《冲虚至德真经鬳斋口义(林希逸)》Vol. 3

True incapacity does not mean having no ability at all. It means seeming to do nothing, yet finding nothing impossible. Acting in accordance with nature does not mean simply doing nothing. True Wuwei (non-action) is to refrain from reckless action, while still leaving nothing unaccomplished.

If one remains as motionless as a heap of dust or a few clods of earth, that cannot be said to accord with the Way. This shows that the teachings of Zhuangzi and Liezi were not aimed at the inertia of withered trees or dead ashes. As the Chan Buddhists say, “You may not travel by night, but by dawn you must arrive. After total extinction, there must be rebirth; I would not deceive you.” This expresses the same idea.

This passage sums up an important thread in the teachings of the Zhuangzi and Liezi. When discussing the recorded sayings of Chan Master Zhenjing, Wuzu Yan said, “If you are like the cold, empty incense burner in an old temple, holding fast to a single unmoving thought, in time you will only obscure the light.” The meaning is similar. This passage appears in the public lectures section of the Dahui Sayings.

In “All under Heaven,” the Zhuangzi comments on Tian Pian and Shen Dao, saying that they were like clods of earth in never straying from the Way, yet their teaching belonged to “the learning of the dead.” The “clods of earth” mentioned here are likewise lumps of earth gathered together.

King Tang of Shang asked Xia Ge, “Did all things exist in the beginning of antiquity?” Xia Ge replied, “If nothing at all existed in the beginning of antiquity, how could all things exist now? Would it make sense for people in later ages to say that nothing exists now?”

King Tang said, “Then are there no distinctions of before and after among all things?” Xia Ge replied, “The ending and beginning of all things have no end in themselves. Sometimes a beginning becomes an ending, and sometimes an ending becomes a beginning. How can we know where their boundaries lie? As for what lies beyond all things, before anything happens, I do not know.”

King Tang asked again, “Then do the heavens and earth, above and below, and the four directions have boundaries or limits?” Xia Ge said, “I do not know.” King Tang persisted in questioning him. Xia Ge replied, “If nothing exists, there can be no boundaries; if something truly exists, it must have limits. How could I know? Yet beyond the boundless there is no further boundlessness, and within the limitless there is no further limitlessness. Beyond the boundless there is no second boundlessness; within the limitless there is no second limitlessness. From this I know that the heavens and earth may have no boundaries or limits, but I do not know whether they have boundaries or limits.”

Everything comes into being from nonbeing, and once it exists, it must have had a beginning. How, then, can we say that at the most ancient beginning there was nothing at all? This is also a very good way of putting it. “Reached its limit” means arriving at an end and stopping. There is no ultimate boundary that can be fully traced in the beginnings and endings of things in their sequence through time. For example, spring comes before summer, and summer after it. Spring ends before summer begins, but spring is not an absolute beginning, nor is summer an absolute end. “Boundary” means a limit; “how could one know its boundary?” means: how could one know where its limit lies? In other words, it has no end.

As for what lies beyond all things, before events began, I do not know. It cannot be measured in any direction, above or below. When the Zhuangzi says, “Beyond the Six Directions, acknowledge its existence but do not discuss it,” it likewise means that one accepts its existence without discussing it. Shang Tang pressed the question again and again, and Xia Ge—a person’s name, written elsewhere in the Zhuangzi as “Ji”—had no choice but to answer: if we call it “nonbeing,” even this “nonbeing” has no end. Once something is named “being,” it must have a limit, though we simply cannot know it. Beyond the Limitless there is another Limitless. The phrasing in the following lines echoes the Zhuangzi’s successive questions: “there was a beginning,” “there had never been a beginning,” and “there had never been a beginning to that never having been a beginning.” The Zhuangzi’s “Free and Easy Wandering” says that Shang Tang questioned Ji, while this passage says he questioned Xia Ge. “Ji” and “Ge” sound similar, so there may have been a copying error. But these are probably all fables, and there is no need to dwell on the different spellings of the names.

Shang Tang asked again, “What is beyond the Four Seas?” Xia Ge replied, “It is still like the Central Region”—the land where people live. Shang Tang asked, “How can you be sure of this?” Xia Ge said, “I traveled east as far as Ying. The people there were like the people here. When I asked what lay east of Ying, they answered that it was still like Ying. I traveled west as far as Bin, an ancient place-name, and the people there were also like the people here. When I asked what lay west of Bin, they answered that it was still like Bin. From this I know that beyond the Four Seas, the Four Wildernesses, and the Four Extremes, things are no different from here.”

No one can know whether there are other lands beyond the Four Seas. Someone who lives in a camp, for instance, sees only the people in that camp; someone who lives in Bin sees only the people in Bin. How could either know that east of the camp there are places like the camp, or west of Bin places like Bin? That is already the limit of what people in China can see. How much less can they know about what lies beyond the Four Seas, the Four Wildernesses—the remote, desolate lands in the four directions—or the Four Extremes?

“Qi Province” refers to China. Here, familiar places close at hand are used to suggest that similar places may exist far away. Lands overseas are called the “Great Wilderness,” and beyond the Great Wilderness lies the “Infinite.” Hence the mention of what lies beyond the Four Seas, the Four Wildernesses, and the Four Extremes. This is a deliberate way of speaking about things vast and remote, common in the books of Zhuangzi and Liezi.

Great and small contain one another without end. The myriad things are contained just as Heaven and Earth are: the myriad things are themselves endless, and beyond Heaven and Earth there may be still greater heavens and earths. How, then, can I know that there is no greater Heaven and Earth beyond them? This, too, is something I do not know.

Great and small contain one another like tiles resting on rafters, rafters resting on purlins, and purlins resting on beams. How can the beams know that there is no greater Heaven and Earth beyond them? This, too, is something I do not know.

The tales of Nüwa repairing the sky and Gonggong breaking the heavenly pillar, severing the supports around the earth, were told to astonish the world. They should not be understood as accounts of real events.

The celestial sphere’s tilt toward the northwest is one of nature’s most exquisite workings. If the heavens did not arch over the earth like a canopy, how would the motions of the stars and the changes in the sun and moon’s rising, setting, fullness, and waning become visible? How would day and night come about? Only those who understand astronomy can grasp these principles.

Remember that the ancients spoke of the earth floating above and below, and compared the heavens to an eggshell. If so, where could there be a heavenly pillar or earthly supports?

Shang Tang asked again, “Are there distinctions among things in size, length, and likeness or difference?”

Ge replied, “East of the Bohai Sea, countless millions of miles away, there is a vast chasm of unfathomable depth called Guixu, the Returning Void. The rivers of the Eight Directions and the Nine Provinces, along with the waters of the Celestial River, all flow into it, yet its waters neither rise nor fall.

“Within Guixu stand five mountains. The first is called Daiyu, the second Yuanjiao, the third Fanghu, the fourth Yingzhou, and the fifth Penglai. Each mountain rises and dips, and its circumference is thirty thousand li; the flat area at its summit is nine thousand li across. The mountains lie seventy thousand li apart, yet face one another like neighbors. Their terraces and pavilions are built of gold and jade, and every bird and beast has pure white plumage or fur. Trees like pearls and fine jade grow in groves, bearing delicious flowers and fruit that grant immortality to whoever eats them. The immortals and sages who dwell on the mountains fly back and forth day and night, too numerous to count.

“But the mountains have no foundations beneath them. They drift up and down with the tides and cannot remain still for even a moment. The immortals and sages were greatly troubled, so they reported the matter to the Celestial Emperor. Fearing that the five mountains might drift far to the west and leave the immortals without a home, the emperor ordered Yujiang, a divine being, to have fifteen giant ao, or sea turtles, support the mountains on their heads. The turtles were divided into three shifts, each taking its turn once every sixty thousand years. Only then could the five mountains stand firm.

“A giant from the Kingdom of Longbo could reach the five mountains in just a few strides. With a single cast of his line, he caught six of the giant turtles, carried them all back to his kingdom, and heated their shells to divine the future. As a result, Daiyu and Yuanjiao drifted north toward the North Pole, floating upon the sea. The immortals and sages who were forced to leave the mountains numbered in the tens of millions. The Celestial Emperor flew into a rage. He reduced the territory of the Kingdom of Longbo, making it smaller, and made its people shorter as well. Even in the time of Fuxi and Shennong, however, its people were still several thousand zhang tall.”

Guixu is the Tail Gate, the place where seawater drains and flows out. The Eight Directions means the eight quarters; the Nine Regions means the nine provinces. “Pure white” means entirely white, and “pearls and jade” refers to precious gems. “Stand” means to remain in place; “make them suffer” means to cause them pain. Yujian is the name of a deity. “Six turtles bearing them together” means that six giant turtles carried the five immortal mountains away. “Go to” means to journey toward; “count them” means to reckon their bones; “make it narrow” means to constrict it. The immortals and sages on the five immortal mountains, the fifteen turtles taking turns in three groups to bear the mountains, the giant from the Land of Longbo who fished up the giant turtles, and the Heavenly Emperor’s anger and punishment of the giant from Longbo are all fables. Buddhist scriptures also contain similar ideas, such as the Thirty-three Heavens, the Land of Fragrant Accumulation, and the Western Pure Land.

Four hundred thousand li east of the Central Region lies a country called Jiaoyao, whose people are one chi and five cun tall. In the far northeast lives a people called the Zheng, whose members are nine cun tall.

Even after being shrunk, the giant from the Land of Longbo was still several thousand zhang tall. The people of Jiaoyao were only one chi and five cun tall, and the Zheng only nine cun. The tall can be exceedingly tall, and the short exceedingly short. This means that changes between Heaven and Earth have no fixed measure; what we see and hear cannot serve as the standard for judging everything.

In southern Jingzhou grows a tree called Mingling. Five hundred years count as one spring, and another five hundred as one autumn. In ancient times there was a great Chun tree whose spring lasted eight thousand years and whose autumn lasted another eight thousand. Fungus growing on rotten earth sprouts in the morning and dies by evening. In spring and summer, there are tiny insects that arise with the rainwater and die as soon as they see sunlight.

Far to the north of Zhongfa lies a vast dark sea, the Heavenly Pool. In it lives a fish thousands of li wide, its length in proportion to its body, called the Kun. The sea also holds a bird called the Peng. Its wings are like clouds hanging in the sky, and its body is proportionately immense. Who in the world could imagine that such creatures exist? Yu the Great once went there in person and saw them; Boyi knew of them and gave them their names; Yijian heard about them and recorded them.

Mingling is the name of a tree. The Peng’s wings are like clouds hanging in the sky, and its body matches its enormous size. Who in the world could imagine that such a creature exists? Yu the Great once saw it in person; Boyi knew of it and gave it its name; Yijian heard about it and recorded it.

Mingling is the name of a tree. “Zhongfa” means “Qiongfa,” the remote, barren region in the far north. Here, “measure” means that things are proportionate in size: the bird’s body matches its enormous wings, so we can imagine just how large it is. Everything people have seen is small. How could they know that such vast places exist between Heaven and Earth? These accounts are all fables, but they borrow the names of Yu and Yi to make the stories seem credible. People say that Yu wrote the “Great Wilderness” chapter of the Classic of Mountains and Seas, just as some people today say that Zhang Qian once visited the River of Heaven. The point is simply that Yu controlled the floods and traveled throughout the Nine Provinces, while Boyi oversaw mountains and marshes, so their names were invoked to lend authority to these legends. Yijian, like the “Qi Xie” in the Zhuangzi, was also a book of strange tales.

On the banks of the rivers lives a tiny insect called the Jiaoming. They fly in swarms and settle on mosquitoes’ eyelashes, bumping into one another in a lively throng. They perch there and come and go, yet the mosquitoes do not notice them at all. At noon, Lizhu and Ziyu would sharpen their eyes and raise their brows to look closely, but could not see the insects’ forms. Those skilled at hearing, such as Jiao, Hu, and Yu, along with Shi Kuang, would listen intently at night, tilting their heads, but could not hear them. Only after the Yellow Emperor and Rong Chengzi, a legendary ancient ruler and immortal, had fasted and cultivated stillness for three months on Mount Kongtong—letting their thoughts grow quiet and their bodies seem to fade from awareness—could they slowly perceive the insects with their spirit, making them faintly visible, like a hollow in Mount Song. Then, by slowly listening with Qi, they could hear a booming sound, like thunder.

