou was pleased when he heard this and said, “Well said! You see clearly.” He was praising the other person’s insight. The other person then said, “Stay here; let it end at that.” This meant that Mou need not travel any farther. People would flock to him, gather at his door, and take him as their teacher. “Stay” means to remain; “let it end” is a particle of emphasis; and “guard” means to keep watch. The passage describes people coming to him and waiting outside his door. The word “guard” already hints at something amiss, because Mou’s understanding had advanced another step: being watched over and flattered by others had itself become a burden.

The shoes piled outside the door show that many people had come to seek instruction. When the host heard that Mou had arrived, he braced his chin on his staff and hurried out to greet him, without even putting on his shoes. In ancient times, people took off their shoes before entering a room; here, the point is that he rushed to greet Mou so quickly that he did not have time to put them on. “Put away the medicine” means to set aside words of instruction and admonition. “Medicine” is like a bitter remedy, used to correct people’s faults. “Enough” means “say no more.” Mou was saying that he had already predicted that people would gather around him. Since he could not stop them from coming, why waste words?

In “what have you done to them?”, “you” refers to the person being addressed, and “done” means “what have you done” or “what have you brought about”: What have you done to move them so deeply? The people were moved and delighted by him because he could not conceal himself; his unusual qualities showed on the outside. Thus “move them and give them joy by displaying what is unusual” means that he stirred and pleased people because his distinctiveness was visible.

If so, not only could he not hide his outward behavior, but he would also be stirred by external things, which would unsettle his original mind. This was especially of no benefit. “Of no benefit” means useless, and “especially” also carries the sense of “all the more.”

Those who associate with you are your friends. If their learning is shallow and what they say is superficial, their words become “small talk” that harms you. And if no one can admonish and correct you in return, you will never come to understand yourself. In that case, who will come and ask you, “What kind of person are you, really?” Here, “ask one another” means to question each other, “who” means “which person,” and “what” means “what kind.” This passage is the same as the one in the “Lie Yukou” chapter of the Zhuangzi, apart from a few differences in wording.

Yang Zhu was traveling south to Pei, while Laozi was heading west to the state of Qin. They met in the countryside. When they reached the region of Liang, Yang Zhu encountered Laozi. Laozi walked partway along the road, then looked up at the sky and sighed. “At first, I thought you could still be taught. Now I see that you cannot.”

Yang Zhu did not reply. When they arrived at their lodging, he first brought water, a rinsing bowl, a towel, and a comb. He took off his shoes and left them outside the door, then came forward on his knees and said respectfully, “Just now, Master, you looked up at the sky and sighed. You said that at first you thought I could be taught, but now you cannot teach me. I would like to ask the reason. You were busy at the time, so I did not dare disturb you. Now that you are free, please tell me where I have gone wrong.”

Laozi said, “You carry yourself with such pride and arrogance, as though no one else matters. Who would want your company? A person of spotless purity may look as though covered in grime; one of profound De may seem to have something lacking.”

When Yang Zhu heard this, his expression softened and his face changed. He said respectfully, “I accept your instruction with gratitude.”

Earlier, when Yang Zhu arrived at an inn, the guests welcomed him, the innkeeper arranged a seat for him, and the innkeeper’s wife brought him a towel and comb. The others gave up their seats one after another, and even those tending the fire stepped away from the stove to make room for him. But after he returned from taking Laozi’s instruction to heart, the guests competed with him for seats and no longer went out of their way to defer to him. Here, “competing for seats” means that people no longer treated Yang Zhu as someone above them, but naturally interacted with him as an equal.

Someone asks where he went wrong: “Confucius said I could not be taught, but what exactly did I do wrong?” “Juijuixuxu” describes someone who is stiff and self-conscious, ill at ease. “Who is there to live with?” means that he has not yet let go of the distinction between self and things, and still feels that he is living alongside other people.

“Great purity seems sullied” means that one is utterly pure yet appears to have been disgraced. It suggests making one’s virtue evident while concealing it from oneself. “Abundant De seems insufficient” means that, despite possessing great De, one does not think oneself to possess it. “Meeting and escorting” means welcoming and seeing people off; the “innkeeper” is the proprietor of the lodging house; “holding the mat” means serving guests with a towel and comb; and “the fire tender” is the person who lights the fire and cooks. He avoided the guest’s room and the cooking area out of respect for him, but later argued with him over a seat because he did not know the man deserved respect.

Before hearing Laozi’s teaching, he carried himself with pride and self-importance, so people who saw him respected him. After being awakened, he became modest and concealed his worth, and people saw him as an ordinary person. This passage is identical to the one in the “Parables” chapter of the Zhuangzi, except that the Zhuangzi uses the character guan, which also makes sense.

Yang Zhu was passing through the state of Song. Traveling east, he stayed at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines: one was beautiful and the other ugly. The ugly one was treated with respect, while the beautiful one was looked down on. Yang Zhu asked why. A young man at the inn replied, “The beautiful one thinks herself beautiful, so I do not see her beauty; the ugly one thinks herself ugly, so I do not find her ugly either.” Yang Zhu said, “Disciples, remember this: if you do good deeds and let go of the idea that you are virtuous, where would you not be welcomed?”

This passage is the same as the one in the “Mountain Tree” chapter of the Zhuangzi. “The beautiful one considers herself beautiful” means that the beautiful woman takes pride in her looks, and so her faults become all the more apparent. Kun: The point of the passage above is that doing good without considering oneself virtuous makes it easier to earn other people’s affection.

This passage is the same as one in the “Mountain Tree” chapter of the Zhuangzi. When people think they are beautiful, they praise and admire themselves; when they think they fall short, they feel dissatisfied. If a person has virtue but does not act as though he considers himself wise, people will like him wherever he goes. This section offers practical lessons close to everyday life. The Mencius says that Yang Zhu advocated “each for himself.” From several passages here, Yang Zhu seems close to Laozi’s school. Did he first study Laozi’s teachings and later establish a school of his own?

In the world, there is a way that often wins and a way that usually struggles to win. The way that often wins is softness; the way that struggles to win is firmness. People have seen both ways, but may not truly understand them. The ancients said: firmness means appearing stronger than one’s opponent first; softness means beginning with oneself. “Beginning with oneself” means first restraining and softening oneself, without rushing to overpower others. If you appear stronger first, then once your opponent becomes as strong as you, you are in danger. If you first make yourself gentle, there is nothing to worry about.

One can use this way to prevail over oneself and those like oneself; governing the world can work the same way. “Win without striving to win, and take responsibility without forcing oneself to bear it” means winning naturally without relying on forceful competition, and naturally taking on responsibility without forcing oneself to do so.

The soft and yielding can prevail over the hard and strong for a long time, while the hard and strong cannot keep winning for long. This is what the Laozi says. “Both know this” means that the gains and losses of softness and strength are easy enough to see, yet people often fail to recognize them.

Since ancient times, those who revere strength have looked down on those they consider inferior and tried to get ahead of them, taking pleasure in doing so. But if they mistake this behavior for strength, they will meet someone stronger who challenges them. In the end, they are bound to lose and put themselves in danger. Hence the saying: “Get ahead of those who are not your equal, and when you meet someone who is, you will be in danger.”

Those who revere softness, by contrast, regard everyone as being ahead of them and place themselves behind. They remain in a yielding position and do not contend with others. What danger could there be in that? Hence the saying: “Put those who are ahead of you in front, and you will be in no danger.”

Apply this principle to cultivating yourself, and you can keep yourself in an advantageous position. Hence the saying: “Use this principle to prevail in your own person.” Here, ruotu means “a person like this” or “people of this kind”: those who conduct themselves in this way belong to this kind. Apply the principle to taking responsibility for the affairs of the world, and you can likewise remain in an advantageous position. Hence the saying: “Use this principle to take on the world, and you will be like these people.” That is, anyone who can shoulder the affairs of the world should also be this kind of person.

I consider myself unable to prevail, and so there is no time when I cannot prevail. Hence the saying: “Do not seek to win, and you will prevail of yourself.” I consider myself unable to take responsibility, and so the people of the world can each take responsibility for themselves. Hence the saying: “Do not take responsibility upon yourself, and responsibility will be taken up of itself.”

The Zhouzi says: “If you wish to be strong, you must safeguard yourself through softness; if you wish to be powerful, you must preserve yourself through weakness. When softness has accumulated to a certain point, it becomes strength; when weakness has accumulated to a certain point, it becomes power. Observe it…”

Zhouzi said: To become strong, one must hold fast to gentleness; to become powerful, one must preserve weakness. Accumulate gentleness without cease, and in the end one will become strong; accumulate weakness without cease, and in the end one will become powerful. Observe what a person accumulates, and you can know whether they are headed toward misfortune or good fortune. To defeat someone weaker than oneself by force is not especially admirable. To defeat someone who is one’s equal is what it means to be strong. The power of overcoming someone stronger than oneself through gentleness is beyond measure.

Lao Dan (Laozi) said: An army that exalts its strength will meet its ruin; a tree that grows too hard is easily broken. Softness and weakness belong to the realm of life; firmness and strength belong to the realm of death.

By maintaining gentleness, one can preserve oneself and in turn remain strong for a long time. By carrying oneself with humility and weakness, one can preserve oneself and in turn remain powerful for a long time. Those who are often gentle and humble attract good fortune; those who cannot be gentle or humble invite disaster. As the saying goes, “Observe a person’s conduct accumulated over time, and you can see where good fortune or disaster will come from.” Here, “accumulation” means what builds up over a long period.

If you always use force to overcome those weaker than you and look down on those who are your equals, then when they bring their strength to oppose you, you will lose. The strong can prevail over those weaker than themselves; when they meet their equals, however, those equals will also become strong. By remaining gentle and seeing everyone in the world as stronger than yourself, you will have nothing to contend for. As a result, you can often remain undefeated. As the saying goes, “To overcome those stronger than yourself through gentleness—this power cannot be measured.”

The passage first cites the words of Zhouzi, then uses several sayings from the Laozi to support them. Zhouzi had writings of his own and was a disciple of Laozi. “Weapons that assert their strength will perish” means that those who rely on military force to wage war will ultimately be defeated. “Trees that are hard are easily broken”: vines and willow branches, for example, are supple and difficult to break, while hard timber breaks more easily. Soft and weak things often endure, while hard and powerful things are more likely to decline; these are all aspects of the same principle. Chapter 76 of the Laozi compares the lives and deaths of people and plants. Here, following the earlier metaphors of weapons and trees, it conveys the same meaning: the soft can overcome the strong, while asserting one’s strength readily leads to defeat.

A person’s appearance need not resemble a child, though their heart may be as innocent as a child’s. Their heart need not be innocent, though their appearance may be childlike. Sages value innocence of heart, not childishness of appearance. Ordinary people draw close to those who look childlike but keep their distance from those whose hearts are innocent. When people look like me, others approach and cherish them; when they look different from me, others avoid and fear them.

A person has a body seven feet tall, with distinct hands and feet, hair on the head, and teeth in the mouth. When people depend on one another and act together, they are called “human.” Yet they may still have the hearts of beasts. Even so, because they look human, others will draw close to them. Those with wings, horns atop their heads, sharp teeth, and distinct claws—who either fly upward or run along the ground—are called birds and beasts. Yet they may have human hearts. Even so, because they look different, others will keep their distance.

Here, the character “child” is used in place of “same,” a phonetic error arising because the two words sound alike. The general meaning is that although people’s outward appearance differs from that of beasts, their hearts may be the same as those of beasts. When sages speak of being “the same,” they do not mean sameness of appearance; they value sameness of heart. This is a way of expressing indignation at worldly ways. “Relying on one another and moving together” means supporting one another and heading toward the same place; “looking up” means facing upward, and “bending down” means facing downward.

Fuxi, Nüwa—the goddess of ancient legend—Shennong, the legendary ancient ruler, and the Xia royal house were all said to have had the body of a serpent and the face of a human, or the head of an ox and the body of a human. What sages value as “sameness” lies in the heart, not in outward appearance. This too is a way of expressing indignation at worldly ways through ancient legends. “Relying on one another and moving together” means supporting one another and heading toward the same place; “looking up” means facing upward, and “bending down” means facing downward.