This passage follows the earlier discussion of disputation and introduces the Jiaoming, a tiny creature, to show that things exist between Heaven and Earth that are subtler than what ordinary people can perceive. Jiao, Hu, and Yu were also renowned listeners of ancient times. The idea here echoes the Zhuangzi: “Listening with the ears is not as good as listening with Qi; listening with Qi is not as good as listening with the mind.”

In the region of Wu and Chu there is a large tree called the you, a kind of citrus tree. Its leaves are a deep green, and it continues to grow through the winter. Its fruit is bright red and tastes sour and astringent. Eating its bark and sap can cure illnesses such as rebellious Qi and fainting. People in Qi prize its fruit. But if it is carried north across the Huai River and planted there, it becomes a zhu, a fruit tree that resembles the you but has a different nature. The guanyu bird cannot fly across the Ji River, and the badger dies after crossing the Wen River. These are all caused by the local climate.

Yet the forms of things and the Qi they receive differ, while each nature is equally self-sufficient; none can take the place of another. Every living thing fully possesses its own vitality, and each has all the endowments it needs. How can I judge which is big or small, long or short? How can I declare them the same or different?

Lin Xiyi explains that you means citrus. The sentences quoted earlier come from the Kaogong ji and say that the forms of things and the Qi they receive are not fixed, revealing the transformations of creation. Seen in light of each thing’s own circumstances, their natures are all equal: each has its own nature and cannot be replaced by another; each lives out its life fully and possesses the endowments proper to it. Whether big or small, long or short, all are arranged by creation. What, then, can be judged the same or different? Here, “yi” is a final particle that brings the meaning to a close.

Mount Taihang and Mount Wangwu were each seven hundred li around and rose to a height of ten thousand ren. They originally lay south of Jizhou and north of the Yellow River. In the northern mountains lived an old man named Yugong. He was nearly ninety and lived facing the mountains. Troubled by the roads blocked to the north, which forced him to take a long detour whenever he went out, he gathered his family and proposed, “Let us work together to level these steep mountains and open a direct road to the south of Yuzhou, all the way to the south bank of the Han River. What do you think?” Everyone agreed.

Yugong’s wife raised a concern. “With your strength, you could not even cut down a small hill like Kuifu. What could you do about the two great mountains, Taihang and Wangwu? And where would you put all the earth and stones you dig out?” They replied, “We’ll dump them by the Bohai Sea, north of Yintu.” So Yugong led three of his descendants who were strong enough to carry loads. They chipped away at the rock and dug up the earth, carrying it in baskets and hampers to the shore of the Bohai Sea.

A neighbor, a widow from the Jingcheng family, had a posthumous son who had just lost his baby teeth. He came bounding over to help. They made the round trip only once between the changing seasons. An old man from the bend of the Yellow River, known as the Wise Old Man because he thought himself clever, laughed and tried to dissuade Yugong. “You’re not very bright! With the years and strength you have left, you couldn’t destroy even a blade of grass or a tree on the mountainside. What could you possibly do with all that earth and stone?”

Yugong sighed and said, “Your thinking is so stubborn that nothing can open your mind. You’re not even as wise as the widow’s child. When I die, I’ll leave a son; he’ll have a son, and that grandson will have sons of his own. Our descendants will never run out, but the mountains will not grow any taller. So why worry that they cannot be leveled?” The Wise Old Man from the bend of the Yellow River had no reply.

The mountain spirit, who held a snake in his hand, heard of this and feared Yugong would keep digging without end, so he reported the matter to the Heavenly Emperor. Moved by Yugong’s sincerity, the Emperor ordered two sons of the Kuayue clan to carry the mountains away: one was set down east of Shuofang, the other south of Yongzhou. From then on, no high mountains blocked the way from southern Jizhou to the south bank of the Han River.

“Taixing” refers to the Taihang Mountains. Because the names sound alike, the ancients wrote it as “Taixing.” “Pointing through” means opening a passage to the south; “Hidden Land” is a place name in the north; “leap” means setting off with all one’s strength; “a change of seasons” means a year; “unwise” means lacking good judgment; and “obstructed” means blinded.

The words in this chapter may seem far-fetched, but they carry a thoughtful message: an exaggerated tale conveys the spirit of perseverance. Buddhist legend tells that while practicing, the Bodhisattva of Putuo (Guanyin) once became so destitute that he understood nothing and prepared to leave the mountain. By the water’s edge, he met someone grinding an iron ruler. He asked, “What are you grinding it for?” The person replied, “To make a needle.” The Bodhisattva of Putuo laughed: “How could an iron ruler ever be ground into a needle?” The person answered, “If it cannot be done in this lifetime, could it not be done in the next?” The Bodhisattva of Putuo was awakened by this and returned to Putuo to continue his practice. In time, he attained the Way.

Stories of this kind may seem far-fetched, but they offer food for thought: if people can hold on to such resolve, what task is beyond their reach, what body of learning beyond their grasp? Su Dongpo said, “Keep at it little by little, and after ten years, what could you not accomplish?” What matters is whether one’s resolve is firm and one’s actions strong. This may sound like a simple idea, but on deeper reflection, we find the same principle in Yao’s diligence, Shun’s industry, Shang Tang’s daily renewal, and King Wen of Zhou’s steadfast sincerity.

The Snake-Handling Spirit and Kua’e Shi are both names of deities. “Not a mound remained” means that the entire area had been leveled, with not even a small hillock left.

Kua Fu overestimated his strength and tried to chase the sun’s shadow, pursuing it to the place where the sun sets in the Valley of Yu. Thirsty, he ran to drink from the Yellow River and the Wei River, but even that was not enough. He planned to continue north to drink from the Great Marsh. Before he could reach it, he died of thirst along the way. The walking stick he left behind was nourished by the oil from his body and later grew into Deng Forest, stretching for thousands of miles.

“Valley Bend” is where the sun sets. The staff in Kuafu’s hand turned into Deng Forest, a vast woodland stretching for thousands of miles. Kuafu, too, belonged to the race of giants known as the Longbo. These accounts are probably strange tales handed down from ancient times, which people of the Qingxu school gathered into their books as material for extravagant elaboration.

Yu the Great said, “Within the four quarters of Heaven and Earth and among the four seas, the sun and moon shine, the stars move, the seasons turn, and Tai Sui—the ancient system for marking the years—governs the passage of time. All things are brought forth by spirits, and each has its own form. Some live briefly, others for a long time. Only sages can understand the principles at work.”

Xia Ge said, “There are also beings that are not brought forth by spirits, take shape without relying on Yin-Yang, and do not depend on the sun and moon to become visible. They do not die young through killing, nor live long by being tended and nourished. They eat no grains, wear no garments woven from silk or hemp, and travel by neither boat nor cart. They follow the principles of what happens naturally, which even sages cannot understand.”

Xia Ge previously had a question-and-answer exchange with King Tang of Shang, and here he does so again with Yu the Great. Are there two people called Xia Ge, or only one? If it is the same person, he must have lived for hundreds or even thousands of years. “Born of divine powers” refers to forces such as the sun and moon, Yin-Yang, and Tai Sui. This chapter ends with “divine powers,” and the next chapter begins with the same words, revealing the thread that links the text.

Yu the Great says that among things with physical form, some live briefly and others for a long time, each according to its own principle; only a sage can understand them. Xia Ge replies that some things come into being without depending on Yin-Yang or the sun and moon. Why should stone eggs and pebbles need the Qi of Yin-Yang? Why should soil ants and earthworms need the light of the sun and moon? Are the brief lives of morning mushrooms and cicadas cut short because they have been killed? Do pines and cypresses, or the mountains of the south, live long because they practice guiding and nurturing techniques? Do birds such as the waxwing and the reed parrot need to eat grains to be full? Do oxen and horses need silk and padded clothing to stay warm? Do flying birds need boats and carts to travel? These things take shape naturally, beyond what ordinary principles can explain; even sages cannot understand them all.

Tai Sui is a deity who governs the cycle of the years. The text also mentions “today,” using the same way of speaking to show that this idea has existed since ancient times. The point is that some matters in the world can be understood by reasoning from ordinary principles, while others cannot. This is what makes the workings of creation so mysterious.

While regulating the waters and land, Yu the Great lost his way and wandered into a place by mistake. This place lay north of the Northern Sea, countless millions of miles from Qizhou, the legendary center of the earth. It was called the Land of Ultimate North, and no one knew how far its borders extended.

The Land of Ultimate North had no wind or rain, frost or dew. No birds, beasts, insects, fish, grasses, or trees grew there. The land was flat all around, encircled by towering mountain ranges. Within the country stood a mountain called Pot Ridge, shaped like a wine jar. At its summit was a round, ring-shaped opening called the Nourishing Grotto. From within it welled a water called Divine Spring, a miraculous fountain of legend. Its fragrance surpassed that of orchid and Sichuan pepper, and its taste was better than fermented grain wine and sweet wine. Flowing from a single source, the spring divided into four streams that ran down the mountain and spread throughout the country.

The local Qi was balanced, so no epidemics arose. The people were gentle in temperament, accommodating toward others and free of rivalry or greed. They were kindhearted and physically delicate, neither proud nor envious. Young and old lived as equals, with no ruler or subject. Men and women mingled freely, without matchmakers or betrothal ceremonies. They lived along the water and did not farm. The climate was warm and comfortable, so they neither wove cloth nor wore clothes. People lived to a hundred before dying; none died young or fell ill.

The population flourished beyond counting. The people enjoyed living together and were happy, free of old age, sorrow, and hardship. They loved music, taking turns to support one another as they sang, their songs ringing out all day. When hunger or fatigue came, they drank the Divine Spring, and their strength and spirits returned to a calm balance. If they drank too much, they became drunk and did not wake for more than ten days. Bathing in the Divine Spring left their skin smooth and lustrous as fat, while its fragrance lingered on their bodies for more than ten days.

“Beyond the North” means the farthest reaches of the north. “Qi” means a stopping point, and “limit” means a boundary or end. The passage says that the region has no bounds. Qiaozhi is a lofty mountain, and Huling is one of the legendary immortal mountains, like Fanghu and Yuanjiao. A danzhu is a vessel made of pottery. The water flowing from the Zi Cave is called “Divine Spring”; it rises from a single source, then branches out in all directions. A lie is a boundary; “circling a kingdom” means that the water flows around a country. “Yielding and following things” means adapting to external things; “weak bones” means not forcing one’s strength or fighting for dominance; “flourishing and thriving” means growing abundantly.

The passage beginning “After a little more than ten days, he rested” describes what Yu saw.

King Mu of Zhou traveled north and passed through that country. He stayed there for three years, forgetting to return home. When he eventually went back to Zhou, he still longed for the place and felt bereft. He would not eat meat or drink wine, and summoned neither his consorts nor his attendants. It took several months for him to return to normal.

Here, the legend of King Mu of Zhou traveling in his Eight Steeds is used as another example to extend the preceding discussion.

Guan Zhong urged Duke Huan of Qi to take advantage of a journey to Liaokou and go with him to that country; they were nearly ready to set out. Xi Peng advised him: “Your Highness would abandon Qi’s vast territory, numerous people, magnificent mountains and rivers, abundant resources, complete rites and norms, and splendid clothing. You would leave behind the beauty filling your halls and the loyal ministers filling your court. You would also give up the power to mobilize a million troops with a single command and to make the feudal lords obey with a gesture. Why envy that country, abandon Qi’s ancestral state, and go follow a land of the Rong and Yi peoples? Zhongfu’s mind—Guan Zhong’s—has grown old. Why do you still heed him?”

Duke Huan then gave up the idea and told Guan Zhong what Xi Peng had said. Guan Zhong replied: “This was never something Xi Peng could understand. My concern is that the place may be impossible to reach. What is there in Qi’s wealth worth longing for? And what is there in Xi Peng’s words worth worrying about?”

Traveling south along Qi’s coast, people added this passage by modeling it on the account of Langya. “Jikeju” means that when the time to set out was almost at hand, people sang as they departed. “Sizha” means to raise one’s voice and call out forcefully. “Shihui” means to direct things according to where one’s gaze falls. The phrase “that country cannot be reached” means that one might wish to go there but fear being unable to arrive. The point of these remarks is simply that beyond Heaven and Earth there are things beyond what people can see or hear.

People in the southern countries cut their hair short and go naked; people in the northern countries wrap their heads in cloth and wear leather garments; people in the Central States wear caps and clothing. The ways people in different regions make their living vary: some farm, some trade, some cultivate fields, and some fish. It is like wearing leather in winter and hemp cloth in summer, or traveling by boat on water and by cart on land. People understand these things without needing them explained, and follow their nature in the way they live.