Fuxi, Nüwa, Shennong, and the Xia ruler all had the highest sacred Virtue, though some had human faces on serpent bodies, while others had ox heads and tiger noses, and their appearance was unlike that of ordinary people. Jie of Xia, Zhou of Yin, Duke Huan of Lu, and King Mu of Chu looked just like ordinary people, with familiar faces and features, yet their hearts were like those of beasts. This shows that people who judge intelligence only by outward resemblance are far from true wisdom.

When the Yellow Emperor and the Flame Emperor fought on the plains of Banquan, they led bears, brown bears, wolves, leopards, wildcats, and tigers into battle, and used vultures, pheasants, eagles, and kites as their banners. This was a way of driving animals through force. When Yao put Kui in charge of music, Kui struck the stone chimes and the various animals danced along; when the Shaoshao music had been played nine times, phoenixes flew in to join the response. This was a way of drawing animals through music.

Why, then, must the dispositions of animals be different from those of people? Their bodies and sounds may differ from ours, but people simply do not understand how to communicate with them. The sages knew and understood everything, and so could guide and command them. Animals, too, have an inborn intelligence that shares something with our own. They regulate their desires and care for their lives without needing to learn from people. Males and females pair; mothers and young are attached to one another. They avoid flat places and stay near rugged ground, seek warmth and shun the cold. They live in groups and travel in lines; the weak stay within, and the strong stand outside. When they drink, they look out for one another; when they forage, they call to their companions.

In the most ancient times, animals lived together with people and walked alongside them. It was only in the age of the emperors that they began to grow fearful and scatter. In later ages, they hid and fled to escape harm. Today, in the east, there is said to be a country of the Jie people, whose inhabitants can often understand the speech of the six domestic animals. They may have gained this ability through some specialized knowledge.

The sacred people of ancient times fully understood the ways of all things and could also understand the sounds of other kinds of beings. They gathered all things together and instructed them, so that they lived alongside one another as the people did. In teaching them, they first communicated with ghosts and spirits and with the chi-mei, the strange beings of mountains, forests, rivers, and marshes; then they reached people in all the lands of the four directions; finally, they gathered animals and insects. Clearly, the minds of all living beings with blood and vital energy are not so very far apart. The sacred people understood this, and so their teaching left out no kind of being.

The Three Sages—whose virtue and wisdom were exceptionally high—may have looked unlike ordinary people, yet they possessed the virtue of great sages. This is used to describe Jie, Zhou, Huan, and Mu: although they had human forms, their hearts were like those of beasts. Hence the saying that the distance between humans and animals is great. The divine and sagely wise understand this, so when they teach and transform the people, they leave no group out.

Though the Three Sages looked unlike ordinary people, they possessed the virtue of great sages. This is used to describe how Jie, Zhou, Huan, and Mu, despite having human forms, had hearts like beasts. The text then gives examples: some people used force to make animals follow them, while others summoned animals with sound. Bears and tigers clearing the way ahead are illustrated by the story of Donghan Juwuba. Another example is painting eagles and kites on banners and releasing birds in the direction the banners point; people then follow them, which is why they are called “banners.”

Animals, too, have their own desires and raise their young. Could people have taught them to do this? This shows that they do not depend on human wisdom. Here, “qi” means “all,” and “she” means “to raise.” In ancient times, some people lived alongside deer and pigs; such things did happen. This example is used to explain the relationship between humans and animals.

“Partial knowledge” means gaining a certain understanding through one’s own insight alone. Hence the saying that only the sages of antiquity could fully understand what such partial knowledge yields. “Bei” means “complete” or “all.” To say that teaching and transformation “leave none out” means that both humans and other kinds of beings are included. The general point is that in ancient times even animals could be taught and transformed, like humans. In later times, however, people all became like animals, and sages no longer appeared, leaving no one able to teach or guide them. This is the author speaking in anger.

In the state of Song, there was a man called the Monkey Keeper, who loved monkeys and kept a large troop of them. He understood what the monkeys were thinking, and they understood what he meant. He would rather cut back on his household expenses than fail to meet the monkeys’ needs. After a while, his household finances grew strained, and he had no choice but to consider reducing their food rations. Worried that the monkeys would refuse to obey him, he first tricked them, saying, “I’ll give you acorns: three in the morning and four in the evening. Will that be enough?” The monkeys all jumped up in anger. A little later, he said, “I’ll give you acorns: four in the morning and three in the evening. Will that be enough?” The monkeys all lay down, pleased.

Whenever cleverness and foolishness are used to deceive and manipulate one another, things are generally much like this. The sage guides the people through wisdom just as the Monkey Keeper dealt with the monkeys. First he says, “Three in the morning and four in the evening,” and the people grow angry; then he changes it to “Four in the morning and three in the evening,” and they are pleased. The total amount and what they actually receive have neither decreased nor increased. Only the wording has changed, yet their anger and joy change with it.

Lin Xiyi explains that this passage tells the same parable as one in the “Discussion on Making All Things Equal” in the Zhuangzi, though the wording differs slightly. “Three in the morning and four in the evening” means giving less in the morning and more in the evening; “four in the morning and three in the evening” means giving more in the morning and less in the evening. In either case, the total is exactly seven acorns. “Clever and foolish” refers to intelligence and folly, while “things” refers broadly to all kinds of things. The claim that the sage guides the people through wisdom means that the sage leads them by inspiring and educating them, influencing them without their realizing it. Lin Xiyi believes that the Zhuangzi uses this parable to show that there is no absolute right or wrong, which differs from the meaning here.

Ji Shengzi, a man’s name, was training fighting cocks for King Xuan of Zhou. After ten days, the king asked, “Is the cock ready to fight?” Ji Shengzi replied, “Not yet. It is still putting on a show of force and eager to fight, relying on its own bravado.” Ten days later, the king asked again. Ji Shengzi said, “Not yet. It still reacts to sounds it hears and shapes it sees.” Another ten days passed, and the king asked once more. Ji Shengzi said, “Not yet. Its gaze is still fierce and its energy is still strong.” Ten days later, the king asked again. Ji Shengzi replied, “Almost. Even when other cocks crow, it no longer reacts at all. It looks like a wooden cock; its spirit is fully complete. Other cocks dare not challenge it, and instead turn and flee.”

Responding at once to a sound and reacting as soon as a shadow appears show that the mind is still stirred by things outside it. “Staring intently with a forceful bearing” means fixing one’s gaze straight ahead with a powerful presence, having reached the point where one can look directly without being disturbed by external things. Earlier, “vainly proud and relying on one’s vital energy” suggests that the Qi still seems to hover on the outside. Here, “staring intently with a forceful bearing” means the Qi has gathered within. The word “intently” carries a hint of anger and here refers to looking straight ahead, but this is different from an ordinary person glaring angrily with a hand on the sword. The fighting cock looks like a wooden cock, showing that its spirit and vital energy are fully complete. This passage describes the practice of cultivating and holding steady one’s Qi, using the fighting cock as a metaphor.

When Hui Ang visited King Kang of Song, the king stamped his foot, cleared his throat, and spoke impatiently. [This continues the preceding passage, describing the forceful, intimidating air of the king’s gestures and words.]

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

Hui Ang replied, “I have a way to ensure that even a brave man cannot stab you, and even a strong man cannot strike you. Would Your Majesty like to hear it?”

The king said, “Good. That is exactly what I want to hear.”

Hui Ang said, “Even if someone cannot stab or strike you, that is still humiliating. I have another way: even a brave man would not dare stab you, and even a strong man would not dare strike you. By ‘not dare,’ I do not mean they have no such thought. I have yet another way: it would make them have no thought of harming you at all. They would have no such thought because they lacked no wish to care for you and bring you benefit.

“I have another way to make men and women throughout the realm truly glad, each willing to care for you and bring you benefit. This is far better than relying on bravery and strength alone, and surpasses the four situations I have just described. Would Your Majesty like to hear it?”

The king said, “That is exactly what I want to know.”

Hui Ang replied, “Confucius and Mozi were such men. Confucius and Mozi had no territories, yet people honored them as rulers; they held no offices, yet had the influence of high officials. Men and women throughout the realm stretched out their necks and rose onto their toes, hoping that these men would bring them security and benefit. Your Majesty now possesses a state of ten thousand chariots. If you truly have this wish, everyone within your borders can benefit. You would then far surpass Confucius and Mozi.”

King Kang of Song had no answer, and Hui Ang strode away. The king said to those around him, “This visitor is a master of argument. He has convinced me.”

This passage bears some resemblance to the contents of “Explaining the Sword” in the Zhuangzi. If one thrusts at an opponent but cannot pierce them, or strikes but cannot land a blow, does that mean one has scruples in a fight? No. It is simply because one cannot prevail over the other person. Even if one dares not thrust or strike, one still has the desire to contend with them. That is one situation.

Another situation is when there is no desire to win in the first place, and the other person feels no hostility toward me at all. If everyone is gladly willing to draw near to me, care for me, and benefit me, that is like nurturing others through good deeds and thereby winning the allegiance of all under Heaven. These stages build upon one another, making three situations in all. The last is the most skillful, which is why it is said to transcend the four entanglements mentioned earlier. This is something a sage can achieve. Confucius and Mozi are discussed together here because that was the view of scholars after the Spring and Autumn period.

“Stamping the feet” means striking the ground with one’s foot. “Loud coughing or throat-clearing” refers to coughing or clearing the throat loudly, and “speaking in haste” means talking rapidly. These are all descriptions of someone’s anger. “How eloquent!” is a sarcastic jab at the other person’s confidence in their powers of argument. It means: “This guest is so eloquent that he can persuade me with words.”

During the reign of King Mu of Zhou, a “transformer” from a distant land in one of the four directions arrived at the royal palace. A transformer was someone who could change form and perform extraordinary feats. He could move through water and fire and pass through metal and stone; make mountains and rivers turn upside down and cities shift location; rise into the air without falling, and strike solid objects without being injured. His transformations were endless. He could also alter the shape of external things and even change a person’s thoughts.

King Mu revered him as a divine being and attended to him as if he were a ruler. He gave him his own sleeping quarters, offered him the three sacrificial animals—ox, sheep, and pig—to enjoy, and selected singing and dancing women to entertain him. Yet the transformer complained that the king’s palace was low and shabby, the food rank and coarse, and the consorts insufficiently clean to approach.

King Mu therefore ordered the palace rebuilt, sparing no ingenuity in its timberwork, masonry, or painted decorations. The project exhausted the wealth of five treasuries, but at last a towering platform was completed. Called the “Midheaven Terrace,” it rose a thousand ren above the clouds and stood higher than Mount Zhongnan.

King Mu then summoned beautiful young women from Lan, Zheng, Wei, and other places. They applied fragrant ointments, shaped their eyebrows, wore hairpins and ornaments, dressed in splendid robes, and adorned themselves with jade pendants. The palace was filled with fragrant plants, and musicians performed “Clouds of Abundance,” “Six Harmonies,” “Nine Shao,” “Morning Dew,” and other pieces. Each month the transformer was presented with a jade robe, and each day he was served exquisite dishes from jade vessels. He remained dissatisfied, but reluctantly went up to live on the terrace.

Before long, the transformer invited King Mu to travel with him. The king clutched the transformer’s sleeve and followed him up into the air. They flew high above the ground and eventually arrived at the transformer’s palace. Built of gold and silver and adorned with pearls and jade, it stood above the clouds and rain, with no visible support. Seen from afar, it looked like a mass of gathered clouds.

What the eyes see, the ears hear, and the nose and mouth encounter do not encompass all the sights of the human world. King Mu imagined that this was Qingdu, Ziwei, Juntian, and the vast music hall—the abode of the Heavenly Emperor. Looking down, he saw only palaces and towers that seemed piled up from clods of earth and heaps of vegetation.

King Mu felt that he had lived there for decades and no longer thought about his own kingdom. The Illusionist, a person able to perform wondrous transformations, came again and invited him to travel together. Wherever they went, he could see neither sun nor moon above, nor rivers or seas below. Light and shadow struck him, but his eyes were too dazzled to make things out; sounds reached him, but his ears were in such confusion that he could not understand them. His whole body trembled with unease, his mind was bewildered, and his spirit was drained. He asked the Illusionist to take him back. The Illusionist transported him to where he had been, and he felt as though he had fallen from a great height.

When King Mu awoke, he was still seated in the same place as before, and his attendants were the same ones as before. The wine before him had not yet cleared, and the dishes had not yet been heated, as if he had only just returned. He asked where he had gone. Those around him replied, “Your Majesty was simply sitting quietly in contemplation.” King Mu was left dazed and disoriented, and took three months to recover. Later, he asked the Illusionist again. The Illusionist said, “Your Majesty and I were traveling in spirit alone. How could your body have moved? Besides, how was the place where you stayed any different from Your Majesty’s palace? And how was the place you traveled any different from Your Majesty’s garden? Your mind and spirit were merely dazed for a moment, and you mistakenly thought you had briefly left your body. When transformation reaches its utmost, how could anyone fully describe what happens between swiftness and slowness?”

A “transformer” is someone who can perform illusions. The passages below about entering water or fire describe transforming objects into different shapes. Traveling with King Mu to the dwelling of the Celestial Emperor, by contrast, means altering a person’s mind and perceptions.

“Fishy” and “musty” both refer to unpleasant odors. “E’e maiden” describes a woman’s alluring bearing, while “graceful and flowing” describes a supple, slender figure. “Axi” refers to fine silk fabrics; “Qi gauze” is the neatly woven, exquisite silk of the state of Qi. “Zhi” is a fragrant herb; “ruo” refers to du ruo, another fragrant herb. “Riding the Clouds” was the name of the Yellow Emperor’s music; “Six Radiances” was the music of Emperor Ku; and “Morning Dew” was the music of Tang the Successful. “Jade clothes and jade food” means precious, exquisite clothing and food. “She” is read as “shi,” meaning “to release”; “not released” means feeling uneasy or unhappy.

“To have no support below” means that the foundation beneath cannot be seen. “It looked like gathered clouds” means that it appeared as numerous as clustered clouds. “Clear Capital” and “Purple Tenuity” refer to the celestial palace; “Heavenly Jun” and “Vast Music” refer to music in heaven, that is, immortal music. “Piled clods” are mounds of earth, and “stacked grasses” are heaps of grass. The passage says that, when viewed from above, the palaces of the celestial realm were so small they looked like clods of earth and heaps of grass. The shifting light dazzled the eyes, the music confused the ears, and terror left the mind unsettled, as though one’s spirit had been lost. “Falling into emptiness” means plummeting from the sky and descending into the void.

Wine is best when it is rich and full-bodied; left too long, it becomes weak. “The food had not yet spoiled” means that the dishes were still fresh. “Silent visualization” refers to contemplating something in the mind while seated in stillness. These changes took place in an extremely short time. Ye Fashan’s journey with Emperor Ming of Tang across the Jade Bridge was a similar event: during the spirit’s journey, the body did not move, something an illusionist could accomplish.

When people happen to witness something out of the ordinary, they may suspect that the familiar world they usually see has temporarily disappeared. In fact, their minds and spirits have only wandered briefly, and they have since forgotten it. What they see before them now is the everyday scene. “Jian” means different or unusual. Because what people see differs from the familiar, they become doubtful; taking the unusual as real, or suspecting that ordinary scenes are merely temporary, may both fail to accord with reality. How can anyone know with certainty how long a transformation lasts or what form it takes? “Slow or swift” refers to the duration and pace of time, while “form” refers to shape. “Temporarily vanished” and “temporarily forgotten” mean the same thing.

After hearing this, King Mu of Zhou was delighted. He no longer concerned himself with affairs of state or took pleasure in his consorts, but devoted himself to wandering wherever his heart desired. He ordered a chariot drawn by eight magnificent steeds. Among the horses harnessed beside the shafts were such famous steeds as Siyin, Hualiu, Lü’er, Chiji, and Baijian. Zaofu drove the main chariot, with Li Qi and Shang He serving as its right-hand guards, seated on the right side to protect it. Baiyao drove the second chariot, with Canbai as charioteer and Benjie as its right-hand guard. Other horses, including Quhuang, Yulun, Daoli, and Shanzi, were also harnessed at the front of the chariots.

The procession raced a thousand li and reached the territory of the Jusu people. They offered King Mu the blood of a white swan to drink, and prepared the milk of cattle and horses to wash his feet. They provided the same for those traveling in the two chariots behind him. After drinking, the party continued on and spent the night at the foot of Mount Kunlun, on the north bank of the Red River.

The next day, they climbed the hills of Mount Kunlun and gazed upon the palace of the Yellow Emperor. There they raised a mound and set up an altar as a memorial for later generations. King Mu then paid a formal visit to the Queen Mother of the West, the legendary goddess, and held a banquet with wine beside the Jade Pool. The Queen Mother sang to him, and Mu answered her in song; their lyrics were tinged with sorrow. Afterward, Mu watched the sun set in the west and traveled ten thousand li in a single day. He sighed, “Alas, my De is far from complete, yet I have given myself over to pleasure. Will later generations investigate and recount my failings?”

King Mu of Zhou lived almost like an immortal, enjoying all the pleasures of this life, yet he still did not live as long as his ancestors. For this reason, people said that he had ascended to immortality and departed.

This matter is recorded in detail in The Biography of King Mu (Mu Tianzi Zhuan), and Han Yu also cited it when he wrote The Stele at the Temple of King Xu Yan. The verse in the Zuo Tradition that says “some are like gold, some are like jade” refers to this same matter. “Siliu” is another name for Hualiu. Baijian, Lishang, Quhuang, Yulun, Daoli, Shanzi, and Baiyao are all names of horses. When Liu Zongyuan examined the Eight Steeds painting, the horses’ forms in it differed from those described here. It remains difficult to determine which account is correct and which is true to life.

The land of the Jusu people, like Kunlun and the Red River, is a legendary place. Its people drink swan’s blood and wash their feet with cow’s and horse’s milk. Northern peoples today also make wine from mare’s milk, a similar custom. “Two chariots” means the ruler’s two carriages; “another day” means the following day. “Offering” is like performing the Feng and Shan sacrifices; “guest” means paying a visit; and “feast” means laying out wine to host someone. The song sung by the Queen Mother of the West is the “Poem of the White Clouds.” The place where the sun sets is called Mount Yanshan.

“To fall short in De” means that his virtue was deficient; “content” means to be satisfied. Though his virtue had its shortcomings, he was at ease with his own pleasures and feared that later generations would call him to account for his faults. This is also the meaning of Qi Zhao’s words: “He put the people to work, yet had no desire to indulge in drunkenness and feasting.” He lived out his life in this way and died only at the age of one hundred. People called him “ascending to the heights,” meaning they believed he had died; in fact, he had not truly died.

The main point of this chapter is that the world beyond is vast and holds endless pleasures; even the places where emperors live are not worth envying. People long for wealth and status based only on what their eyes and ears perceive, unaware that, from the perspective of heavenly beings, such wealth and status are quite limited.

Lao Chengzi studied the art of illusion under Master Yin Wen. After three years, the master still had not taught him. Lao Chengzi asked what he had done wrong and requested permission to leave. Master Yin Wen bowed and invited him inside. After sending everyone else away, he said, “Long ago, as Lao Dan traveled west, he looked back and told me: ‘All things with the breath of life and the shape of form are merely appearances produced by transformation. When the power that brings things into being begins to work and Yin-Yang shifts, this is called birth and death. To grasp the patterns of things, understand transformation, and change along with forms is called metamorphosis and illusion. The ingenuity of the Creator is beyond measure, and its power runs deep; it cannot be exhausted or brought to an end. Illusions performed by relying on forms have visible techniques and shallow power, so they arise and vanish at once. Only when you understand that transformation and illusion are no different from birth and death can you learn the art of illusion. You and I, too, are caught up in transformation. Why, then, make a special study of illusion?’”

The point of this chapter is that the arts of illusion in the human world and the principles by which the Creator brings all things through birth, death, and transformation are fundamentally connected.

Lao Chengzi returned home and reflected on Master Yin Wen’s words for three months. At last, he could make things appear or disappear at will and even reverse the seasons: thunder would sound in winter, and ice would form in summer; creatures that flew would run, and those that ran would fly. He never displayed these arts during his lifetime, so they were never passed down to the world.

Although Lao Chengzi never learned magical arts, he came to understand them through deep reflection. He could also move freely between being and nonbeing, which is why it is said that “existence and extinction were in his hands.” “Turning and testing” means repeatedly reversing and examining things, describing change that is impossible to predict. “Turning and testing the four seasons” means altering the patterns of Yin-Yang and the seasons. To make thunder sound in winter is to turn Yin into Yang; to make ice in summer is to turn Yang into Yin. Birds belong to Yang, while beasts belong to Yin, so birds are light and beasts are heavy. If one can now alter Yin-Yang, one can turn birds into beasts and beasts into birds. This art leaves no visible trace, so no one in the world can pass it on.

Liezi said, “Those skilled in transformation follow the Dao in secret and in an ordinary manner, while the effects they achieve resemble what ordinary people see. The virtue of the Five Emperors and the achievements of the Three Kings may not have depended entirely on wisdom and strength; they may also have been accomplished through the Way of transformation. Who can see through the reason for this?”

“Hidden application” means putting something to use quietly, without letting others see. Although the Dao cannot be revealed, its effects are just like those people ordinarily observe. The ways in which the Five Emperors and the Three Kings taught and transformed the world may likewise have held the unfathomable mystery of the illusions performed by Lao Chengzi and Yin Wen.

When awake, there are eight signs; in dreams, there are six states. What are the eight signs? They are past events, actions, gain, loss, sorrow, joy, life, and death. All eight are things that the body encounters and responds to.

The Rites of Zhou records six kinds of dreams. This passage, too, discusses six dreams, but first it describes the eight signs of waking life. “Past events” means affairs—in other words, the various matters of human life. “Actions” refers to what one does during the day. “Gain, loss, sorrow, joy, life, and death” are shared experiences of all embodied things, which is why they are said to be encountered and felt by the body. “Encounter” means to come into contact with and respond to something.

What are the “six kinds of dreams”? The first is the ordinary dream; the second is the startled dream, in which one wakes in fright; the third is the thought dream; the fourth is the waking dream, in which one dreams of events that happened while awake; the fifth is the joyful dream; and the sixth is the fearful dream. These six kinds of dreams all arise when a person’s spirit meets the outside world.

This classification of the six dreams is the same as that in the Rites of Zhou. The human heart is naturally empty, numinous, and perceptive. When signs of an event appear and are reflected in a dream, this is an ordinary dream—that is, a dream that foretells an event. A startled dream is one in which a person is frightened awake; a thought dream arises from dwelling on something; a waking dream replays something experienced while conscious; a joyful dream arises from happiness in the heart; and a fearful dream arises from worry or fear. Fearful dreams and startled dreams differ, though the commentary on the Rites of Zhou does not distinguish between them. All these dreams are governed by a person’s spirit, which is why they are said to arise from “the meeting of the spirit.” Here, “meeting” means that the spirit encounters the external world, thereby forming a dream.

Those who do not understand where responses and transformations begin are bewildered when something happens, wondering why it is so. Those who understand where responses and transformations begin can see the reason when something happens. Once they understand the reason, they are no longer alarmed. A person’s fullness and emptiness, increase and decline, are aspects of a single transformation. They connect with Heaven and Earth and correspond to the myriad things.

People and external things naturally respond to one another and produce change; this is why it is called “responsive transformation.” Here, “events” refers to eight kinds of signs, and “what gives rise to them” means that these phenomena all originate in the heart. People are bewildered and alarmed because they do not know that responsive transformation begins in a single heart. Once they understand this, they are neither bewildered nor alarmed. Fullness and emptiness, increase and decline, follow a single principle: this is so of Heaven and Earth, and likewise of the myriad things. That is why they are said to connect with Heaven and Earth and correspond to the myriad things. The Analects says, “At forty, I had no doubts”; this, too, refers to such a state.

Thus, when Yin Qi is abundant, one may dream of crossing a great river and feel afraid. When Yang Qi is abundant, one may dream of crossing a great fire and being burned. When Yin and Yang Qi are both abundant, one may dream of life and death.

“Giving” means offering something to others; “taking” means asking others for something. These dreams arise from desires within the heart, just as a thirsty person may dream of drinking water.

Thus, someone whose body feels light and weak may dream of rising into the air, while someone whose body feels heavy and full may dream of sinking. Such dreams arise because the condition of the body affects the heart and spirit.

If a belt presses against the body during sleep, one may dream of a snake. If one sees a bird carrying something in its beak during the day, one may dream of flying at night. Things seen during the day change when they reappear in dreams.