I have mentioned such accounts in my book, too. People beyond the Central States differ in temperament and customs, and their clothing and food may also be different. They follow their own ways of life and take pleasure in them. These remarks are meant only to broaden people’s understanding.

East of Yue there is a country called Zhexiu. When a first son is born, people kill and eat him, saying this benefits his younger brother. When a grandfather dies, they carry the grandmother away and abandon her, saying that a dead man’s wife should not continue living with the family. South of Chu there is a country of the Yan people. When a relative dies, they let the corpse decay and cut away its flesh; afterward, they bury the bones. Only then are they considered filial children. West of Qin there is a country called Yiqu Wenkang. When a relative dies, they pile up firewood and burn the corpse. When they see the smoke rise toward Heaven, they call it “ascending into the distance,” and only then are they considered filial children. Those in positions of authority make these practices into laws, and the people below uphold them as customs, so there is no need to be greatly astonished by them.

Zhexiu, Yanren, and Yiqu Wenkang are names of countries. “Xiu” means to cause a corpse to decay. “Pile up firewood and burn it” means to stack firewood and cremate the corpse. “When it smokes, the smoke rises” means that people call the rising smoke “ascending into the distance,” and regard this as an act of filial piety.

Jiexiu, Yanren, and Yiqu are all names of states. “Xiu” means to cut or take by cutting. This chapter’s account also appears in the Mozi; records from the Han dynasties’ Traditions of the Yi and Qiu and from the Jin dynasty likewise preserve one or two similar stories. Liezi’s point is simply that states across heaven and earth have different territories and customs. Why should only places like the Central Plains count as beautiful? How do we know that what we love is not something others dislike?

While traveling east, Confucius saw two children arguing and asked what they were debating. One child said, “I think the sun is closer to people when it first rises, and farther away at noon.” The other child thought the sun was farther away when it first rose and closer at noon.

One child said, “When the sun first rises, it is as large as a carriage canopy; by noon, it looks like a plate or a bowl. Doesn’t that show that things look larger nearby and smaller when far away?” The other child said, “When the sun first rises, the air is cool; by noon, it is as hot as putting your hand into hot water. Doesn’t that show that the sun is hot when near and cool when far away?” Confucius could not tell which one was right. The two children laughed and said, “Who says you are so learned?”

The children’s debate about whether the sun is near or far resembles an account from the Jin dynasty about a crown prince discussing the sun’s distance in Chang’an. This chapter probably means that nearness and distance, right and wrong, cannot be judged on the basis of a single principle.

“Evenness” is a key standard for the things of the world, including concrete forms and objects. For example, if a strand of hair is divided evenly and different weights are hung from each part, yet the hair breaks, that is because the force is unevenly distributed. If the division is even, then even if the hair breaks, no single part will have broken because it alone could not bear the load. People may not think this is so, but there are those who understand the principle.

This chapter introduces the word “balance,” explaining that balance is a principle followed throughout the world by all things, including physical objects. “Lian” means “all,” and “physical things” refers to objects with form. “It is the same here” means that the principle applies, and so does its application to all things.

When the weight hanging from a hair matches the force the hair can bear, the hair can suspend a heavy object. Hence the saying, “When the forces are balanced, the hair can bear the weight.” If the weight and the force the hair can bear do not match, the hair will surely snap; it breaks because the forces are unbalanced. Hence the saying, “If the weight and the force are mismatched, the hair will snap: this is because they are unbalanced.” When they are matched, the hair will not snap, even if it seems about to. Hence the saying, “Once balanced, it will not snap.” “Balanced” is one statement, and “it will not snap” is another; the meaning is subtle.

This is what Gongsun Long meant by “using a hair to draw a weight of a thousand jun.” People all think this is impossible, but those who understand the principle know how it can be done. The author’s point is that ordinary people do not understand, while those who grasp the principle can.

Zhan He used a silken thread for a fishing line, a slender awn for a hook, and a thorn branch for a rod, yet he could land a weight of a thousand jun. The same principle applies. People all think it impossible, but those who understand the principle know why it is possible.

Zhan He used a single strand of silkworm silk for his fishing line, a fine thorn for his hook, and a twig of bramble for his rod. He split a grain of millet to make bait. He fished in deep pools a hundred ren deep and amid rushing currents, yet could land enough fish to fill a cart. His line never snapped, his hook never bent, and his rod never broke.

When the King of Chu heard about this, he found it astonishing and summoned Zhan He to ask how he did it. Zhan He replied, “I once heard my elders say that Pu Qiezi, who was skilled at shooting birds, used a weak bow and a thin cord. By letting the wind set the bowstring vibrating, he could bring down two orioles with a single arrow high in the sky. He could do this because his mind and spirit were focused and his hand moved steadily. Inspired by this, I studied how to fish in the same way. It took me five years to master the principle completely.

“When I come to the river and take up my rod, my mind is free of distractions; I think only of the fish. As I lower the line and sink the hook, I apply just the right amount of force, undisturbed by anything around me. When the fish sees my hook and bait, it takes them without suspicion, as if they were falling dust or gathered bubbles. That is how I can use the weak to overcome the strong, and the light to achieve weighty results. If Your Majesty can govern the state in this way, then all under Heaven will be in your grasp. What could be difficult about that?”

The King of Chu said, “Well said.”

The principles behind Zhan He’s fishing, Pu Qiezi’s bird shooting, and the hunchbacked old man’s catching of cicadas are alike. The lesson here is that in governing the state and all under Heaven, one should keep the mind calm and avoid clinging to distinctions between strength and weakness, or lightness and weight. In this way, the weak can overcome the strong, and the light can master the heavy. This is precisely the principle expressed in the Laozi: “The soft overcomes the hard.”

Gong Hu of Lu and Qi Ying of Zhao both fell ill and summoned Bian Que to treat them. Both recovered. Bian Que said to them, “The illnesses you had before came from outside and invaded your internal organs. They could be cured with medicines and acupuncture stones. But now you each have another ailment, one you were born with and that has grown along with your body. I would like to treat it for you. What do you think?”

The two men said, “First, let us know what the results of the treatment would be.”

Bian Que said to Gong Hu, “Your will is firm, but your energy is weak. You are good at planning, but lack decisiveness.” Then he said to Qi Ying, “Your will is weak, but your energy is strong. You think things through poorly, yet are quick to stubbornly impose your own judgment. If I exchanged your hearts, each of you would have the other’s strengths as well as your own.”

So Bian Que gave them poisoned wine to drink, and they fell unconscious for three days. He opened their chests, took out their hearts, exchanged them, and put them back. Then he gave them a divine medicine. When the two awoke, they were as they had been before. They bade Bian Que farewell and went home.

Gong Hu returned to Qi Ying’s house and claimed Qi Ying’s wife and children as his own, but they did not recognize him. Qi Ying returned to Gong Hu’s house and claimed Gong Hu’s wife and children, but they too did not recognize him. The two families brought a lawsuit against each other and asked Bian Que to judge the matter. Bian Que explained what had happened, and the dispute was settled.

This chapter uses a story to show that a person’s nature and disposition are shaped by their innate constitution, and that some aspects cannot simply be changed at will. There is much to reflect on in these words. They may seem far-fetched and implausible, but they are not. Master Mingdao said, “All 104 kinds of illness arise from one’s own mind, and one must also begin with oneself to address them.” This takes the point to a higher level. What Liezi describes is a mind shaped by temperament; what Master Mingdao speaks of is reason. One must use reason to transform one’s temperament-shaped nature before the mind can truly govern itself.

When the ancient musician Hu Ba played the qin, birds danced to the music and fish leapt from the water. Shi Wen of Zheng heard of this and left home to study with Shi Xiang. He adjusted the strings and tuned the instrument, yet after three years he still could not play a complete piece. Shi Xiang said to him, “You may go home.”

Shi Wen put down the qin and sighed. “It is not that I cannot tune the strings or play a piece from beginning to end. What I seek in my heart does not lie in the strings, and what I wish to express does not lie in the sounds themselves. My intention is not yet clear; my inner self cannot yet harmonize with the sounds I play, nor can the outer world respond to the Qi of Heaven and Earth. So I dare not pluck the strings. I will pause for now and see what follows.”

Before long, Shi Wen went to see Shi Xiang again. Shi Xiang asked, “How is your qin study going?” Shi Wen replied, “I have grasped it. Let me try playing.”

In spring, Shi Wen plucked the shang string, summoning the pitch of Nanlü, one of the twelve pitch standards of ancient China. A cool breeze suddenly arose, and plants and trees bore fruit. In autumn, he plucked the jue string, stirring the pitch of Jiazhong. A warm breeze slowly circled, and plants and trees began to flourish. In summer, he plucked the yu string, summoning Huangzhong, the first of the twelve pitch standards. Snow and frost fell in a flurry, and rivers and ponds froze at once. In winter, he plucked the zhi string, stirring the pitch of Ruibin. The sunlight suddenly blazed hot, and the solid ice promptly melted.

As the piece drew to a close, Shi Wen plucked the gong string and played the other four strings together with it. At once, a gentle seasonal breeze rose, auspicious clouds appeared, sweet dew fell, and a spring of sweet water welled up. Shi Xiang pressed a hand to his chest, rose onto his toes, and exclaimed in admiration, “Your qin playing is truly wondrous! Even Shi Kuang’s ‘Pure Jiao’ and Zou Yan’s skill at blowing pitch pipes cannot match it. They would surely bring their qins and pitch pipes and follow behind you to learn.”

“Completing a section” means playing a whole piece; “pressing the pegs” refers to pressing and adjusting the strings. The five strings, twelve pitch standards, and changes across the four seasons express the ancient belief that music could resonate with Yin-Yang, the seasons, and the Qi of Heaven and Earth.

“Not yet able to form a complete piece” means he still could not play a whole tune from beginning to end. “Pressing the strings” means holding the strings down, and “tuning the strings” means adjusting their pitch. “The mind is not on the strings or the sound” means that the player’s state of mind has not yet settled. Once he understands inwardly and his hands respond naturally, he will forget the instrument and strings he is using. He had not yet reached this state, so he did not dare pluck the strings. “A slight pause” means allowing a little time, and “see what follows” means observing what happens next.

The text says that when autumn tones are played in spring, the qi of autumn responds; when spring tones are played in autumn, the qi of spring responds. The same correspondence holds between summer and winter. Each of the five strings has its own association: the shang string belongs to autumn, the jue string to spring, the yu string to winter, and the zhi string to summer. The gong tone occupies the center and can therefore bring harmonious qi into resonance. The instrument has five strings, each governing one tone. To say that a particular string is plucked does not mean that only that string is adjusted while the other four are ignored. It means that a given tune is centered on the shang or jue tone. The point is that, at its most subtle, music can communicate with the transformations of Heaven and Earth.

The meeting between Shi Wen and Shi Xiang seems to have taken place within a single day. How could the music encompass all four seasons, with the strings plucked at once to summon the response of the four seasons? This shows that the passage uses a story to convey an idea. “Your playing is exquisite” praises the extraordinary subtlety of his musicianship. “Qingjiao” is the name of a piece of music. “They should bring their instruments and follow behind you” means that Shi Kuang and Zou Yan, too, ought to carry their instruments and learn from you.

Xue Tan studied singing with Qin Qing. Before he had finished learning all that Qin Qing could teach him, he assumed he had mastered it and said he was leaving for home. Qin Qing did not try to stop him. He saw Xue Tan off beside the main road outside the city. Beating time, Qin Qing sang a mournful song. His voice stirred the trees, and its echo seemed to bring the drifting clouds to a halt. Only then did Xue Tan apologize and ask to return to his lessons. From that day on, he never again dared to say he was going home.

Qin Qing turned to a friend and said, “Once, Han E was traveling east to the state of Qi. When her provisions ran out, she passed through Yong Gate, one of the gates of Qi’s capital, Linzi, and sang for food. After she left, the lingering notes of her song circled the roof beams and did not fade for three days. People nearby even thought she had not gone. Later, she stopped at an inn, where the people there insulted her. Han E then let out a long, mournful wail. The men and women, young and old, throughout the whole village were overcome with grief. They faced one another in tears and could not eat for three days. People hurried after her and brought her back. When Han E returned, she again let her voice ring out, this time in a joyful song. The men and women, young and old, throughout the village leapt for joy, clapping and dancing, unable to contain themselves and forgetting their earlier sorrow. The people then gave her a generous gift and sent her on her way. That is why, to this day, people around Yong Gate are skilled at singing and wailing: they imitate the melodies Han E left behind.”