When darkness is approaching, one may dream of fire; when illness is approaching, one may dream of food and drink. In the dark, the heart longs for light, so one dreams of fire as darkness approaches. When Stomach Qi is deficient, one may dream of food and drink. These dreams all arise from thoughts and the body’s condition. Someone who dreams of drinking wine may be troubled by sorrow; someone who dreams of singing and dancing may end up weeping. Dreams often run contrary to waking circumstances, as books on dream interpretation commonly explain.

Liezi said: When spirit and vital essence meet, a dream takes shape; when the physical form comes into contact with external things, events take place in waking life. Thus, the thoughts of the day become dreams at night, all arising from what spirit and body encounter and experience. When spirit is settled, thoughts and dreams naturally fade away. If we take everything that happens while awake as real without reflecting on it, and take dreams as real without understanding their origins, we will be swept along by the transformations and comings and goings of all things. The ancient True People forgot their distracting thoughts while awake and did not dream in their sleep. Can this really be mere talk?

What one sees during the day is the body encountering external things; what one dreams at night is the spirit encountering external things. “Stillness” means that the mind and spirit are settled. When they are settled, there are no delusions, and without delusions, one does not dream.

For example, when King Gaozong of Shang dreamed of Fu Yue, and Confucius dreamed of the Duke of Zhou, what they had seen during the day remained in their minds and appeared again in dreams. Such dreams are therefore called “encounters of form,” not omens arising from nowhere. If people truly understand this principle, they will not cling to talk about dreams but will remain silent and calm. Those who dream without understanding how things work take their dreams to be real. All things continually change and come and go, and dreaming and waking are the same. People who do not understand this principle dismiss as empty words the ancient saying that perfected people forget the world when awake and do not dream when asleep. But how could this show that they understand the state of perfected people? When perfected people awaken, they seem to have forgotten everything and no longer cling to worldly affairs. With no attachment in their hearts, they are empty, still, and focused; when they fall asleep, they naturally do not dream.

The Buddhist teaching that “dreaming and waking are one” is well put. In a letter, Chan Master Dahui discussed King Gaozong’s dream of Fu Yue, Confucius’s dream of the Duke of Zhou, and the Buddha’s dream of a golden drum, among other things. His explanation of how dreaming and waking are fundamentally indistinguishable is also very reasonable.

Far to the south in the distant western lands lies a country whose borders no one knows. It is called the “Land of Gu Mang.” There, Yin and Yang do not interact, so there is no distinction between cold and heat.

The Land of Gu Mang is a name from a parable. There, Yin and Yang do not interact, and there is no light from the sun or moon. Thus there is no distinction between cold and heat, or between day and night. The people there eat no food and wear no clothes, and spend most of their time asleep. They wake only once every fifty days. They take what they experience in dreams to be real, and what they see after waking to be illusory.

This unusual scenario serves to show that if people were always dreaming, they would regard brief moments of wakefulness as illusory.

The central region where the four seas meet is called China. It stretches north and south along both banks of the Yellow River and extends east and west across the area around Mount Tai. Its circumference is more than ten thousand li. The movement of Yin and Yang there follows a set pattern, giving rise to cold winters and hot summers. Day and night are clearly distinguished, with light and darkness alternating. Among the people are both the clever and the dull. All kinds of things in the world multiply and grow, while people’s talents and skills vary widely. Rulers and subjects, those above and below, govern in relation to one another, and social order is maintained by rites and laws. The things people say and do are too numerous to count. As soon as they wake, they take what they experience while awake to be real and what they see in dreams to be false.

“Qi” means the center, and China is also called “Qizhou.” This passage says that the people of China, too, regard their waking experiences as real and their dreams as false. “Careful measure” means that patterns and standards are clear; “clear distinction” means that differences can be discerned.

At the northern corner of the easternmost edge lies a country called Fuluo. Its climate is warm throughout the year. It receives only the faint light left over from the sun and moon, yet its soil cannot grow good crops. The people eat grass roots and tree fruits, and do not know how to cook with fire. They are fierce and violent, relying on strength and weakness in dealing with one another. They honor those who win through strength but do not value justice. They are always on the move and rarely rest, remaining constantly awake and never sleeping.

The “Land of Fuluo” is also presented through an allegory. There, the lingering light of the sun and moon alternately illuminates the land, so the country has no night. The Tang Records recount that in one place, once a sheep’s spleen has been boiled, the sun rises again. Perhaps places of this kind really do exist in the world. Since the sun and moon shine there constantly, people remain awake and never sleep. Lin Xiyi took this passage to mean that people in China often regard only wakefulness by day as real and dreams at night as illusory, without realizing that lands such as this may exist somewhere in the four directions of heaven and earth. We therefore cannot take only what we have seen with our own eyes and heard with our own ears as the whole of reality. These examples are given to broaden the narrow understanding of ordinary people.

During the Zhou dynasty, there was a man named Yin who ran a large household estate. His laborers began working at daybreak and were not allowed to rest even after dark. One old laborer was already exhausted, but Yin ordered him to work even harder. During the day, the old man kept working as he groaned. At night, utterly worn out, he quickly fell into a deep sleep. In his hazy dreams, he often became a ruler, standing above everyone else and governing the whole country. He wandered through palace gardens, doing as he pleased and enjoying himself immensely. When he woke, he had to return to his labor.

Someone commiserated with him over his hardship. The old laborer said, “A person’s life lasts a hundred years, with half in the day and half at night. By day I am a servant, and that is indeed hard. But at night I am a ruler, enjoying myself immensely. What do I have to complain about?”

Yin spent the whole day worrying about worldly affairs and fretting over his estate, leaving both body and mind exhausted. At night, he too fell into a heavy sleep. He often dreamed that he was another household’s servant, rushing about to do whatever work was required and often being scolded and beaten. In his sleep he muttered, groaned, and cried out until daybreak, when he finally grew quiet.

Worried about this, Yin sought advice from a friend. The friend said, “Your position is enough to bring you honor, and your wealth is far greater than that of ordinary people. Dreaming at night that you are a servant is simply how hardship and pleasure take turns. How could you expect to enjoy the same happiness while awake and while dreaming?”

After hearing his friend’s advice, Yin eased the laborers’ work schedule and reduced the time he spent worrying about his estate. After that, both men’s ailments improved.

Note: Here, “evening” means nighttime. “Gather” means to accumulate worries in one’s mind while managing the estate. “Dream-talk” refers to words spoken during sleep. “Both” means that both men were affected, and “improve” means to feel more at ease and recover. This passage uses the contrast between dreams and waking life to show that hardship and pleasure change with circumstances.

A man from the state of Zheng was gathering firewood in the countryside when he came across a startled deer. He drove after it in his cart and beat it to death. Afraid someone might see him, he hurriedly hid the deer in a dry ditch and covered it with banana leaves, feeling very pleased with himself. Before long, he forgot where he had hidden it and thought the whole affair had been a dream. As he walked along the road, he recounted what had happened in verse. Someone by the roadside heard him and, following his account, found the deer and took it away.

When the man got home, he said to his wife, “That firewood gatherer just now dreamed that he had caught a deer, but he doesn’t know where it is. I’ve actually found the deer, so he must be the one who was truly dreaming.” His wife said, “Could it be that you, too, dreamed about the firewood gatherer getting a deer? Is there even such a firewood gatherer? Since you really have found the deer, whose dream came true—yours or his?” Her husband replied, “Now that I have the deer, why should I bother deciding who dreamed of whom?”

The firewood gatherer was unwilling to give up the deer when he got home. That night, he dreamed of the place where he had hidden it, and of the man who had taken it away. Early the next morning, he followed the details of his dream and found the man. The two began arguing over the deer, and the dispute came before a magistrate, an official responsible for hearing lawsuits.

The magistrate said, “At first, you really did get the deer, but mistook the affair for a dream. Later, you really did dream of getting the deer, but mistook the dream for reality. That man really did take your deer, yet now he is arguing with you over it. Your wife also says you dreamed that someone else took the deer. Since no one can say for certain whose deer it is, and it is now in your hands, why not divide it in two?”

The matter reached the ruler of Zheng. “Alas,” he said, “will the magistrate have to dream another dream in order to divide this deer?” He went to consult his chief minister, who said, “I cannot distinguish a dream from what is not a dream. Only people like the Yellow Emperor and Confucius could tell the difference between waking and dreaming. Both are gone now, so who can judge? For now, we may as well follow the magistrate’s ruling.”

The note explains that the word “jian” means to have some breathing room or a little leisure. Here, the difficulty of distinguishing dreams from waking life illustrates how people hold conflicting views about gain and loss, and about what is real. At the end, the story also suggests that even those in the highest positions may be unable to resolve such questions.

A startled deer is a deer that has fled after being frightened. “Yu” is read as “ya” and means “to welcome.” The man hurriedly hid the deer in a dry ditch beside the city, concealing it in a panic for fear that someone might see him. “Jiao” means grass; “along the path” means to follow the road.

“How could a woodcutter ever dream of such a thing?” means: You merely dreamed that the woodcutter said those words. Yet what you are doing now has, in turn, become a real dream. “Bu yan” means unwilling to accept something; “shuangan” means daybreak. “Ren” has the same meaning as “recognize.”

The man who recognized the deer in his dream did not obtain it. This means that you thought there had initially been no woodcutter, and that the man who obtained the deer had not obtained it at all; the whole affair was only a dream. Later, the magistrate dreamed again that he was dividing the deer among others. This shows that he still could not tell what was real and what was false, as though he were still in a dream. The minister of state then said that only the Yellow Emperor and Confucius understood how to distinguish between them. In other words, unless one has truly attained the Dao, one cannot judge what is real and what is false.

“Xun” has the same meaning as “xun”; here, it means to go along with the magistrate’s account for the time being and divide the deer among the people. This passage, too, uses dreaming and waking to show how difficult it is to determine what is real and what is false. Its meaning is worth reflecting on.

In Yangli in the state of Song, there was a man named Hua Zi who developed amnesia in middle age. He would forget by evening what he had received that morning, and by the next morning what he had been given the night before. On the road, he would forget that he was walking; at home, he would forget that he was sitting. He could not remember the past or recognize what was before him. His whole family was deeply troubled.

They asked an official historian to divine the cause, but the signs gave no explanation. They asked a shaman to pray, but that did no good. They asked a physician to treat him with medicine, but his condition did not improve. A Confucian scholar from the state of Lu claimed he could cure him. Hua Zi’s wife and children were willing to offer half their property if he would prescribe a treatment. The scholar said, “This illness cannot be diagnosed through divination, nor cured by prayer or medicine. I will try to alter his thoughts and intentions; perhaps there is hope of recovery.”

So the scholar made Hua Zi cold until he wanted clothes, kept him hungry until he wanted food, and shut him in a dark place until he wanted light. Delighted, the scholar said to Hua Zi’s son, “There is hope of curing the illness. But my method is secret and cannot be shared with others. Have everyone else leave, and let me be alone with him for seven days.” The family did as he asked, though they did not know exactly what he did. An illness that had resisted treatment for years vanished completely in a single day.

When Hua Zi recovered his memory, he flew into a rage. He drove away his wife, punished his son, and took up a weapon to chase the scholar. The people of Song seized him and asked why he was acting this way. Hua Zi said, “Before, I had forgotten everything. My mind was empty; I did not know whether heaven and earth existed. Now, all at once, I remember everything. The deaths and lives, gains and losses, griefs and joys, likes and dislikes of several decades are all surging through my mind. I fear that the deaths and lives, gains and losses, joys and sorrows, likes and dislikes yet to come will disturb my mind in the same way. Can that moment of forgetting ever be regained?”

When Zigong heard of this, he found it strange and told Confucius. Confucius said, “This is something you cannot understand.” Then he turned to Yan Hui and said, “Remember this.”

“Poison” here means treating the illness aggressively with bitter medicines. Divination, sorcery, and medical treatment are still used by some people today, which shows that human circumstances have not changed much from ancient times to the present. “Not divining” means not taking the patient’s condition to be divined. “Not exorcising” means that the patient believes some ghostly influence is at work, but it cannot be driven away. If treatment with strong medicines still brings no improvement, the illness is evidently difficult to cure. Self-recommendation means that someone claims to have the skill to cure it.

“Transforming his mind and changing his thoughts” means that this is an illness of the mind, beyond the reach of any other treatment. The patient still asks for clothing, food, and light, which shows that he remains conscious. The healer lives alone with him and keeps others from seeing them, so people do not know what methods he uses to treat him.

The patient becomes angry when he recovers because worldly affairs have stirred him and burdened his mind and spirit. It would be better not to know about these things, but to forget them. The worries and joys, gains and losses, life and death, and likes and dislikes of ordinary people all disturb the mind. If one cannot, like a person who has attained the Dao, accept change and forget gain and loss, then it is better to forget the world through illness. The passage’s conclusion does not spell everything out. It says only, “This is not something you can understand”—a subtle device in its own right.

In the state of Qin, a man named Feng had a son who was clever as a child. But as he grew older, he developed a disorder that confused his perceptions: he heard singing and thought it was weeping; he saw white and thought it was black; he smelled fragrance and thought it was a stench; he tasted sweetness and thought it was bitterness. He took what was wrong to be right. Whatever came to mind, everything around him—the heavens and earth, the four directions, water and fire, cold and heat—seemed reversed and confused.

Yang said to Feng, “The learned and virtuous gentlemen of Lu are skilled in many arts. Perhaps they can cure this illness. Why not go and ask them?”

Feng set out for Lu. Passing through Chen, he met Lao Dan (Laozi) and told him about his son’s condition. Lao Dan said, “How do you know that only your son is confused? People in the world today are all bewildered about right and wrong, and cannot see clearly what brings gain or loss. Many suffer from the same affliction, so naturally no one notices it. One confused person cannot unsettle a whole family; a confused family cannot unsettle a whole village; a confused village cannot unsettle a whole state; and a confused state cannot unsettle the world. If everyone in the world were confused, who could unsettle it? If everyone’s thinking were like your son’s, you would instead be the confused one. Grief and joy, sounds and sights, smells and tastes, right and wrong: who decides what is correct? Besides, my own words may well be confused too. How could the gentlemen of Lu, who are deeply confused themselves, dispel confusion in others? Don’t waste your travel money. Hurry home.”

This story of confused perception develops further the earlier idea of “sick forgetfulness.” Here, “unsettle” means to shake or change: one person’s confusion cannot change an entire family, and a family’s confusion cannot change a whole village. When confused people are few and clear-minded people are many, the majority will not be led astray. But if everyone in the world were confused, the few clear-minded people would instead be regarded as ill. The passage uses this idea to point out that people of the time were absorbed in profit and desire and did not understand the Dao; they regarded people who possessed the Dao as confused. The word you is interchangeable with you, meaning “especially” or “to an extreme degree,” so “extremely confused” describes someone who is deeply bewildered. Rong can mean to spend or squander, so “waste your provisions” means not to throw away your travel money.

A man from the state of Yan was born there, then went to live in Chu. In his old age, he returned to Yan, passing through the state of Jin on the way. His traveling companion deceived him, saying, “This is the city of Yan.” The man’s face changed at once. Then his companion pointed to the local earth god’s shrine and said, “This is the shrine to your hometown.” The man let out a long sigh. Pointing to a house, his companion said, “This was your ancestors’ old home.” Hearing this, the man could not hold back his tears. His companion then pointed to a tomb and said, “This is your ancestors’ grave.” The man burst into uncontrollable sobbing. Only then did his companion laugh and say, “I was deceiving you just now. This is actually Jin.” The man was deeply ashamed. Later, when he reached Yan and truly saw its cities and shrines, as well as his ancestors’ old home and grave, his sorrow was less intense.

Lin Xiyi holds that this passage means that without genuine understanding, people may mistake what is false for what is real, and what is real for what is false. “Wei” means “to be absent,” so “the sorrow became even less” means that his grief diminished. Lin also believes that the argument in this chapter is exceptionally penetrating and must have come from the original Liezi.

This concludes juan three of the Chongxu Zhizhen Jing, Yanzhai’s Oral Commentary.

When Confucius was at leisure, Zigong came in to attend him. Seeing worry on his face, he did not dare ask about it. After leaving, he told Yan Hui. Yan Hui picked up his zither and sang as he played. When Confucius heard him, he summoned Yan Hui and asked, “Why are you so happy on your own?” Yan Hui replied with a question: “Why are you so worried on your own?” Confucius said, “First, tell me what you think.” Yan Hui answered, “I once heard you say, ‘One who delights in Heaven and understands fate has no worries.’ That is why I am happy.”

Confucius looked sorrowful. After a moment of silence, he said, “Did I say that? You have misunderstood me. Those were my words in the past; take what I say today as the guide. You know only that delighting in Heaven and understanding fate can free one from worry. You do not know that they also bring profound concern. I will tell you the truth of the matter: cultivate yourself, accept poverty or success as they come, understand that departure and arrival are not yours to command, and do not let change disturb your mind. That is what you call delighting in Heaven and understanding fate, and having no worries.

“In the past, I studied the Book of Songs and the Book of Documents, and put ritual and music in order. I hoped to use them to govern the world and pass them down to later generations. My aim was not merely to cultivate myself or govern the state of Lu. Yet the ruler and ministers of Lu have grown more and more disordered by the day; benevolence and righteousness have steadily declined, and human feelings and nature have grown ever more tenuous. This way of ordering the world cannot even be put into practice within a single state, in the conditions of its own time. How, then, could it govern the world and be handed down to later generations? If it cannot work in Lu in its own time, what use could it be to the world or to those who come after?”

At first, I thought that the Odes, the Documents, and ritual and music could not save the world from disorder, but I did not know how to change things. This was what troubled those who accepted Heaven’s will and knew their destiny. Now I understand: what people call “being happy and knowing” is not the true happiness and understanding spoken of by the ancients. True happiness and understanding come from having nothing to crave and nothing to cling to. Then there is nothing that cannot bring happiness, nothing that cannot be understood, and nothing that cannot cause sorrow or be done. So what is there to discard in the Odes, the Documents, and ritual and music? Why change them?

If you take pleasure in knowing what makes you happy, your heart becomes attached to it. To be happy without holding happiness in your heart is true happiness.

Yan Hui, a disciple of Confucius, bowed to Confucius and said, “I understand now, too.” After leaving, he told Zilu, another disciple of Confucius, what had been said. Zilu was bewildered. He went home and brooded over it for seven days, neither sleeping nor eating, until he was little more than skin and bones. Yan Hui came again to guide him, and only then did he return to the school of Confucius, taking up his zither, singing, and reciting the classics without pause all day.

The meaning of this chapter turns several times. It begins by saying that those who accept Heaven’s will and know their destiny have no sorrow; then it says that such people sometimes feel sorrow; finally, it tells how Zilu neither slept nor ate until he was little more than skin and bones, and returned to the school of Confucius only after Yan Hui came to guide him again. He then spent the whole day playing music, singing, and reciting the classics.

The meaning of this chapter turns several times. It begins by saying that those who accept Heaven’s will and know their destiny have no sorrow; then it says that such people sometimes feel sorrow; finally, it says that understanding sorrow and joy is less desirable than not understanding them. The general idea is that having sorrow and joy is less desirable than letting both disappear, and knowing what sorrow and joy are is less desirable than ceasing to distinguish between them. This is probably the main point, developed through a series of turns in a parable. The writing is quite unlike the Zhuangzi, and these words are probably not from the original Liezi. The word “yin” in “immersed thought” means to sink oneself into something; it refers to thinking about it with complete concentration.

Dafu Chen was sent on a mission to the state of Lu and paid a private visit to the Shusun family. Shusun said, “Our state of Lu has a sage.” Dafu Chen asked, “Do you mean Confucius?” Shusun replied, “That is right.” Dafu Chen then asked, “How do you know he is a sage?” Shusun …

A minister of Chen was sent on a mission to the state of Lu. In private, he called on the Shu Sun family. A member of the family said, “Our state of Lu has a sage.” The minister from Chen asked, “Do you mean Kong Qiu?” The Shu Sun replied, “That is right.” The minister asked, “How do you know he is a sage?” The Shu Sun said, “I once heard Yan Hui say that Kong Qiu can ‘set the mind aside and act through the body.’” The minister from Chen said, “There is also a sage in our state of Chen. Have you not heard of him?” The Shu Sun asked, “Which sage do you mean?” The minister replied, “Kang Cangzi, a disciple of Lao Dan, has grasped Lao Dan’s Dao (the Way). He can see with his ears and hear with his eyes.”

When the ruler of Lu heard this, he was greatly astonished. He sent a senior minister with generous gifts to invite Kang Cangzi, who accepted and came to Lu.

“Set the mind aside and act through the body” means that one holds no deliberate distinctions in the mind and forgets one’s own body. Even when acting, one does not feel that one is acting deliberately. “See with the ears and hear with the eyes” means that the functions of the six senses all arise from a single source. Buddhism, too, speaks of “Guanyin,” whose contemplation takes sound as its object. Fori Xuedong once composed a “Hymn to Guanyin” for the Vimalakirti Hymn, expressing just this idea. It says: “All the varied forms of sound in the world are heard by people with their ears, not seen with their eyes. Only this great being can contemplate sound with the eyes, without clinging to the objects encountered by sight. The same is true of the ear, nose, tongue, body, and mind. The mind can reach throughout the ten directions of empty space, and the six sense faculties manifest through one another: this is precisely the meaning.” The relevant explanation appears in section fifteen of Collected Lectures and Discourses, where the point is made clearly.

The ruler of Lu humbly asked Kang Cangzi for guidance. Kang Cangzi said, “What people have heard about me is false. I can see and hear without relying on my ears and eyes, but I cannot alter their natural functions.” The ruler of Lu replied, “That is even more extraordinary. What, then, is the Dao you speak of? I have long hoped to hear you explain it.”

“To see and hear without relying on the ears and eyes” means what the Zhuangzi calls “when the faculties’ knowing comes to a stop, the spirit’s desire can proceed”: when sensory perception ceases, the spirit can move freely and naturally. “Listen with Qi” and “listen with the mind” express something similar. Although Kang Cangzi says that he sees and hears without relying on his ears and eyes, their functions remain the same as those of ordinary people. That is why he says he cannot alter what the ears and eyes do. The ruler of Lu’s remark that this is “even more extraordinary” means that it sounds more wondrous than what he had heard before.

Kangcangzi said, “My body is joined with my mind, my mind with my Qi, my Qi with my spirit, and my spirit with emptiness. In this state, nothing, however minute, can escape my awareness. So I have not altered the original functions of my ears and eyes.” Lin Xiyi explains that “adding to the strangeness” means that speaking in this way makes the claim seem all the more extraordinary.

Kangcangzi continued, “My body is joined with my mind, my mind with my Qi, my Qi with my spirit, and my spirit with emptiness. Even if something almost imperceptibly small appears, or a sound too faint to hear clearly is made—whether far away in the remote corners of the earth or close between my brows and eyelashes—once it reaches me, I will know it. Yet I do not know it through the seven apertures of the body—the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and other openings—or through the limbs. Nor do I know it through the mind and the six viscera, such as the heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys. I simply know it naturally.”

The body, mind, Qi, and spirit mentioned here ultimately all return to emptiness. The passage describes responding to things without a calculating mind. “Something minute that is there” means an object so small it is barely visible; “a sound so faint” means one almost too quiet to hear. When something comes before me, I can perceive it. This is the effect of an inward stillness that does not move recklessly: when touched by an event, it responds and reaches through to understanding. In other words, when things appear, I can distinguish them; when affairs arise, I can respond. Though the body, mind, and viscera each have their own sensations and perceptions, I do not become attached to these sensory or mental activities. This is what it means for the body to join with the mind, the mind with Qi, Qi with spirit, and spirit with emptiness. To say “I simply know it naturally” means that although I know, the state in which I know is difficult to put into words.

The Marquis of Lu was delighted when he heard this. Later, he told Zhongni (Confucius) what had been said. Confucius merely smiled and did not reply.

Lin Xiyi explains that Confucius’s smiling silence is like the statement in the previous chapter: “The Master can do it, yet he does not.” Although Confucius understood this principle, he did not explain it to others; hence he only smiled and gave no answer.

The grand steward of the state of Shang, an official in charge of government affairs, paid a visit to Confucius and asked, “Would you consider yourself a sage?” Confucius replied, “How could I presume to claim the title of sage? I would say only that I am widely learned and knowledgeable.”

The grand steward asked, “Were the rulers of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties sages?” Confucius said, “They were skilled at employing people of wisdom and courage. As for whether they were sages, I do not know.”