“To beat time” means to mark the rhythm; “depleted” means to have run out; “singing for food” means exchanging a performance for provisions; and “sent her on her way” means bidding her farewell and seeing her off. This passage also appears in the Mencius. The author first tells the story of Shi Wen playing the zither, then the story of the singer. Both are recorded to show how wondrously refined a skill can become when practiced to a high level. If skill can reach such heights, surely those who study the Dao can achieve extraordinary wonders as well. This is the meaning implied beneath the words.

Bo Ya was skilled at playing the zither, and Zhong Ziqi was skilled at listening. As Bo Ya played, he imagined a high mountain. Zhong Ziqi said, “Excellent! It rises majestically, like Mount Tai.”

Bo Ya was skilled at playing the zither, and Zhong Ziqi was skilled at listening to it. When Bo Ya played, he imagined a towering mountain. Zhong Ziqi said, “How beautifully played! It rises up like Mount Tai.” Bo Ya then imagined flowing water. Zhong Ziqi said, “How beautifully played! It surges like a great river.” Whatever Bo Ya imagined, Zhong Ziqi could always understand.

Bo Ya was traveling north of Mount Tai when he was suddenly caught in a downpour and took shelter beneath a rocky cliff. His heart heavy with sorrow, he picked up his zither and played. First he performed “The Tune of Long Rain” (a piece depicting a prolonged downpour), then composed “The Sound of a Collapsing Mountain” (a piece depicting a landslide). Each time he played, Zhong Ziqi fully grasped the feeling behind the music. Bo Ya set down his zither and exclaimed, “You listen so well! What you imagine and understand is exactly what I have in mind. Where could I hide the sound of my zither from you?”

“The Long Rain” and “The Collapsing Mountain” are both names of zither pieces. Here, “what Bo Ya imagined” refers to what Zhong Ziqi understood: their thoughts were in harmony. The sound of the zither arose from the player’s thoughts; since Zhong Ziqi’s thoughts were in accord with Bo Ya’s, he could naturally understand the music. “Where could I hide it?” means that Bo Ya could not conceal his thoughts. This story was probably passed down from ancient times. The compiler included it in the book, perhaps to show that anything in the world, whether subtle or commonplace, can reach a wondrous state.

King Mu of Zhou journeyed west on an inspection tour, crossed the Kunlun Mountains, but did not reach Mount Yan. On his return, before he had made it back to the Central Plains, someone on the road presented him with a craftsman named Yanshi. King Mu summoned him and asked, “What skills do you have?” Yanshi replied, “I await Your Majesty’s command. I can attempt anything you ask of me. But I have already made something, and I would like to show it to Your Majesty first.” The king said, “Bring it with you tomorrow, and we will look at it together.”

The next day, Yanshi came to see King Mu. The king summoned him and asked, “Who is the person who came with you?” Yanshi replied, “This is a wooden puppet I made that can perform songs and dances.” The king watched it closely in amazement. It walked briskly, bowed and raised its head, and truly looked like a living person. When the craftsman pressed its chin, it sang a tune in perfect pitch; when he lifted its hands, it danced in time with the beat. It could perform all kinds of movements, entirely under the craftsman’s control.

Thinking it was a real person, King Mu invited Sheng Ji, his favorite consort, and the palace ladies to watch as well. Near the end of the performance, the puppet winked at one of the king’s concubines standing beside him. Furious, King Mu immediately ordered Yanshi put to death. Terrified, the craftsman took the puppet apart on the spot and let the king inspect it. The puppet was made of leather, wood, glue, lacquer, and pigments in white, black, red, and blue-green. On close examination, the king found that it had a liver, gallbladder, heart, lungs, spleen, kidneys, intestines, and stomach inside, and tendons, bones, joints, skin, hair, teeth, and hair on the outside. All of these were artificial, yet every part was present. Yanshi put it back together, and the puppet returned to its original form.

King Mu tried removing its heart; it could no longer speak. He removed its liver, and it could no longer see. He removed its kidneys, and it could no longer walk. Only then was the king pleased. He exclaimed, “Can human skill really achieve the same effects as the creative power of nature?” He then ordered his accompanying carriage to take Yanshi home.

The cloud ladder made by Gongshu Ban (Lu Ban) and the flying bird made by Mo Di (Mozi) were both once regarded as the pinnacle of craftsmanship. When their disciples, Dongmen Jia and Qin Guli, heard of Yanshi’s skill, they told their respective teachers. From then on, both men stopped speaking of their own abilities for the rest of their lives, and devoted themselves instead to working with the compass and the carpenter’s square.

He then took the singing women up Mount Yan and returned with them. Yan Shi controlled the wooden figures’ mouths, making them sing in perfect tune. When he moved their arms, they danced to the beat. At first, people thought they were truly alive; after watching for a while, they were even more convinced that they were real people. Sheng Ji and her attendants played with them, examining the wooden figures closely, one by one. They took the figures apart and put them back together, and the figures sang and danced just as before. It was astonishing enough that wooden people could walk and leap—but where did their voices come from?

The story uses the wooden figures’ ingenious construction to suggest that the human body, too, is assembled from different parts. The eyes correspond to the liver, the feet to the kidneys, and the mouth to the heart; we do not fully control these things ourselves. The commentator considers this close to the Buddhist teaching of the “Four Great Elements”—earth, water, fire, and wind, which make up the human body. Human ingenuity can already surpass the ordinary workings of nature; how much more marvelous, then, must nature’s own workings be?

Yan Shi then seated the singing women in a spare carriage beside the main one and took them back. The cloud ladder built by Ban Shu—that is, Lu Ban—for besieging cities, and the wooden flying kite made by Mo Di, or Mozi, were works that their makers considered the pinnacle of their craft. When Dongmen Jia and Qin Guali heard of Yan Shi’s skill, they told Ban Shu and Mo Di about it. From then on, the two never spoke of their own craftsmanship again. They set aside their skills in making things and took up the compass and square only when they had no choice.

Gan Ying was an ancient master archer. When he drew his bow, beasts crouched down and birds fell from the sky. His student Fei Wei learned archery and surpassed his teacher. Then Ji Chang went to Fei Wei to study archery. Fei Wei told him, “First learn not to blink. Only then can we talk about archery.”

When Ji Chang returned home, he lay on his back beneath his wife’s loom and stared at the treadle rod, a part of the loom that rose and fell with each step. Two years later, he no longer blinked even when a sharp awl touched the corner of his eye. Ji Chang told Fei Wei, who said, “That is not enough. Next, learn how to see: make small things appear large, and faint details clear and distinct. Come back and tell me when you have done that.”

Ji Chang tied a louse with a yak hair and hung it in a window, facing south as he gazed at it. Within ten days, the louse seemed to grow larger and larger. After three years, it looked as large as a cartwheel. Everything else he saw looked as large as a hill. He then took a bow made from the horn of Yan and an arrow shaft made from northern mugwort, and shot the louse. The arrow passed through its center, yet the hair holding it did not break. When Ji Chang told Fei Wei, Fei Wei leapt high into the air, beat his chest, and said, “You have mastered it.”

The treadle rod is the part beneath the loom that moves up and down with the foot. To keep from blinking even when an awl touches the corner of the eye is what the Mengzi calls “the eye does not turn away.” “Study further” means to continue learning. When the louse appeared as large as a cartwheel, everything else looked like a hill. A bow of Yan horn was made from animal horn in the region of Yan; a shaft of northern mugwort was made from mugwort in the north. Both were finely crafted archery equipment. Ji Chang had to make the louse look as large as a cartwheel before he could hit it. This shows that mastery of a skill requires training of this kind. Just as Bian Que, through his study of medicine, could see people on the other side of a wall, such feats are signs of skill reaching an extraordinary level. Such things do indeed happen in the world; those who have never devoted themselves to diligent study cannot be told of them.

Ji Chang had mastered all the archery skills of the state of Wei. He reckoned that the only person in the world who could rival him was Fei Wei, so he planned to kill him. The two met in the open country and shot at each other. Their arrows met in midair and fell together to the ground without raising even a speck of dust. Fei Wei ran out of arrows first. Ji Chang still had one left. When he shot it, Fei Wei intercepted it with the tip of a thorn branch, striking it exactly, without the slightest deviation. The two then wept, laid down their bows, and bowed to each other on the road, asking to become father and son. They cut their arms as a pledge and agreed to tell no one.

“Arrows meeting midway” means that the two shot at each other on the road; their arrows collided in midair and fell to the ground without raising even a speck of dust, showing that they landed gently. “Intercepting an arrow with the tip of a thorn branch” likewise means that the tip met the incoming arrow exactly, without the slightest deviation. “Cutting the arm” means making a cut as a token and swearing an oath.

This account may seem somewhat far-fetched. When I was traveling in the Huai region, I knew a man named Xuan Lufen. He was nearly seventy that year, and every year he won first place in the Spring and Autumn Grand Review. He once told me that when he first brought Wang Xin to heel, the two met in the mountains of Liu’an. Wang Xin picked up his bow and tried to shoot him. Xuan Lufen had only a short wooden spear in his hand, so he called out to Wang Xin: “I’ll let you shoot three arrows here. If all three miss, you’ll submit to me. I’ll take you to see Zhao Zhizhi and guarantee you an official post.” Wang Xin shot three arrows, and Xuan Lufen knocked each one to the ground with his wooden spear. Wang Xin then bowed and surrendered to him. Later, Wang Xin became the commander-in-chief of the Wuding forces in Guangzhou. When I went to Anfeng, one of Wang Xin’s former subordinates told me the same story, exactly as Xuan Lufen had; I have simply forgotten that man’s name. If so, how can the story of Ji Chang and Fei Wei shooting at each other be dismissed as fiction?

Zao Fu’s teacher was called Taidou. When Zao Fu first began learning to drive a chariot from him, he performed the rites with great humility, yet Taidou taught him nothing for three years. Zao Fu became even more respectful, and only then did Taidou tell him, “An ancient poem says that the son of a skilled archer must first learn to weave winnowing baskets, and the son of a skilled metalworker must first learn to make leather garments. First, watch how I walk. Once your steps match mine, you may handle the six reins and drive the six horses.”

Zao Fu replied, “I will follow your instructions.” Taidou then set up wooden stakes in a row to make a path narrow enough for only one foot to pass through, placing the stakes at intervals matching his stride. He stepped from stake to stake as he ran back and forth, moving lightly without a single fall or misstep. Zao Fu followed his example and mastered the technique completely in just three days.

Taidou exclaimed, “How quick you are! You learn so fast. Driving a chariot follows this same principle. When you practiced walking, you learned the technique through your feet, and your mind grasped it at once. Applied to driving, this means coordinating the reins with the horses’ bits, adjusting their speed through subtle movements of the lips and teeth. You hold the direction and measure in your mind, then use your hands to control the rhythm. Once you have grasped the essentials inwardly and can outwardly respond to the horses’ intentions, you can make the horses and chariot advance and retreat as if along a straight line, and turn according to the proper measure. You can travel quickly and far while still having strength to spare. That is what it means to truly master the art of driving.

“The essentials of driving are first understood through the horses’ bits, then carried by the reins to your hands, and from your hands to your mind. At that point, there is no need to keep your eyes fixed on the horses or urge them with a whip. Your mind is calm, your body upright, and the six reins remain untangled; all twenty-four hooves land without a single misstep. As the chariot and horses turn, wheel, advance, and retreat, everything follows the rhythm. The wheels leave no extra tracks, and the horses’ hooves take up no more than the space they need. Whether you are driving through steep valleys or across low, level plains, it looks the same. I have taught you everything I can. Remember these essentials.”

Tai Dou, too, was an accomplished charioteer in ancient times. “Qiuji” is an old term found in the Record of Learning: before learning archery, one first learned to use a ji, a kind of woven bamboo implement. But “smelting” refers to working metal—what does that have to do with “Qiuji”? This passage is difficult to understand. The Artificers’ Record mentions an official called the “Qiu master,” but it does not make clear what the post entailed. The office later disappeared, and perhaps its duties once involved smelting; today, there is no way to establish this.

Tai Dou first had his disciple observe the way he walked, and only then taught him to drive a chariot. The disciple learned quickly—that is, he soon mastered the skill. “Reins and bit” refers to the reins and bit used to control the horses; “chest and heart” refers to a person’s inner disposition and intent. If a charioteer can turn along a route as fine as a taut cord, his movements are subtle and perfectly judged. When his strength is ample, he feels no fatigue; when his spirit is settled and his body upright, he drives with ease and composure.