The grand steward asked again, “Were the Five Emperors sages?” Confucius said, “They were skilled at employing people of benevolence and righteousness. As for whether they were sages, I do not know.”

The grand steward asked once more, “Were the Three Sovereigns sages?” Confucius said, “They were skilled at acting in accordance with the times. As for whether they were sages, I do not know.”

Greatly surprised, the grand steward asked, “Then who is a sage?” Confucius’s expression changed. He paused for a moment, then said, “In the west there is a sage who governs without governing, yet the world does not fall into disorder. He need not issue commands, yet people willingly submit to him. He need not teach, yet people act rightly of their own accord. His De is boundless, and the people cannot even describe it in words. I suppose he is a sage, but I do not know whether he truly is one or not.”

The grand steward fell silent and thought to himself, “Kong Qiu is deceiving me.”

This chapter seems to reflect Buddhist teachings already present at the time. The author speaks in Confucius’s name and praises them. “A person from the West, greater than the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors”—who could this refer to but the Buddha? Although Buddhist scriptures were not brought to China until the reign of Emperor Ming of Han, related teachings had been circulating for a long time.

“To govern without governing, yet leave nothing in disorder” means that this way of governing the world draws no distinction between the absence of rule and the presence of calamity. “To win people’s trust without speaking, and lead them to follow without teaching” means influencing others through sincerity. The question “Was he truly a sage, or was he not?” expresses uncertainty even amid praise. Perhaps such discussion already existed at the time but had not yet become widespread, so the author makes no definite claim.

“Silently calculating in his heart, he said, ‘Has he deceived me?’” depicts someone secretly turning things over in his mind, astonished and doubtful. “Skilled at putting wisdom and courage to use” means adept at governing worldly affairs through wisdom and courage; “skilled at adapting to the times” means adept at following the circumstances. The question “Who, then, is a sage?” asks who can truly be called a sage.

Zixia asked Confucius, “What sort of person is Yan Hui?” Confucius replied, “Yan Hui surpasses me in benevolence.” Zixia then asked, “What sort of person is Zigong?” Confucius said, “Duanmu Ci (Zigong) surpasses me in eloquence.” He asked next, “What sort of person is Zilu?” Confucius replied, “Is Zhong You (Zilu) a sage?”

Zixia asked Confucius, “What kind of person is Yan Hui?” Confucius replied, “Yan Hui surpasses me in benevolence and virtue.” Zixia then asked, “What kind of person is Zigong?” Confucius replied, “Zigong is more skilled than I am at argument.” Zixia asked again, “What kind of person is Zilu?” Confucius replied, “Zilu is braver than I am.” Zixia continued, “What kind of person is Zizhang?” Confucius replied, “Zizhang is more dignified than I am.”

Zixia rose from his seat and asked, “If each of these four excels in some way, why do they still follow you as students?” Confucius said, “Sit down, and I will tell you. Yan Hui is benevolent, but does not know how to adapt. Zigong is skilled at argument, but does not know when to remain silent. Zilu is brave, but does not know when to yield. Zizhang is dignified, but does not know how to be easygoing. Even if I possessed all four of their strengths, I would not want them to replace me on that account. It is precisely because each has strengths but is also one-sided that they come to learn from me, and have never wavered in their devotion.”

“Fan” means adapting to circumstances. Yan Hui understood benevolence, but did not yet know how to apply it flexibly in response to changing conditions—that is, how to understand the shifts circumstances require. “Zhuang” means reserved and dignified; “tong” means easygoing and sociable, able to get along with others without seeming out of place. Each of the four had a particular strength. Confucius believed he could possess all these strengths and use each appropriately as circumstances changed: benevolent when benevolence was called for, persuasive when argument was called for, dignified when dignity was called for, and brave when courage was called for. Each of the four, by contrast, was one-sided. When Confucius said he did not want them to replace him, he meant that although they wanted to learn the principle of adapting to circumstances and responding with just the right measure, they had not yet truly mastered it.

Liezi took Huqiu Zilin as his teacher and Bohun Wuren as his friend, and later lived in Nanguo. The number of people who came to study with him each day was beyond counting. Even so, Liezi still had shortcomings. Every morning he discussed and debated with others, and missed none of the principles he heard.

“Counting day after day, I still could not keep up” means that so many people came to study with him. “I could only just manage to deal with them” means that his capacity for receiving visitors was limited. Every morning he debated with people, and the things he said spread throughout the land. No one had not heard of him.

Yet Ziliezi and Nanguozi, both personal names, were neighbors and lived on opposite sides of a wall for twenty years without ever visiting one another. If they happened to meet on the road, they acted as though they had not seen each other. Ziliezi’s disciples and attendants all concluded that he and Nanguozi harbored resentment toward each other, and that this was why they kept their distance.

A man from Chu asked Ziliezi, “What grievance do you and Nanguozi have against each other?” Ziliezi replied, “Nanguozi appears full, yet within he is empty and still. His ears hear, but it is as if he has not heard; his eyes see, but it is as if he has not seen; he speaks, but it is as if he has said nothing. He understands, yet it is as if he is aware of nothing. His body, too, is undisturbed by the world around him. What would be the point of going to see him?”

“Never visiting one another” means that neither sent a calling card or other notice before going to pay a call. “Enemy” means a quarrel or grievance. The disciples assumed that the two men were at odds, and that this was why they did not associate. To say that Nanguozi “appears full” means that he seems radiant and vital. “Hearing without listening, seeing without looking, speaking without speaking, understanding without knowing” means that although he hears, sees, speaks, and understands, he is not moved by these outward activities. His body’s being undisturbed means that his De (Virtue) is complete and he is not alarmed by external things. As for “What would be the point of going to see him?”, it means that even if one went, one would not know what to say.

“Still, I’ll try taking you all to see him.” Ziliezi set out with forty disciples. When they met Nanguozi, he was indeed like a lifeless shell, unable to converse with anyone. When Ziliezi turned back to look at his disciples, his expression and body seemed somehow divided from one another, and he too could not engage with the group. After a while, however, Nanguozi pointed to a disciple at the very back of the procession and spoke with him. His manner was calm, as if focused and upright, and he seemed full of spirit. Ziliezi’s disciples were all greatly astonished. When they returned to their lodgings, every face showed bewilderment.

Observing his disciples means choosing the right person to speak with. Nan Guozi (a personal name) looked over the disciples, then pointed to the one at the very end of the line and began speaking with him. His expression was warm and attentive, his manner composed, as though he alone were distinguished and no one else were present. Liezi’s disciples were surprised. When they returned to their lodging, they all looked puzzled.

The Yanzhai Kouyi explains: “‘Deceiving the po’ means that the body appears to have a soul, but in fact body and spirit are not in harmony; ‘deceiving’ suggests something doubtful. When Nan Guozi looked at Liezi, he felt that Liezi’s body and spirit had not yet become one, and so judged him unworthy of speaking with alongside the others. By choosing the disciple at the very end of the line, Nan Guozi also signaled that Liezi was not worth speaking with. The disciples were puzzled when they returned because they suspected that Nan Guozi had looked down on Liezi.”

Liezi said, “Those who have grasped the Way need not express it in words. Going further, those who truly understand may also remain silent. Treat silence as speech, and it is speech; treat ignorance as understanding, and it is understanding. Silence and speech, ignorance and knowledge, may all be regarded as speech and understanding. One may also say that nothing goes unsaid and nothing remains unknown—or that nothing is said and nothing is known. The principle is simply this. Why be so surprised for no reason?”

“Grasping the meaning” means having drawn close to the Dao and gained some understanding. “Advancing in knowledge” means drawing closer still and gaining insight and discernment.

The passage can be explained in three stages. The first is “without words” and “without knowledge”: forgetting language and knowledge. To take being without words as words, and being without knowledge as knowledge, yet still say “there are words and there is knowledge,” is because the mind retains the idea of “being without words” even after language has been forgotten.

The second stage distinguishes “being without words” from “not speaking,” and “being without knowledge” from “not knowing,” while saying “there are words and there is knowledge.” Here, “not” means that speaking and knowing still remain, while “without” means that the mind still retains the concept of “absence.” The word “also” suggests that the matter has not yet been fully exhausted.

The third stage is reaching the wondrous state of the Dao: nothing is impossible to say or know, yet one is not attached to what one says or knows. This is close to Confucius’ saying, “Follow your heart’s desires without overstepping the bounds,” though the wording here is more inspiring. Chan Buddhists today also use similar paradoxical exchanges. This passage, too, resembles discussions that distinguish subtle principles in the Records of the Transmission of the Lamp.

“Why are you so needlessly astonished?” means: this is the state of a Perfected Person, someone whose cultivation has reached a high level. Why do you regard it as astonishing? You are astonished only because you do not yet understand the state of a Perfected Person. “How could I ever measure up to a Perfected Person?” expresses a different point.

Liezi began studying under his teacher. After three years, he no longer dared to think about right and wrong in his heart or speak of gain and loss. Only then did his teacher, Lao Shang, look at him. After five years, he could once again think about right and wrong and speak of gain and loss. Only then did Lao Shang relax his brow and smile at him. After seven years, he followed whatever arose in his heart without distinguishing right from wrong, and said whatever came to his lips without weighing gain against loss. Only then did his teacher draw him close and have him sit beside him.

After nine years, whatever he thought or said, he no longer knew whether the right and wrong, gain and loss involved were his own or someone else’s. In this way, the barrier between his inner self and the external world gradually dissolved. From then on, his eyes seemed able to hear as ears do, his ears to smell as the nose does, and his nose to taste as the mouth does. The senses no longer stood apart from one another. His mind settled, and he seemed to forget his body; even flesh and bone seemed to melt away. He was unaware of what supported him as he stood or what his feet touched as he walked, and unaware of what his mind was thinking or what principles lay hidden in his words. To reach this state was enough. In such a state, nothing in the principles of things remained hidden or unrevealed.

“Mind settled” means that the mind and spirit are at rest; “the body released” means forgetting the body. The image of flesh and bone melting away means no longer being aware of oneself. “Hidden” means contained within: even words spoken aloud contain principles. At this point, one is simply no longer aware of the body, one’s actions, one’s thoughts, or one’s speech. The highest principle becomes clear in this state.

At first, Liezi enjoyed going on excursions. Huqiuzi asked, “You, Yuko, enjoy going on excursions. What is there to enjoy about them?” Liezi replied, “The pleasure of an excursion lies in observing how things are constantly changing. When other people go out, they look only at what they happen to see. When I go out, I watch how things change. This kind of excursion—few people can distinguish it from the other kind.”

Huqiuzi said, “When you go out, Yuko, are you really just like everyone else, looking only at what is before your eyes? Or are you truly different? Whatever the eyes can see, they can also see changing. You admire the changes in things around you, yet do not know that you, too, are constantly changing. If you focus only on going outward, you will not know how to look within. Those who go outward always seek fulfillment from external things; those who look within find fulfillment in themselves. Finding fulfillment in oneself is the highest form of excursion. Seeking it only from outside cannot bring you to that state.”

Thereafter, Liezi never left home again for the rest of his life, believing that he still did not understand how to go on an excursion. Huqiuzi said, “This is the highest form of excursion. One who has reached the highest form of excursion does not know where they are going; one who has reached the highest form of observation does not know what they are looking at. All things move and change in their own way, and all things are worth observing. This is what I mean by excursion and observation. So the way of going on an excursion truly reaches its ultimate point!”

“Roaming” means wandering and observing among Heaven and Earth. “Without end” means that all things are constantly renewing themselves. People take only what they see before them as the pleasure of roaming and observing. I, however, take the ceaseless transformations of creation—the natural process of coming into being and changing—as that pleasure. That is why no one can understand what I mean by roaming and observing.

Hu Qiuzi objected: “You say that your roaming and observing is the same as everyone else’s, yet also say it is different. What you see is no more than ordinary scenes. On what grounds do you claim to witness the transformations of creation? Everything seen is already changing all the time. You think you are seeing change, but that is all there is to it.”

All things are continually changing before our eyes, though it only appears that new things keep coming into view. I, too, am different with each passing day as I change. To make the daily renewal of external things an object of observation, without knowing that oneself also changes along with them, is still to roam and observe outwardly. Anyone who seeks satisfaction in external things is simply treating them as the whole of what is worth observing.

The highest form of roaming and observing is to find satisfaction within oneself and seek nothing outside. Some people never reach this state in their lifetime because they know their cultivation and learning have not yet matured. “Not knowing where one is headed” means having no fixed destination; “not knowing what one is looking at” means having nothing particular to see. With nowhere to go and nothing to see, there is no distinction between external things and oneself. Everywhere is a place to roam, and everything is something to observe. This is what I mean by roaming and observing, which is why it is said, “All things are objects of roaming and observing.” The words “How wondrous!” go on to explain and praise this state.

Longshu said to Wenzhi, “Your medical skill is remarkable. I have an ailment. Can you cure it?”

Wenzhi replied, “At your service. But first, tell me about your symptoms.”

Longshu said, “The people of my village praise me, but I feel no honor; the state criticizes me, but I feel no shame. I do not rejoice at gaining anything, nor grieve at losing anything. I regard being alive as though I were dead…”

Wenzhi replied again, “At your service. But first, tell me about your symptoms.”

Longshu continued, “The people of my village praise me, but I feel no honor; the state criticizes me, but I feel no shame. I do not rejoice at gain or grieve at loss. I regard life as death, wealth and rank as poverty, other people as pigs, and myself as other people. I live in my own home as though it were an inn, and regard my native land as though it were a distant land of barbarians. These various ‘symptoms’ mean that rank and rewards cannot stir me, and punishments cannot frighten me. Prosperity and decline, gain and harm, cannot change my mind; sorrow and joy cannot move me. As a result, I cannot serve my ruler, associate with friends and relatives, or instruct my wife and children; nor can I govern my servants. What kind of illness is this? Is there any way to cure it?”

Wenzhi then had Longshu stand with his back to the light, while he looked at him from behind, facing the light. After a while, Wenzhi said, “Ah, I can see your heart. It is empty and clear, almost approaching sagehood. Six of its apertures are open, but one is blocked. Perhaps you regard sagacity and wisdom as an illness because that one aperture is blocked. This is beyond the reach of my limited medical skill to cure.”

To regard honor and disgrace, gain and loss, life and death, and poverty and wealth as all the same is to forget the distinctions of the world. To look at others as one looks at pigs is to see no difference between high and low. To regard oneself as one regards others is to cease distinguishing between “you” and “I.” To see one’s home as an inn is to see one’s family as strangers; to see one’s homeland as a wilderness is to make distant places seem near. These are all signs of a mind unbound by attachment.

Such a person cannot serve a ruler, make friends, or manage a wife, children, and servants, because he has no mind to attend to worldly affairs. These are traits of a “Perfected Person” (someone who has attained a profound state), yet they are described as faults, much as Chan Buddhists today use contrary words to rebuke people. Even when he stands with his back to the light, others can still see his heart; Bian Que could see the internal organs through a wall. Such things do occur, but this chapter speaks only by way of metaphor. The abrupt turn at the end means that even sagely wisdom, though present within oneself, may be called a fault if one has not yet forgotten the self. The words are therefore deliberately turned inside out. Buddhist teachings say, “Clinging to medicine to cure an illness can make the medicine itself an illness.” The meaning here is similar.

To live naturally, without relying on anything external, is the Dao (the Way). To follow life’s natural course in living, so that even its end is not true extinction, is called “constancy.” To come to extinction through the course of life is misfortune. Death is inevitable; to follow its natural course and die, even before death has arrived, is already to be within life’s natural ending. This too is called “constancy.” To return to life after death is good fortune.

Thus, to be born without human contrivance is called the Dao; to follow the Dao and complete one’s life is called “constancy.” To die through deliberate action still accords with the natural course of the Dao; to follow the Dao into death is also called “constancy.” To return to life after death is good fortune.

We do not know where life comes from, yet life is always coming into being. This is called “always living without any source”—that is, not knowing why life arises. To dissolve distinctions and knowledge is the Dao. If we understand life from the standpoint of life, we believe we know why we came into being. Even though the body must eventually die, we still feel that life itself has not truly vanished. This is the view of ordinary people. To know that birth entails death is to infer the principle of non-birth from life; that is why this is no blessing: such knowledge and awareness become a burden.

If we understand life through the principle of “non-birth,” we see that although life exists, it can always be as if it had never been born. This, too, is close to the Dao. The word “also” in “also the Dao” means “close to the Dao.” To infer eternal death from non-birth—to have a body that has not yet ended while the mind is already as though beyond birth and death—is still the view of ordinary people. It is a blessing to understand why life arises through the principle of non-birth: while alive, one acts without deliberate effort and does not fix the mind on “life.” This is called the Dao. To understand the principle of life’s ending in this way is called “constancy.”

The original text says “to die with something to use,” but the character “something” is mistaken and should be “nothing.” “To die with nothing to use” means not fixing the mind on death, but following nature. This, too, is called the Dao. To understand the principle of death through realizing the Dao is called “constancy.” The general idea is this: those who understand the Dao are not wiser than ordinary people. Rather, those who do not cling to knowledge and distinctions are the ones called aligned with the Dao. The writings of Zhuangzi, Liezi, and others often turn familiar ideas on their head in this way. Buddhist theories of “annihilation” and “eternity” also have roots in this line of thought.

When Ji Liang died, Yang Zhu stood outside his house singing. When Sui Wu died, Yang Zhu stroked his corpse and wept. Servants are born and servants die, while people sing at one moment and weep at another.

Those about to go blind can often first make out the finest hairs; those about to go deaf can often first hear the faintest sounds. Those whose sense of taste is about to fail can often first distinguish the difference between the Zi and Mian rivers; those about to lose their sense of smell can often first detect the odors of burning and decay. Those whose bodies are about to stiffen often first rush about restlessly; those whose minds are about to become confused often first grow especially keen in distinguishing right from wrong. Thus, once things reach their extreme, they do not return to their former state.

“Common people” means ordinary people. Ji Liang and Sui Wu were both ordinary people. Yang Zhu sang one moment and wept the next, yet he too remained an ordinary person. The point is that life and death are both natural principles, but people respond to them with joy or sorrow. This shows that they have not yet understood the Great Dao.

“When things have not reached their utmost, they will not come to an end” means that when things develop to their extreme, they turn toward the opposite. The lines beginning with “the eyes go blind” illustrate this principle: just as a lamp often flares especially brightly just before it goes out. They all describe how things reverse once they reach their extreme.

The area around Puzhe in the state of Zheng had many worthy people, and Dongli had no shortage of talented people either. Once, when something came up in Puzhe, Bofengzi passed through Dongli and met Deng Xi. Deng Xi turned to his disciples with a smile and said, “Let me give you a little demonstration and see what you make of the man coming this way.” His disciples replied, “We’d very much like to see.”

Deng Xi then asked Bofengzi, “Do you understand the principles of being supported and supporting yourself? Someone who accepts support from others but cannot stand on his own is like a dog or a pig. Raising livestock and putting them to use is what people are good at. Your disciples are well fed and clothed, and live and rest in comfort, thanks to the work of those who govern. You gather together in groups of young and old, like livestock in a pen or food in a kitchen. How are you any different?”

Bofengzi did not answer. One of his attendants stepped forward through the crowd and said, “My lord, have you never heard that Qi and Lu have many skilled craftsmen? Some excel in carpentry and building, some in metalworking and making weapons; some are skilled in music, others in writing and arithmetic. Some are skilled in military affairs, and others in ancestral temple rites. Every kind of talent is represented. Yet none of these people can also take charge of everyone, nor can any one of them make sure that everyone carries out their own duties. Those who hold office do not necessarily have a specialized skill, and those who assign work to others do not necessarily perform the work themselves. People with knowledge and talent are precisely the ones they can put to use. In truth, those who govern are the ones we put to work. What, then, is there for you to boast about?”

Deng Xi had no answer. He looked at his disciples and led them away.

Deng Xi was skilled in debate, while Bo Fengzi was a worthy man. When Deng Xi saw Bo Fengzi approaching, he decided to tease him.

The word “support” here is like the distinction in the Mencius between “employing others” and “being employed by others”: dogs and pigs are kept by people, who support them so that they will serve their purposes. Deng Xi’s point was that Bo Fengzi and his associates received stipends from the state of Zheng and were maintained by its rulers, so they were also at the rulers’ command.

“Much skill” means having many abilities; “assigning positions to one another” means arranging posts for each other; and “employing one another” means making one another serve. Bo Fengzi held that people’s abilities are much the same: each can do what he is good at, but they cannot assign positions to or command one another. Those who arrange posts for others and make them serve are, in fact, people without skill. It follows that the capable and talented are often appointed and directed by the ignorant and inept.

Bo Fengzi believed that although the rulers were capable, he concealed himself through the Dao, appearing on the surface to be incompetent and ignorant. In reality, the powerful men of Zheng were the ones being put to use by him. How, then, could they claim to support him? “What have you to boast of?” means: On what grounds do you boast like this and think you can make fun of me?

Gongyi Bo was famous among the feudal lords for his great strength. Tangxi Gong recommended him to King Xuan of Zhou, who prepared gifts to engage him. Gongyi Bo then came to the royal palace. When King Xuan saw how slight and timid he looked, he grew doubtful and asked, “Just how great is your strength?”

Gongyi Bo replied, “I can snap the legs of a katydid in spring and bear the weight of a cicada’s wings in autumn.”

The king’s expression changed. “I can tear the hides of rhinoceroses and wild oxen, and drag nine oxen by their tails without feeling my strength is enough. You can snap a katydid’s legs and bear a cicada’s wings, yet you have become renowned throughout the world. Why?”

Gongyi Bo sighed deeply, left his seat, and answered, “Your Majesty asks a fine question. I will answer truthfully. My teacher was called Shangqiu Zi. No one in the world could surpass his strength, yet even his family did not know it, because he never showed it. I served him with my life, and only then did he tell me: ‘If you wish to see what others cannot see, look where others do not pay attention. If you wish to attain what others cannot attain, do what others are unwilling to do. Those who learn to see must first learn to make out a cartload of firewood. Those who learn to hear must first learn to hear the sound of a struck bell. When something feels easy within, external matters will not seem difficult. When nothing outside is difficult, your fame will not spread beyond your own household.’

“Now my name is known among all the feudal lords. This shows that I have gone against my teacher’s instruction and displayed my ability. My fame comes not from relying on strength alone, but from knowing how to use it. Does that not make me superior to those who depend on strength alone?”

“Can” means “to be capable of bearing.” Saying “to be able to lift a cicada’s wing” is deliberately putting the matter lightly, to prompt King Wei’s question. Shangqiu Zi, a legendary warrior, was unmatched in strength throughout the world. Even those closest to him did not know how mighty he was, because he was skilled at concealing his abilities.

“Seeing what others cannot see, hearing what others cannot hear, obtaining what others cannot obtain, and practicing what others do not do” all describe a kind of knowing without conscious awareness and accomplishing things through Wuwei (non-action). To learn to see, one begins by clearly seeing a cartload of firewood; to learn to hear, one begins by hearing the sound of a bell. These are only elementary forms of seeing and hearing. One must go further, until one can see what cannot be seen and hear what cannot be heard; only then has one reached the subtle.

An inner “ease” means understanding without relying on what one hears from outside. “Ease” means that although something is naturally simple, one insists on seeking a solution through difficulty. If one can see what others cannot see and hear what others cannot hear, then seeking inwardly is not difficult, and perceiving external things presents no difficulty either. Since perceiving external things is easy, there is no need to show off even when one sees or hears something. How, then, would anyone know? Thus his reputation never travels beyond his own household; even his neighbors know nothing of him.

Today, I cannot avoid using my strength, and so I have become famous throughout the world for being strong. Those who seek victory and boast of themselves, unable to conceal their abilities, eventually make themselves known through their reputation. They have gone against their teacher’s instructions and lost the Dao they were meant to follow. Still, using my strength without being able to conceal my abilities is better than showing off one’s strength. These words indirectly admonish King Wei not to be fond of bravery or compete for victory.

The central theme of this passage is to be “as though one had nothing when one has something, and as though one were empty when one is full,” and not to take offense when others slight you. The example is given to illustrate this principle. “Changxi” means to let out a long sigh.