“Twenty-four hooves” means the twenty-four hooves of the six horses pulling the chariot. When the horses place their hooves precisely, the chariot moves without disorder. “Ruts” are the tracks left by the wheels. If the wheels stay within the ruts and the horses’ hoof placements remain orderly, the road bears no marks beyond the wheel tracks, and no extra space is needed. Whether passing through steep mountain ravines or across level plains, they seem the same to me.

Walking on a piece of wood may sound unreasonable. But consider how people today climb poles, walk tightropes, and tread along narrow, elevated paths: it is clear that such skills do exist. Liezi relates these feats to show that human techniques can reach such remarkable subtlety. How much more so, then, can the cultivation of the Dao?

Wei Heidan killed Qiu Bingzhang out of a personal grudge. Qiu Bingzhang’s son, Lai Dan, wanted to avenge his father. Lai Dan was strong-willed and conspicuous in his habits: he counted each grain as he ate, and when he went out, he walked briskly with the wind at his back. Though furious, he refused to enlist anyone else’s help in avenging his father, considering that shameful. He swore to kill Heidan with his own sword.

Heidan was fierce by nature and stronger than ordinary men, able to hold his own against a hundred people. His sinews, bones, skin, and flesh were unlike those of other men. When faced with a blade, he would stretch out his neck to meet it; when arrows were aimed at him, he would bare his chest. Sharp knives and swords could strike him without leaving a wound. Proud of his abilities, he regarded Lai Dan as no more significant than a tiny wheel.

Lai Dan’s friend Shen Ta said to him, “You hate Heidan deeply, and Heidan holds you in the utmost contempt. What do you intend to do?” Weeping, Lai Dan replied, “I hope you can think of a way for me.” Shen Ta said, “I have heard that Kong Zhou of Wei inherited a sword from the Emperor of Yin. A boy once wore it and held back three armies. Why not go to him and ask for a sword?”

Lai Dan then traveled to Wei to visit Kong Zhou. He paid his respects with the deference of a servant attending to a master’s horses and carriage, and asked Kong Zhou to take in his wife and children before explaining what he wanted. He repeated what Shen Ta had told him. Kong Zhou said, “I have three swords. You may choose whichever you like. But none of them can kill anyone. Let me first describe each one.

“The first is called Hidden Light. You cannot see it or feel it being wielded. When it touches something, it passes through without leaving a trace, and the other person does not notice it.

“The second is called Bearing Shadow. At dawn, before the sky has fully brightened, or at dusk, before it has grown fully dark, look carefully toward the north. You may vaguely sense something there, but cannot make out its shape. When it touches something, it makes a faint sound; when it passes through, the person it touches is unharmed.

“The third is called Night Practice. By day, you can see the sword’s shadow but not its light; by night, you can see its light but not its body. When it touches something, it flashes through, and the object closes up again as before. You can sense the speed of its movement, but it leaves no bloodstain. These three treasured swords have been passed down for thirteen generations. They have never been used for anything; they have only been kept in a case, which has never been opened.”

Lai Dan said, “Even so, I will choose the least impressive one.” Kong Zhou returned Lai Dan’s wife and children to him and had him fast for seven days. At dusk, when the sky was dim, Kong Zhou knelt and handed Lai Dan the least impressive sword. Lai Dan bowed twice, took the sword, and went home.

Lai Dan took the sword and went to find Heidan. At the time, Heidan was drunk and lying on his back beneath a window. Lai Dan struck him three times, from neck to waist, but Heidan did not notice at all. Thinking Heidan was dead, Lai Dan hurried away. At the doorway, he met Heidan’s son and struck at him three times, as though striking empty air. Heidan’s son laughed and said, “Why are you so foolish, waving at me three times in a row?”

Only then did Lai Dan realize that the sword could not kill anyone. He sighed and went home. When Heidan awoke, he angrily scolded his wife: “While I was passed out drunk, you left my body exposed. Now my throat is uncomfortable and my waist is stiff.” His son said, “Earlier, Lai Dan came to our house and met me at the doorway. He waved at me three times, and I also felt uncomfortable and stiff in my limbs. He must have taken a dislike to me.”

“Private resentments” refers to grievances secretly harbored. His energy was extremely fierce, and his power imposing; his features stood out clearly, and he was thin as a skeleton. Running with the wind shows that he lacked the strength to act. Saying that his resolve was fierce and surpassed that of others means his bravery and forcefulness exceeded those of ordinary people. “Scars and blows” means the marks left behind. “Newly hatched” refers to a bird just born. “You have taken me too lightly” means that you have underestimated me.

“Three swords” was a local term for a form of apotropaic magic used to subdue and overcome an opponent. “Vanished without a trace” describes something disappearing so completely that no boundary can be seen. “At the meeting of dawn and first light” means when day is about to break and the sun has just risen; “at the turning between sunset and dark” means when the sun is setting and the sky is growing dim. “Sunset” here means dusk, while “dark and light” refers to the moments when it is not yet fully dark or fully light. By day, only a shadow can be seen; by night, only light. There is light and shadow, but no physical form.

“Ma shan” should be read as “huo.” “Huo ran” describes a faint sound. “Please show me the lower one” means asking to see the next lower-ranked sword, the third sword. He struck while his opponent was drunk. Thinking the man was dead, he quickly withdrew. But the sword seemed to strike empty space: it had already swung through, as if it had touched nothing. “Chi” is the same as “chi,” meaning foolish or deluded. Dan struck three times in succession, but his opponent thought they were merely three playful blows, like a child’s game. “Throat constriction” means tightness in the throat; “rigidity of the limbs” means that the body was stiff and tense, without suppleness.

The general meaning of this passage is: apotropaic magic itself has extraordinary powers, so how much more so does studying the Dao? Including such accounts in a book is deliberate; they are not simply exaggerations or boastful claims.

King Mu of Zhou mounted a major campaign against the Western Rong, who presented him with a Kunwu sword and fire-washed cloth. The Kunwu sword was one foot and eight inches long, made of finely refined steel, and had a reddish blade. It could cut jade as easily as mud. Fire-washed cloth had to be cleaned in a fire: the cloth turned the color of flame, while its stains took on the cloth’s original color. Once removed from the fire, the cloth was clean.

When King Mu of Zhou mounted a major campaign against the Xirong—a name used in ancient times for certain western regions and peoples—the Xirong presented him with a Kunwu sword and fire-cleaning cloth. The Kunwu sword was one foot and eight inches long, made from highly refined steel, and its blade gleamed red. With it, one could cut jade as easily as cutting mud. To wash the fire-cleaning cloth, one had to put it into a fire: the cloth took on the color of the flames, while the dirt took on the cloth’s color. When it was taken from the fire and shaken, it became as white as snow.

The prince believed that no such things existed in the world, and that anyone who told this story was lying. Xiao Shu said, “The prince certainly trusts himself too much, and certainly twists reason.”

“Refined steel” means steel that has undergone extensive refining; “red blade” refers to the metal’s essence glowing red; and “like cutting mud” describes how easily the sword could cut jade. Though no one today has seen a sword used to cut jade, some people today have seen fire-cleaning cloth. Such things truly exist in the world.

To “trust oneself too much” means that the prince believed only what his own eyes and ears had encountered. Unaware that such extraordinary things existed elsewhere in the world, he concluded that the story was false. That is what it means to twist reason. Much has been set out beforehand; only here do these two sentences make the point clear: people often rely on limited knowledge and doubt broad accounts that go beyond what they have encountered. Such people do not truly understand reason.

“Force” said to “Fate,” “Can your achievements compare with mine?”

“Fate” asked, “What have you done for all things that makes you think you can compare yourself with me?”

“Force” said, “Whether people live long or die young, fall into hardship or rise to prominence, are honored or lowly, poor or wealthy—all this can be determined by my power.”

“Fate” replied, “Pengzu was no wiser than Yao or Shun, yet he lived for eight hundred years. Yan Yuan was no more talented than an ordinary person, yet he lived only eighteen years. Confucius was no less virtuous than the feudal lords, yet he was once stranded in the states of Chen and Cai. King Zhou of Yin was less worthy than the three benevolent ministers of the Shang, yet he still became a ruler. Jizha held no rank in Wu, while Tian Heng wielded sole power in Qi. Boyi and Shuqi starved on Mount Shouyang, while the Ji clan was wealthier than Zhan Qin. If all this could be determined by your power, why did you let some people live long and others die young, the sages fall into hardship and the rebellious rise to prominence, the worthy remain lowly and the foolish be honored, the good stay poor and the wicked grow wealthy?”

“Force” said, “By your account, I have done nothing for all things, yet things have turned out as they have. Does that mean you arranged everything?”

“Fate” replied, “Since it is called ‘fate,’ how could some ruler be there to arrange it? I merely move along with the way things unfold, letting them turn as they turn. Whether each person lives long or dies young, falls into hardship or rises to prominence, is honored or lowly, wealthy or poor—how could I know in advance? How could I know in advance?”

Here, “Force” refers to human agency, while “Fate” refers to destiny or Heaven’s mandate. Lin Xiyi argues that although people’s long or short lives, hardship or success, status, and wealth may seem to result from human agency, they cannot simply be attributed to some ruler’s prior arrangement. “Fate” merely moves in accord with changing circumstances; it cannot know everything in advance.

Strength refers to a person’s own power; destiny refers to the allotment bestowed by Heaven. The general idea here is that the length of one’s life, whether one’s circumstances are favorable or difficult, and whether one is rich and honored or poor and lowly may seem to result from human effort, but are in fact also governed by Heaven’s mandate. Yet the force that governs them need not be only the Creator. To move with the current and accept what the current brings suggests that whether things take the form of being bent or straight, they arise from natural change; I need only act in accord with that current. As for “How could I know?”, this means that destiny alone cannot determine such things: natural factors also play a part. This is like what the Zhuangzi says: the things on which we depend, too, depend on their own conditions.

That is the general meaning of this chapter, whose wording is also quite direct. For this reason, some have questioned whether it belongs to the original text of the Liezi. Several chapters that follow raise similar questions.

Beigongzi said to Ximenzi, “You and I live in the same age, yet people praise you for your success. We come from the same clan, yet people respect you. We have the same appearance, yet people like you. Our words…”

Beigongzi said to Ximenzi, “You and I were born in the same age. We belong to the same clan, look alike, speak alike, and behave alike. We hold the same kind of office, and we are alike in farming and trade as well. Yet people praise you, respect you, like you, and trust you. They consider you noble and wealthy, and say that you prosper. I wear coarse cloth, eat coarse grain, live in a humble hut of reeds, and travel on foot. You wear brocade, eat fine food, live in a grand house, and travel in a carriage drawn by four horses. At home, you look so at ease that you seem to have cast me aside; at court, you act so proudly that you seem to look down on me. For years we have neither visited each other nor gone out together. Do you think your De is greater than mine?”

Ximenzi replied, “I don’t know the true reason for things. You are always beset by difficulties, while everything goes smoothly for me. Perhaps that shows that our fortunes are unequal. And you claim that you and I are alike in every respect—that takes some nerve.” Beigongzi had no answer. Ashamed, he left.

Halfway home, he met Master Dongguo. The master asked, “Why are you back so early, walking alone with your head bowed and such deep shame on your face?” Beigongzi had no answer and continued on his way, still ashamed.

Later, Master Dongguo said, “I’ll go with you to Ximen’s house and ask him about it.” He asked Ximenzi, “Why did you humiliate Beigongzi like that? Explain your reasons.” Ximenzi then repeated what Beigongzi had said and how he had answered.

Master Dongguo said, “By ‘unequal fortunes,’ you mean differences in ability and De. But that is not what I mean. Beigongzi’s De is deep, yet his fortune is meager; your fortune is abundant, yet your De is shallow. Your good fortune did not come from your cleverness or skill, just as Beigongzi’s hardships did not come from foolishness. These things are arranged by Heaven’s decree, beyond human control. You boast of your abundant fortune, while Beigongzi feels ashamed despite his deep De. Neither of you understands that things are as they are by their very nature.”

Ximenzi said, “Please say no more, Master. I dare not argue again.”

When Beigongzi returned home, he still wore coarse cloth, but it felt as warm as fox or badger fur. He ate beans and coarse grains, and they tasted as good as rice and millet. He lived in his hut of reeds, yet felt as if he were sheltered by a spacious house. He traveled in a humble carriage, yet felt as if it were richly adorned. From then on, he lived at ease for the rest of his life and no longer treated honor and disgrace as matters that belonged only to others and had nothing to do with him.

When Master Dongguo heard of this, he said, “Beigongzi had been asleep for a long time. He heard a single sentence and woke up. How readily he came to understand!”

“Others merely show you a measure of partial affection” means that they favor you somewhat. “Linked rafters” refers to a continuous row of roof beams and here describes a very long eave; “undertakings” means the things one does. A person’s circumstances may at times be difficult and at other times go smoothly: in hardship, they may receive generous treatment, while in favorable times they may instead be neglected. “Generous” and “meager” refer to whether one’s abilities can be put to use.

“Shuffling along” describes walking slowly, with difficulty moving forward. “He” is pronounced and understood the same as “she,” meaning “to set aside.” “To remove this shame for you” means to relieve you of this embarrassment. “Go again” means to visit once more—in other words, to call again on the Xi Men family.

Those who succeed when things go well have not necessarily done so because they are clever; those who fail in hardship have not necessarily done so because they are foolish. How can one treat one’s circumstances as grounds for boasting? “It is simply so” means that this is the natural way of things.

“Rong beans” refers to soybeans. To be “rich in De but poor in fate” means to have many abilities but no opportunity to put them to use; to be “rich in fate but poor in De” means to have good fortune without having earned it through one’s own abilities. Here, “De” is close in meaning to “ability” and refers to talent, not moral virtue.

Guan Yiwu, also known as Guan Zhong, and Bao Shuya were close friends, and both lived in the state of Qi. Guan Yiwu served Prince Jiu, while Bao Shuya served Prince Xiaobai. At the time, many members of the Qi ruling house enjoyed favor. Sons born to the principal wife and sons born to concubines each vied for the throne, and the people feared the country would fall into turmoil. Guan Yiwu and Shao Hu accompanied Prince Jiu in flight to Lu, while Bao Shuya accompanied Prince Xiaobai in flight to Ju.

Later, Gongsun Wuzhi launched a rebellion, leaving Qi temporarily without a ruler. Both princes hurried to return and claim the throne. On the road from Ju, Guan Yiwu fought Xiaobai and shot him in the belt hook. After Xiaobai took the throne, he compelled Lu to kill Prince Jiu. Shao Hu died for Prince Jiu, while Guan Yiwu was imprisoned.

Bao Shuya said to Duke Huan of Qi, who was Prince Xiaobai, “Guan Yiwu is capable and can govern the state.” Duke Huan replied, “He is my enemy. I want to kill him.” Bao Shuya answered, “I have heard that an enlightened ruler does not hold personal grievances against others. If a man can devote himself to his own lord, he can surely do the same for another ruler. If you wish to establish hegemony, there is no one who can serve you as well as Guan Yiwu. You must spare him.”

Qi then summoned Guan Yiwu back. Lu sent him to Qi, and Bao Shuya met him outside the city and had him released from custody. Duke Huan treated him with due respect and ranked him above the ministers Gao and Guo. Bao Shuya willingly took a lower position, entrusted state affairs to Guan Yiwu, and honored him with the title “Uncle Zhong.” In time, Duke Huan of Qi achieved hegemony.

Guan Zhong once reflected, “When I was young and poor, I went into business with Bao Shuya and often took a larger share when we divided the profits. Bao Shuya did not think me greedy, because he knew I was poor. I once made plans for Bao Shuya, but they turned out badly. He did not think me foolish, because he knew that circumstances could be favorable or unfavorable. I held office three times and was dismissed by my ruler three times. Bao Shuya did not think me lacking in virtue, because he knew I had not met with the right opportunity. I went to war three times and retreated each time. Bao Shuya did not think me cowardly, because he knew I still had an elderly mother to support. After Prince Jiu was defeated and Shao Hu died for him, I was imprisoned and humiliated. Bao Shuya did not think me shameless, because he knew I was not ashamed of humiliation over minor matters; I was ashamed when my reputation failed to be known throughout the world. My parents gave me life, but it was Bao Shuya who truly understood me.”

For this reason, people praised the deep friendship between Guan Zhong and Bao Shuya, and also praised Duke Huan of Qi for his skill in employing talented people. Yet, as the account here suggests, they did not deliberately set out to achieve what is called “being a good friend” or “employing the worthy.” Such things are not accomplished through some separate skill applied by deliberate effort. Shao Hu was not naturally inclined to die nobly; circumstances left him no choice but to die. Bao Shuya did not deliberately set out to recommend a worthy man; he had no choice but to recommend him. Nor could Duke Huan of Qi easily bring himself to employ an enemy; to achieve hegemony, he had no choice but to employ Guan Zhong.

“Very close” means that they were on extremely intimate terms. The Guo and Gao families were two of the great noble houses of Qi. Bao Shu knew that I was poor, knew that my luck had turned against me, and knew that I had an elderly mother—these are well-chosen words. “Skilled at employing the capable” means being good at appointing talented people and handling personnel matters wisely. There was no choice but to recommend Guan Zhong and appoint him; this was the will of Heaven.

When Guan Yiwu (Guan Zhong) was gravely ill, Xiaobai (Duke Huan of Qi) asked him, “Uncle Zhong, your illness has become very serious, and I fear we can no longer avoid speaking of it. If it grows worse, to whom should I entrust the affairs of state?”

Guan Yiwu asked, “Whom do you have in mind?” Xiaobai replied, “Would Bao Shuya do?”

Guan Yiwu answered, “No. Bao Shuya is honest and upright, a good man. But he is unwilling to associate with those who fall short of him, and once he hears of another person’s wrongdoing, he remembers it for life. If he governed the state, he would offend the ruler above him and the people below him. He would incur the ruler’s displeasure, and I fear he would soon be unable to remain in office.”

Xiaobai asked, “Then who would be suitable?” Guan Yiwu replied, “If there is truly no other choice, appoint Xi Peng. He is humble and does not become self-satisfied because he holds a high position, nor does he look down on those beneath him. He feels ashamed that he is not the equal of the Yellow Emperor, and he sympathizes with those less capable than himself. To share one’s De (virtue) with others is called sagehood; to share one’s wealth with others is called worthiness. To use one’s own worth and ability to place oneself above others wins no one’s genuine support. But one who uses those qualities to serve others will never fail to win their support. In matters of state, Xi Peng does not probe into everything; in his household, too, there are things he does not pursue. If there is truly no other choice, appoint Xi Peng.”

Here, “the illness is severe” means that the condition has become grave. “Cannot be avoided” means that the illness is serious enough that it can no longer go unmentioned. “Those who fall short of him” refers to people who are not his equal. The final statement, “If there is truly no other choice, appoint Xi Peng,” reiterates that Xi Peng is suited to being entrusted with the governance of the state.

“Affliction has become a grave affliction” means that the harm has reached an extremely serious point. “Taboo” means that the matter is not fit to be discussed in front of others; the sentence ends here. “Not regarding others as like oneself” means not treating them as one’s own kind, and conveys aversion. “Hooking the ruler” means entangling and restraining the ruler with hooks and cords; “opposing the people” means controlling and restricting them through laws and orders.

“To forget above” means serving one’s superiors without harboring private thoughts; “not betraying below” means simply not going against what is right. To say that one is inferior to the Yellow Emperor is to regard oneself highly; to say that one is inferior to others and feel sorrow over it is to be especially generous toward them. To share one’s De with others is not to claim De as one’s own. To use one’s worthiness to stand above others is deliberately to make them submit; to occupy a humble place below others despite one’s worthiness is to elevate them and lower oneself. In governing a state, to refrain from listening to certain things, and in managing a household, to refrain from looking at certain things, is not to act by relying on the acuity of one’s ears and eyes.

Seen in this light, Guan Yiwu (Guan Zhong) did not deliberately treat Bao Shuya poorly; he simply had no choice. Nor did he deliberately favor Xi Peng; he simply had no choice. Someone treated generously at first may later be treated poorly, while someone treated poorly at first may later be treated generously. Such changes are not decided by me.

Guan Zhong and Bao Shuya were close friends, yet Guan Zhong’s words on his deathbed sound as though he treated Bao Shuya poorly and Xi Peng generously. Although he was choosing a chancellor for the state, fate also played a part, and the choice was not something Guan Zhong could determine freely. The discussion of generous and poor treatment here is not a substantive judgment; it uses these examples to explain the workings of power and fate.

Deng Xi was skilled at making statements that could be taken either way, spinning out endless arguments that were difficult to refute. When Zi Chan was in power, he drew up the Bamboo Code, a set of laws written on bamboo slips. The state of Zheng adopted it, and Deng Xi repeatedly pointed out contradictions in how it was being applied, putting Zi Chan in a difficult position. Zi Chan later arrested and humiliated Deng Xi, then had him executed soon afterward.

Yet, in truth, Zi Chan was not free to decide whether to adopt the Bamboo Code: he had no choice but to adopt it. Deng Xi was not truly persuaded by Zi Chan; he had no choice but to submit. Nor could Zi Chan execute Deng Xi entirely as he pleased: he had no choice but to do so.

“Taking either side” means using sophistry to make right and wrong seem ambiguous. “Endless arguments” are statements that cannot be exhausted and are difficult to challenge. “Repeatedly challenged Zi Chan’s governance” means that while Zi Chan was governing Zheng, Deng Xi repeatedly pointed out contradictions in the implementation of government orders, causing Zi Chan difficulty. “Zi Chan was put in a difficult position” means that this was how Zi Chan was initially affected.

Zi Chan adopted the Bamboo Code drawn up by Deng Xi, then later became troubled by the contradictions it produced. He blamed the code, arrested and humiliated Deng Xi, and eventually had him executed. Lin Xiyi observes that Deng Xi drew up the code, Zi Chan adopted it at first, and later Deng Xi was killed because of it. People’s likes and dislikes shift back and forth, and fortune and misfortune follow in their wake. All this is simply the way fate unfolds; it lies beyond human control, and Zi Chan himself was not entirely free to choose.

To be born in accord with the timing of Heaven and to die in accord with the timing of Heaven is Heaven’s blessing. To be able to be born but not to be born, or to be able to die but not to die, is Heaven’s punishment. The proper time for birth and the proper time for death each have their moment; human life therefore includes both birth and death. Yet birth or death may also occur when one ought not to be born or to die.

Still, the changes of dying after birth and being born again after death cannot be attributed entirely to external things, nor entirely to oneself. They are all arranged by fate, beyond the power of wisdom to alter.

Thus it is said: Where the depths are vast and without boundary, the Dao of Heaven naturally accords with them. In stillness, without distinctions or divisions, the Dao of Heaven moves of itself. Heaven and Earth cannot defy it; the wisdom of sages cannot interfere with it; ghosts and spirits cannot deceive it. Following what is natural, it silently brings the myriad things to completion and lets them rest in peace. Moving with the current of events, it welcomes or bids farewell to things as they come and go.

At times, people can choose to seek life; at other times, they can choose to seek death. They do as they wish and face life and death without regret, and people regard this as a blessing bestowed by Heaven. When they desperately seek to go on living but cannot have their wish, they endure every hardship and humiliation; when they wish to die but cannot, people regard this as a punishment sent down by Heaven. Such things do indeed happen in the world. Yet people do not understand that the continuation and ending of life, whether for all things or for individuals, are not within their own control, nor can they be determined by cleverness or intelligence. It is simply how fate unfolds. Even with wisdom, there is nothing one can do.

“Can live and can die” means being able to decide one’s own life and death; the words are deliberately repeated for emphasis. “Sometimes living, sometimes dying” likewise means that life and death are not ours to decide. “Dark, remote, and boundless” describes something deep and distant, without limits. The Dao is profound and boundless, impossible to fathom; it is where the Way of Heaven converges and finds its culmination. Empty and still, without distinctions, it is the subtle mystery of the Way of Heaven in motion.

Who can truly understand the Way of Heaven? Even Heaven and Earth cannot go against it. Heaven has a firm and vigorous De (Virtue), yet still does not violate the seasons. Fullness, decline, waning, and growth all proceed in their proper time. Sages and wise people, too, cannot go against the times. Although spirits and demons cannot see through the Way of Heaven, they cannot use that to deceive people.

“To dwell on it in silence” means to understand it quietly. “To complete it” means to let it take shape naturally and whole, without exerting human effort. “To bring it to rest” means to calm the heart and let things unfold as they will. “To be at peace with it” means to accept it calmly. When it departs, let it go; when it arrives, welcome it. The Zhuangzi says, “When he happens to arrive, the Master follows the occasion; when he happens to depart, the Master follows the changes.” At peace with the times and responsive to change, one cannot be unsettled by sorrow or joy. This passage means the same thing.