Prince Mou of Zhongshan was a wise and virtuous prince of Wei. He enjoyed the company of worthy people, but paid no attention to affairs of state, and admired Gongsun Long of Zhao. For this, Yuezheng Ziyu and his companions laughed at him. Prince Mou asked, “Why do you laugh at me for admiring Gongsun Long?” Ziyu replied, “Gongsun Long studies and conducts himself without guidance from a teacher or discussion with friends. He is eloquent, yet unreasonable; his arguments ramble without limit and adhere to no particular school of thought. He likes to discuss strange matters, and his claims are often untrue. He seeks to confuse people’s minds and defeat others in debate. He also studies these ideas with Han Tan and the others.”

Here, saying that Gongsun Long had “no teacher or friends” means that he studied on his own. “Eloquent” refers to his skill with words, while “unreasonable” means that his arguments did not accord with reason. “Ramble without limit” means that he spoke broadly without boundaries; “adhere to no school” means that he did not follow any single tradition of thought. Han Tan was a disciple of Gongsun Long. Ziyu believed that Gongsun Long and his disciples taught one another these ideas in order to confuse the world and defeat others in debate, and that their ideas were not sound principles.

Prince Mou’s expression changed. “Why do you accuse Gongsun Long of these faults?” he asked. “Give me specific examples.” Ziyu said, “I laugh at Gongsun Long for deceiving Kong Chuan. He says that a skilled archer can make the arrowhead of a later shot catch up with the tail of the arrow before it. One arrow follows another, joined end to end: the first strikes the target without falling, while the tail of the next arrow seems to bite the bowstring. Seen from a distance, it looks as though all the arrows have joined to become one.”

“Guo” refers to the part at the back of an arrow that catches the bowstring. Each arrow shot after the first catches the tail of the one before it, following in a continuous line, one chasing the next. The arrows in front all hit the target, while those behind press against the tails of the arrows ahead, as though their own tails were still hooked onto the bowstring. Joined tail to tip, many arrows look like a single long arrow. “Zao” means to reach, and “zhun” means a standard; “reaching the standard” means conforming to the proper measure. “Front and behind” refers to the order in which the arrows are shot. “As though still hooked to the bowstring” means that each arrow’s tail catches the one ahead of it just as it would catch the bowstring.

Kong Chuan was astonished when he heard this. Long said, “Yet this is not the highest level of skill. Hong Chao, a disciple of Feng Meng, once frightened his wife in anger. He drew a bow called ‘Crow’s Cry,’ set an arrow called ‘Qiwei’ to the string, and shot at her eye. The arrow flew right up to her eye, yet she did not even blink. When it fell to the ground, it raised no dust. Can this really be the words of a wise man?” Prince Mou replied, “The words of the wise are not something fools can understand. The arrow behind presses its head against the tail of the one ahead, and the two arrows have equal force. The arrow reached her eye, yet she did not blink because its force had just run out. What is there to doubt?”

“Crow’s Cry” is said to have been a famous bow used by the Yellow Emperor, and “Qiwei” was likely a renowned arrow. “Her eye did not blink” means that her eye did not move; the arrow’s landing without raising dust means that it touched down very lightly. “The one behind was equal in force to the one ahead” means that the two arrows had no difference in strength. “The arrow’s force was spent” means that its power ran out just as it reached the vicinity of the eye, after which it fell to the ground. This shows how precisely the archer controlled the arrow’s momentum.

Le Zhengziyu said, “You are a disciple of Gongsun Long. How can you fail to cover up his shortcomings? Let me cite a few more of his most absurd claims. Gongsun Long deceived the King of Wei, saying, ‘Thought and mind are two different things; a finger cannot reach what it points to; every thing has something that cannot be exhausted; shadow has no relation to movement; a tiny hair can pull a weight of a thousand jun; a white horse is not a horse; an orphaned calf never had a mother.’ His statements defy common sense and overturn the proper distinctions between names and things—there are too many to recount.”

Gongzi Mou said, “You do not understand these profound arguments and mistake them for errors; the real problem lies with you. When thought makes no distinctions, mind is the same. When reference has no limits, everything referred to can be reached. Every thing has an aspect that can be exhausted. A shadow seems not to move because its image changes with its position. A hair can pull a weight of a thousand jun when the force applied is in balance. ‘A white horse is not a horse’ means that name and form can be considered separately. ‘An orphaned calf never had a mother’ means that, since it is called an orphaned calf, it is not a calf with a mother in the ordinary sense.”

Le Zhengziyu said, “You treat all of Gongsun Long’s arguments as clear and orderly. If these words came from another of my orifices, I suspect you would agree with them just the same.”

Gongzi Mou remained silent for a long time, then rose to take his leave. “Please let me come back in a few days, and continue our discussion.”

“Zimou was a disciple of the Dragon” means that Zimou was the Dragon’s student. How, then, could one avoid having to gloss over the omissions and gaps by forcing a reading onto them? “Que” means an omission or something left out.

The passage also speaks of “you” by selecting the most extreme case and presenting it. Its purpose is to show Zimou how absurd this claim is.

“Yi” arises in the mind. Some say, “There is intention, but it is not the mind,” treating “mind” and “intention” as two different names. Zimou says, “Without intention, the mind is the same.” This means that if something is called “intention,” it cannot be called “mind”; if it is called “mind,” it cannot be called “intention.” If there is no intention, then the mind has no distinction; if there is intention, the mind is still the same. This shows that although “intention” has its own name, it need not be something different from the mind.

When you point to one thing and look at it, many other things remain unpointed to. Hence the saying, “Where there is something pointed out, there is something beyond its reach.” If there is no particular thing pointed out, then all things can be included. Hence the saying, “Where nothing is pointed out, nothing lies beyond reach.”

Things that exist in tangible form are called “objects.” If all that exists is treated as objects, how could the myriad things under Heaven ever be fully encompassed? If “objects” are not confined to specific things, then the myriad things under Heaven can all be included in one’s understanding, as though they all belonged to oneself. Thus it is said, “Those who can fully know the myriad things are often those who are bound by nothing.”

A shadow appears not to move. This is what Huizi meant when he said, “The shadow of a flying bird has never moved.” “Change” means transformation: one thing has one shadow, and once it moves, the shadow that follows is no longer the previous one. If we ask where the earlier shadow is by looking back from the later one, then its state before it changed is what is meant by “not moving.” Thus the key to the claim that “the shadow does not move” lies in “change”: as the shadow changes, it becomes another shadow.

A single strand of hair is extremely light, while a thousand jun (an ancient unit of very great weight) is extremely heavy. One cannot pull a thousand jun with a single strand of hair. But if one keeps accumulating the pulling force of many strands until it equals the weight of a thousand jun, then one can move it. Thus, once the forces are equal, the task can be done. This argument is somewhat sophistical, but it is still plausible.

“White” is a color, and naming something by its color gives us “white”; “horse” refers to a form, and naming something by its form gives us “horse.” It makes sense to call a color white and a form a horse. But if we treat a “white horse” as a “horse,” then “white” is a color and “horse” is a form. Since they are not the same thing, how can they be combined into one? This is the reasoning behind the claim “a white horse is not a horse”: it discusses form and name as separate matters. The Kong Congzi and the Gongsun Longzi present the same argument.

An orphaned calf—a calf that has lost its mother—was born of a mother, but while its mother is still alive, it cannot be called an orphaned calf. To call it an orphaned calf means that it no longer has a mother; if it has a mother, then it is not an orphaned calf. The Zhuangzi contains a similar argument.

“Tiao” means a rule or principle. Ziyu was angered by his opponent’s sophistical arguments and could not press him any further, so he said, “Do you think Gongsun Long’s words all conform to rules of reason?” “Other openings” means other orifices—in other words, vulgar, filthy places. The remark mocks the opponent’s words as though they came from some other orifice, while he still goes along with them. “Let us discuss it another time” is equivalent to the modern expression “Let’s talk about it another day.” “Yun” means anger; “angry, he said nothing more” means that he was upset and stopped speaking to his opponent.

Yao governed the realm for fifty years, yet he did not know whether it was being governed well or whether the people were willing to support him. He asked those around him, officials at court, and ordinary people, but none could give him a clear answer. So Yao dressed as a commoner and went into the marketplace. There he heard children singing: “Nothing surpasses your De (Virtue/Power) in enabling us, the people, to live. We go about our lives without knowing it, following the laws of the Celestial Emperor.”

Pleased, Yao asked, “Who taught you this song?” The children replied, “I heard it from an official.” Yao asked the official, who answered, “It is an old poem.” When Yao returned to the palace, he summoned Shun and abdicated the throne in his favor. Shun did not refuse; he accepted it.

This passage depicts how a sage governs the realm without leaving traces of deliberate instruction. Though the realm is well governed, the people do not feel that anyone has taught them. “Enabling us to live” means allowing the people to live peacefully between Heaven and Earth; “the utmost” refers to the Dao (the Way), while “the Celestial Emperor’s laws” refers to the principles of Heaven. The song originally praised Yao’s De, but the official took it for an old poem. This, too, shows that the people did not know how governance had come about so naturally. Yao and the realm reached a state in which neither side sensed any deliberate action. Thus he recommended Shun and abdicated the throne in his favor; Shun accepted without refusing. Both acted without intention.

Guan Yinxi said: The Dao does not settle permanently in any one place, yet it can appear in the forms of all things. In motion, it flows like water; at rest, it is clear as a mirror; in responding to things, it is as natural as an echo. Thus it seems to be present among all things. All things may turn away from the Dao, but the Dao never turns away from them.

One who truly accords with the Dao does not depend on the ears to hear, the eyes to see, or force and thought to impose their will. If you seek the Dao through sight, hearing, outward appearances, or cleverness, you are looking in the wrong direction. The Dao seems to be right before you, then in the blink of an eye appears to be behind you. When put to use, it fills heaven and earth in all directions; when left unused, no one knows where it is.

Those who deliberately set out to seek it cannot thereby push the Dao farther away; those who let things be without intent cannot thereby draw it nearer. Only those who apprehend it in silence and allow their nature to unfold on its own can attain the Dao. True knowing means knowing without clinging to feelings and thoughts; true capacity means being able to act without deliberate effort. If action is forced out of ignorance, how could it express genuine feeling? If one is incapable to begin with but insists on putting on a show, how could that count as accomplishing anything? This is like piling up clods of earth and heaps of dust: it may look like doing nothing, yet it does not accord with the Dao.

In the heart, do not confine the Dao to any particular place or cling to it. The Dao appears through things and is revealed through their functions; it is embodied in all things and thus becomes naturally manifest. Its movement is like water, free of subjective intention. In stillness, it is like a mirror: things reveal their own beauty or ugliness, independent of me. When things arrive, respond in accord with their momentum, as sound arises naturally in response to a sound. The Dao seems like all things because it accords with all things. There is nothing among the myriad things that is not the Dao; only those who do not understand the Dao act against it. How could the Dao itself act against the myriad things?

The Dao is not heard through the ears, seen through the eyes, attained through physical force, or reached by mental speculation. If one seeks the Dao through sight, hearing, bodily form and strength, or the intellect, one will fail to grasp its essential principle. “Form” refers to the body and its strength; “intellect” refers to thought and calculation.

The Dao seems to be ahead, then suddenly appears to have reached the rear. This shows that it has no fixed location. When put to use, it becomes manifest, as though filling the four directions of heaven and earth; when unused, it leaves no trace. When its use ceases, people do not know where it is. Those who deliberately seek it seem far from the Dao. Does the Dao really move away from people because they seek it purposefully? Those who do not seek it deliberately seem close to the Dao. Does the Dao really draw near because they seek it without intention? The Buddhist saying that “the Way cannot be sought with intention, nor attained without intention” expresses the same idea.

To comprehend in silence and thereby attain insight is to awaken for oneself; it is one’s nature maturing of itself, the innate knowing one is born with. To know without considering oneself knowing is called “knowing while forgetting one’s feelings”; to have the ability without deliberately displaying it is called “being able, yet not acting.” Seeming not to know is true knowing; seeming unable is true ability.

“Fa” means “as always” or “all along,” and some people still use it this way today. “Qing” refers to the actual state of affairs. Chan Buddhism teaches that matters cannot all be treated alike. If “always not knowing” is taken to mean truly knowing nothing at all, how could one grasp the actual state of affairs? If “always unable” is taken to mean truly incapable of doing anything, how could one accomplish anything? The meaning here is this: to know without considering oneself knowing is not genuine ignorance; though one seems not to know, there is nothing one does not know. To be able without considering oneself able is to be “able, yet unable”…