Yang Zhu’s friend was Ji Liang. Ji Liang fell ill, and after seven days his condition became critical. His sons gathered around his bed, weeping, and called for a doctor. Ji Liang said to Yang Zhu, “My sons are so ignorant. Why don’t you sing them a song and help them understand?”

Yang Zhu sang: “If Heaven cannot see clearly, how can people perceive? Heaven neither blesses you nor brings disaster upon you. Fortune and misfortune are not arranged by human beings. Do you and I truly not understand this? Could doctors and shamans understand it?”

Ji Liang’s sons still did not grasp the point. In the end, they summoned three doctors. The first was called Jiao, the second Yu, and the third Lu. They examined Ji Liang.

Jiao said to Ji Liang, “You have not properly balanced your exposure to cold and heat, and your body’s internal balance is out of order. Your illness comes from excessive eating and drinking, uncontrolled desires, and tangled worries. It is not Heaven’s doing, nor the work of ghosts and spirits. Though your condition is critical, medicine can still treat it.” Ji Liang said, “He is only an ordinary doctor. Send him away at once.”

Yu said, “Your vital energy was insufficient from the beginning, but you were given too much milk. Your illness did not arise in a single day; it accumulated gradually, and it can no longer be cured.” Ji Liang said, “This is a good doctor,” and invited him to stay for a meal.

Lu said, “Your illness was not caused by Heaven, by people, or by ghosts. When people receive life and take shape, there are forces that govern them and forces that can know them. What can medicines and acupuncture stones do to you?” Ji Liang said, “What a miraculous doctor!” and sent him off with great respect.

Before long, Ji Liang recovered on his own.

Good fortune and protection are not deliberately bestowed by Heaven, and misfortune is not intentionally brought upon people. Everything happens naturally. “Excessive worry and scattered thoughts” means thinking too much and having a distracted mind. “An excess of milk” means taking in too much milk.

Qiao believed that illness was caused by people’s actions, so he regarded him as an ordinary person and paid him no attention. Yu believed that illness came from a person’s inborn endowment. Since this endowment came from Heaven and lay beyond human control, he regarded him as a good doctor and invited him to eat, thinking his words more reasonable. Lu said that no one could know what caused an illness; and even if someone did know, they might not understand the reason behind it. Since even Heaven could not know everything, he regarded him as a divine doctor and gave him a generous gift of property, believing his insight profound and subtle. Before long, the patient recovered on his own. This means, once again, that recovery happens naturally and that medicine may not have played any part.

A person’s life is not necessarily preserved just because others value them, nor is their body necessarily strong because others care for them. A life is not necessarily cut short because others hold it in contempt, nor does a body necessarily grow weak because others pay it no heed. Thus, some people are valued yet do not survive, while others are scorned yet do not die; some are cared for, but their bodies are not necessarily strong, while others are overlooked, but their bodies are not necessarily weak. This may seem contrary to expectation, but it is not: life endures or passes away, and the body grows strong or weak, all by themselves.

Sometimes, those who are valued survive while those who are scorned die; those who are cared for have strong bodies, while those who are overlooked grow weak. This may seem only natural, yet it need not be because of being valued, scorned, cared for, or neglected. In the same way, life arises and ends of itself, and the body grows robust or frail of itself.

Nobility and low status, wealth and poverty, have nothing to do with how long one lives. This may sound contrary to common sense, but it is not. Attributing a person’s lifespan to their status and circumstances may seem reasonable on the surface, yet it is not reasonable in fact. Once we understand that the length of life arises from nature and cannot be otherwise, we need no longer wonder whether it goes against common sense or accords with it.

Yu Xiong said to King Wen of Zhou, “Being born with a longer life does not mean anything has been gained; being born with a shorter life does not mean anything has been lost. The length of one’s life cannot be controlled by calculation or planning. What can be done?”

The principle governing how long one is born to live is like the example in the Zhuangzi of the wild duck and the crane: a wild duck’s legs are short, and they cannot be forcibly lengthened; a crane’s legs are long, and they cannot be forcibly shortened. To say that lifespan cannot be controlled by calculation means that it is not determined by human schemes. Since it cannot be controlled, what can a person do? Since nothing can be done about it, one can only let things follow their natural course.

Lao Dan said to Guan Yin, “What Heaven abhors—who can know why?” The point is that instead of trying to guess Heaven’s intentions and calculate gains and losses, it is better to stop.

The meaning of this chapter is close to the Zhuangzi’s saying: “What Heaven regards as a gentleman, people regard as a petty person; what people regard as a gentleman, Heaven regards as a petty person.” Yan Hui died young, while Robber Zhi lived a long life. Which of these should be called good, and which bad? If we try to infer Heaven’s intentions from human affairs and discover what Heaven judges to be good or bad, advantageous or harmful, where can we find an answer? It is better to stop forcing the inquiry and let things follow their natural course.

Yang Bu asked, “There is a group of people who are the same age, speak in much the same way, have comparable abilities, and look alike. Yet their lifespans differ as much as those of a father and son; their ranks vary from high to low, their reputations from good to bad, and they are met with very different degrees of love and hatred. This leaves me perplexed.”

Yangzi said, “The ancients said something that I remember, and I would like to use it to explain this to you: When we do not know why something happens, yet it happens of itself, that is destiny. The world is dim and chaotic. People each act in their own way, and each refrain from certain things; the days pass, then come again. Who can know why? All of this is probably destiny.

Those who trust in destiny no longer cling to how long they live. Those who trust in reason no longer cling to who is right or wrong. Those who follow their inner nature no longer dwell on favorable or adverse circumstances. Those who accord with their nature no longer cling to safety or danger. Such people can be said to cling neither to belief nor to disbelief. They are genuine and sincere: what, then, would they need to reject or pursue? What would they need to grieve or rejoice over? What would they need to do, or refrain from doing?”

The text goes on to say that even brothers who are close in age and appearance each have their differences. Those who follow their inner nature and accord with their nature are no longer stirred by adversity or good fortune, safety or danger. Once they neither cling to belief nor to disbelief, and remain genuine and sincere, they need not be troubled by choices, sorrow and joy, or whether to act.

The difference between brothers concerns age, appearance, and intelligence being similar; the difference between father and son concerns their status and longevity being far apart. An ancient once said, “I remember a saying like this.” What was it? It was: people do not understand why things are as they are, yet they are just so. This is called “fate.”

The affairs of the world are tangled and numerous, and the human heart keeps wavering. We want to act but cannot; we do not want to act but do so anyway. All this is governed by fate. Who can know why? Once you understand fate, you no longer cling to the length of your life. Once you understand the natural order, you no longer cling to right and wrong. Once you understand the heart of Yingxiong (the person or title referred to in the original), you no longer cling to favorable or adverse circumstances. Once you understand the nature bestowed by Heaven, you no longer cling to security or danger.

The notions of “fate,” “natural order,” “heart,” and “nature” all seem worthy of belief, yet none is entirely reliable. So one should cling to belief in nothing, while recognizing that nothing is absolutely beyond belief. This is what it means to be truly sincere and simple, single-minded yet unconstrained. If you can reach this point, what difference does it make where you go or where you stay? Why grieve, and why rejoice? What should be done, and what should not? If you hold no preconceived views about these things, that is enough.

The Book of the Yellow Emperor says: “The perfected person sits as if dead and moves as if driven by a mechanism.” They do not know why they sit, nor why they do not sit; they do not know why they move, nor why they do not move. They do not change their expression or appearance because others are watching, nor deliberately keep them unchanged because no one is watching. They come and go alone, enter and leave alone—who could hinder them?

The spirit and mind are so still they seem dead. This is what the Zhuangzi calls “dwelling like a corpse”: the body is like withered wood, the mind like dead ashes. Yet when one acts, it is as if moved by a mechanism. This resembles the parable of the shadow asking its companion about the Dao, which shows that action occurs only when something underlies it. It is also like the wooden puppet made by Yan Shi: it can move because mechanisms inside it set it in motion.

Since action is not governed by oneself, one does not know why one sits at ease or cannot sit at ease, why one acts or refrains from acting. Has the expression and appearance others see in me ever changed? Has the self they cannot see ever changed? As for realms beyond the reach of the ears and eyes, I have long since stopped keeping them in mind. Thus, in coming and going, advancing and withdrawing, I can grasp their subtle workings on my own. Who could still restrain or obstruct me? This is forgetting oneself, relinquishing one’s form, and roaming together with the transformations of nature.

Mo-chi (weak and yielding), Shan-zhi (the mind unsettled), Tan-xuan (fearful), and Bie-fu (hurried and agitated) live together in the world, each acting according to their own inclinations. Throughout their lives, they never understand one another’s thoughts, each believing that this is precisely profound wisdom and strategy.

“To each according to their own inclinations” means that these four kinds of people associate in the same world, yet each acts according to their own wishes. Even after many years together, they still never understand one another’s inner thoughts, each believing that the wisdom and strategy they employ are exceedingly subtle. The text that follows uses five sets of terms for people to describe their inclinations and the ways of the world—that is, the many changes in human bearing described in the Zhuangzi. Mo-chi means weak and yielding; Shan-zhi means unsettled; Tan-xuan means fearful; Bie-fu means hurried and agitated.

The clever and ingratiating, the foolish and forthright, the yu-jian (meaning unclear), the fu-yue (meaning unclear), and the obsequious all live together in the world, each acting according to their own inclinations. Throughout their lives, they never discuss their ways of doing things with one another, each believing their methods to be ingenious and subtle.

The so-called “art of not speaking to one another” means that people do not share their methods with each other, each believing that they possess useful and subtle techniques. “Uncomprehending and unawakened” describes a state of not understanding or coming to awareness.

There are four kinds of people: shrewd and clever, deliberately showy, slow and halting in speech, and quick to bully and interrogate others. They live together in the world, and each finds the others agreeable. Yet they never understand one another, even by the end of their lives, and each believes that they alone have achieved something. “Shrewd” means sly and clever; “letting one’s feelings show” means revealing oneself and showing off; “speech that is halting and hurried” refers to speaking slowly and hesitantly, yet in a rush; and “bullying and reproaching” means interrogating and blaming.

There are four more kinds of people: awkward and ill at ease in their bearing, tedious in speech, courageous, and timid and suspicious. They live together, and each finds the others agreeable. Throughout their lives they never expose one another’s faults or pass judgment, and each believes that their own conduct is without error. “Exposing and censuring” means bringing faults to light and reproaching someone.

There are four further kinds of people: readily agreeing with others, acting arbitrarily, relying on power, and standing alone in self-sufficiency. They live together, and each finds the others agreeable. Throughout their lives they pay no heed to one another, and each believes that they have simply met their moment. “Readily agreeing” means easily getting along with others; “acting on one’s own authority” means making decisions unilaterally; “wielding power” means gaining influence and holding authority; and “standing alone” means being isolated and unconstrained.

These are all different ways people behave in the world. Though their outward appearances differ, all are subject to what fate has allotted them.

The “various conditions” refers to the five kinds of people mentioned above. The Dao is the natural order. In the phrase “come forth through the Dao,” the word “forth” means “to go,” describing how people all come into being in accordance with the natural order. Though their temperaments, appearances, and ways of acting differ, they cannot entirely determine these for themselves. The circumstances to which they ultimately come are also governed by fate. The point is that human dispositions and the ways of the world vary endlessly, yet all are shaped by fate.

In “seemingly succeeding” (guǐguǐ ér chéng), “seemingly” means that something appears to have succeeded but has not truly come to fruition. “Seemingly failing” likewise means that something appears to have failed but has not truly failed. This is how confusion arises: misled by outward appearances of success and failure, people become disoriented as fortune and misfortune shift. Those who are not deceived by appearances will not be alarmed by troubles from outside or delighted by blessings within. They act when it is time to act and stop when it is time to stop—something ordinary cleverness cannot anticipate.

Those who trust in fate make no distinction between themselves and others. If they do make such a distinction, they might as well cover their eyes, block their ears, and walk with their backs to a slope and their faces toward a pit; they would be no more likely to fall. The scripture therefore says: life and death are determined by fate, poverty by the turn of fortune. To resent an early death is not to understand fate; to resent poverty is not to understand the times. To feel no fear when death is due, and no distress when in hardship, is to know fate and accept the times.

Let clever people weigh advantages and disadvantages, assess what is real or false, and gauge others’ feelings: they may judge correctly or they may be wrong. Let those who are less clever refrain from weighing, assessing, and gauging: they too may be right or wrong. If so, what difference is there between weighing and not weighing, assessing and not assessing, gauging and not gauging? Only by clinging neither to weighing nor to not weighing can one preserve oneself without loss. This does not mean deliberately seeking preservation or deliberately trying to avoid loss; preservation and loss alike arise naturally.

“Guigui” means “almost like,” while “qiao” means “similar.” Something may look like a success without actually being one; something may look like a failure without truly being one. People are often misled by appearances that seem to show success or failure. Thus, “confusion gives rise to the seemingly similar”: people can be deceived by appearances that are only seemingly true. Yet although things may look blurred and hard to distinguish, their underlying principles are clear; they are not truly obscure. If one stays clear-minded amid such ambiguities, there is no need to fear calamity or rejoice in good fortune.

“Outer calamity” means disasters people dislike and wish to avoid; “inner good fortune” means blessings people cherish and seek. In fact, calamity and good fortune have no inherent distinction between inner and outer. People’s likes and dislikes divide them up, which is why they are alarmed by calamity and delighted by good fortune. “Sometimes moving, sometimes still; moving together, reaching the end together” means that all things move and come to rest in their own time, run their course together, and arrive together at their end. Human wisdom cannot fully grasp these changes, so there is no need to impose one’s thoughts upon them.

Standing with one’s back to a steep slope and walking beside a deep ravine is already extremely dangerous. Blocking one’s ears and covering one’s eyes makes it more dangerous still. Yet if one knows that the safety or peril of life is governed by fate and does not cling to the matter, one will not be frightened by danger. This view differs from Mencius’s statement that “one who knows fate does not stand beneath a dangerous wall,” and shows the distinction between the words of sages and those of heterodox thinkers.

Even with cleverness and repeated calculation, gain and loss remain evenly balanced; a dull person who does not calculate also faces an even balance of gain and loss. “Gain is half; loss is half” means that what is gained and what is lost each account for half: no amount of planning can reckon with every change, and even the most foolish may sometimes gain something. If one neither plans deliberately nor clings to planning, gain and loss cease to be concerns. In this way, one can preserve one’s nature without suffering loss.

Yet whether anything has been preserved or lost is itself difficult to know with certainty; one cannot be sure what has been gained or what has been lost. Hence the saying: “One does not even know what it is to preserve, or what it is to lose.” The earlier point was that one’s nature can be preserved without loss. At the end, however, the wording shifts to “preserving oneself, losing oneself, and forfeiting oneself.” The meaning is that preservation happens naturally, and loss happens naturally. There is no such thing as preservation or loss; therefore, naturally, there is nothing to preserve or lose.

Duke Jing of Qi was touring Ox Mountain. Looking north toward his capital, he wept and said, “What a beautiful land! The plants and trees flourish, and the scenery is lush. How can I leave this place and go to my death? If people in ancient times had never died, why would I have to leave here? Where else could I go?” Shi Kong and Liang Qiuju, who were beside him, began to weep as well.

Duke Jing said, “What a beautiful land! The plants and trees flourish, and the scenery is lush. How can I leave this place and go to my death? If people in ancient times had never died, why would I have to leave here? Where else could I go?” Shi Kong and Liang Qiuju wept along with him, saying, “Thanks to your favor, we can eat coarse grain and poor meat, and ride worn-out horses in shabby carts. Even so, we are still unwilling to die. How much more so must you be?”

Yan Zi, the minister Yan Ying of Qi, was the only one standing nearby who laughed. Duke Jing wiped away his tears, turned to him, and asked, “I went out today and felt deeply sorrowful. Kong and Ju accompanied me in weeping, but you alone laughed. Why?”

Yan Zi replied, “If a worthy ruler could hold on to this state forever, then the Grand Duke [Jiang Taigong] and Duke Huan [of Qi] would have held on to it all this time. If a brave ruler could hold on to it forever, then Dukes Zhuang and Ling would have done so too. If those rulers had kept the state for themselves, you would probably have to wear a rain cape and a bamboo hat, working in the fields just to make a living. Where would you find time to lament your death? And how could you have taken the position you hold today? Rulers take turns occupying this place, and they take turns leaving it. Now it is your turn, yet you alone weep over leaving the world. That is unkind. Here before me is an unkind ruler and, beside him, flattering ministers. Seeing these two things, I laughed to myself.”

Hearing this, Duke Jing felt ashamed and raised his cup to impose a drink on himself. He also ordered Shi Kong and Liang Qiuju to drink two cups each.

The word didi describes a state of decline and withering. Coarse grain was food eaten by people of lower status at the time. “Inferior horses and rough carts” refers to poor-quality horses and simple, shabby vehicles.

“Di-di” describes someone who looks frail and emaciated. “Coarse food” means poor-quality food, and also refers to the food eaten by people of low status. A “plain cart” is a small cart with a wooden body, crudely made and not smoothly rounded. “Wipe away tears” means to dry one’s tears. “Worry only about one’s affairs” means being preoccupied with making a living and getting things done. “What leisure would there be?” is probably the intended reading; it means “Where would there be any time?” The general point is that some foolish people do not understand the comings and goings of life and death, and are attached only to the pleasures of the moment.

In the state of Wei, a man named Dongmen Wu’s son died, yet he did not grieve. The steward of his household asked, “You loved your son more than anyone in the world. Now that he has died, you are not sad. Why?” Dongmen Wu replied, “Before, I had no son. When I had no son, I was not distressed. Now that my son has died, things are simply as they were when I had no son. Why should I be distressed?”

“Household steward” refers to the person who managed the affairs of the household. This chapter says that what one gains was never necessarily one’s to begin with; losing it merely returns one to the state of not having it. The following passage mentions ministers and “the same as what?”—meaning that ministers are the same as …; the meaning of the original text is incomplete here.

Farmers work the fields according to the season, merchants pursue profit, artisans refine their skills, and officials attach themselves to power. Each is driven by the circumstances of their position. Yet farmers encounter floods and droughts, merchants make gains or suffer losses, artisans succeed or fail, and officials enjoy favor or fall from it. These, too, are determined by fate.

“Work” means to shape or refine, as in the word “carve and polish.” Though farmers keep to the seasons, they still face floods and droughts; though merchants pursue profit, they experience gains and losses; though artisans master their craft, they encounter success and failure; and though officials accommodate those in power, they may still gain favor or fall into disfavor. All of this depends on fate. The earlier phrase “circumstances compel them” means that once someone has become a farmer, merchant, artisan, or official, the demands of that position leave them with little choice but to act accordingly. The pressures of the world often force their hand.

End of Book Six of the True Scripture of the Surpassing Emptiness and Highest Virtue: Yanzhai’s Commentary.

Simply being alive should be enough. Why pursue a reputation? Meng asked what good there was in seeking fame. Yang Zhu replied: “People seek fame in order to become wealthy. Once wealthy, why not stop? To become eminent. Once eminent, why not stop? To be remembered after death. And what is that for? For one’s descendants. What good does fame do for one’s descendants? Seeking fame makes a person toil and exhausts the spirit. Yet the influence one leaves through fame can benefit one’s clan and bring good to the people of one’s home district—how much more so to one’s descendants?”

“Simply being alive should be enough” means that we are all human beings alike, and a secure life is sufficient. Why, then, pursue a reputation? To say that the pursuit of fame makes people toil and exhausts the spirit means that those who seek fame must work hard for it. If their labor wins them a reputation, they can use it to benefit their clan and bring good to their home district, and it can benefit their descendants even more. Fame, then, has its uses.

Those who seek fame are sure to be incorruptible, and the incorruptible are poor. Those who seek fame are also sure to be modest and yielding, and the modest and yielding hold low positions.

A word meaning “he said” should be supplied here, since the discussion now turns: if those who seek fame are both incorruptible and modest, neither wealthy nor eminent, how could they benefit their descendants?

Yang Zhu replied: “When Guan Zhong served the state of Qi, the ruler indulged himself, and Guan Zhong indulged himself too; the ruler was extravagant, and Guan Zhong was extravagant as well. Their aims were aligned and they understood one another. Guan Zhong put his governing principles into practice and made Qi a hegemon. After his death, all he left behind was the Guan clan. When the Tian clan served Qi, the ruler was arrogant and self-satisfied, so its members kept themselves humble; the ruler amassed wealth, so they showed generosity to the people. The people all rallied to them, and the Tian clan took control of Qi. Its descendants inherited the state, and their rule has continued to this day. This shows that those who act in accordance with their reputation become poor, while those who use their reputation to seek advantage become wealthy.”

The discussion now turns to morality, reputation, and hegemony. After Guan Zhong’s death, the only one able to take his place in influencing Qi was the Tian clan. When the clan assisted Qi, it held back whenever the ruler was powerful; when the ruler exacted levies from the people, it bestowed favors and offered relief. The people therefore rallied to the Tian clan, which later took control of Qi. Its descendants held the throne without interruption down to the present day. This shows that genuine virtue can leave a person impoverished, while a false reputation can make one wealthy.

The discussion then turns to the difference between genuine and false reputation. Guan Zhong went along with his ruler’s desires and shared in his extravagant pleasures. He did not deliberately seek a fine reputation for himself; he planned loyally and helped his ruler achieve hegemony swiftly. This was genuine virtue, yet it brought benefit only to Guan Zhong himself. The Tian clan, by contrast, acted in ways that countered the ruler’s conduct: when the ruler was arrogant, it appeared humble; when he imposed harsh levies, it appeared benevolent. Through its displays of humility and benevolence, the clan won a reputation. That reputation was false, yet in the end it enabled the clan to take control of Qi. Thus false reputation brings wealth and honor, while genuine virtue can leave a person impoverished.

The saying “Genuine virtue has no reputation; those with a reputation may lack genuine virtue” means that reputation is ultimately mere embellishment. In the past, Yao and Shun pretended to yield the realm to Xu You and Shan Juan, yet they did not lose it and continued to enjoy a century of imperial fortune. Boyi and Shuqi, by contrast, truly gave up the position of ruler of the isolated state of Guzhu, and in the end lost their country and starved to death on Mount Shouyang. The distinction between what is genuine and what is false is roughly this.

The passage goes on to argue that all reputation is embellishment. Those with genuine virtue do not pursue a reputation; those who pursue one lack genuine virtue. Thus any deliberate effort to seek a reputation contains an element of falsehood. The author uses the stories of Yao and Shun, and of Boyi and Shuqi, to make this point. “Examine” means to investigate and distinguish: the difference between what is genuine and what is false has been made quite clear. The passage begins by saying that reputation can bring personal gain, and concludes with the word “falsehood.” The six characters “genuine virtue has no reputation; reputation has no genuine virtue” are concisely put. Yet to call all reputation false is itself an extreme argument aimed at correcting worldly attitudes.

Yang Zhu said: “A human life rarely lasts much beyond a hundred years, and among a thousand people, scarcely one reaches that age. Even for such a person, the years from infancy to old age and confusion take up nearly half a lifetime. Sleeping at night and feeling listless during the day take up about half of what remains. Illness and pain, grief and worry, losing family and friends, and living in fear account for about half again. Look closely, and across more than ten years there may not be even a single full day spent truly at ease, content, and free of worry. How much of life is left, then?

“What is it that people live for, and what genuine pleasure is there? Nothing more than pursuing delicious food, pleasing sounds, and beautiful sights. Yet one cannot enjoy fine food to the full forever, nor look and listen without tiring of sights and sounds. People are also constrained and driven by punishments and rewards, and their choices are swayed by reputation and laws. They busily chase empty fame for the moment and scheme for honors to be remembered after death. Carefully restricting what their eyes see and ears hear, and scrupulously weighing right and wrong in their own conduct, they end up wasting life’s greatest pleasure in the present, unable to live freely in the time before them. How is this any different from being locked in a prison and bound in chains?

“People of remote antiquity understood that life is only a temporary arrival in this world, and death only a temporary departure. So they followed their hearts without going against their natural inclinations. They did not lightly give up the pleasures proper to life, and thus were not driven by reputation. They lived freely according to their nature, without going against the nature of things. They did not seek a name after death, and so were not threatened by punishments. Whether fame came early or late, whether life was long or short—these were not things they concerned themselves with.”

“Qi” is read as “ji” and means a limit or degree. “What is dispelled” means what is eliminated or dissolved; “to lose” means to be deprived of something. “A trace of worry” refers to the slightest unease. Human joy and happiness are scarce to begin with. Even when happiness comes, it is hard to avoid some small dissatisfaction, so complete happiness is difficult to attain. In a person’s hundred-year life, it is almost impossible to have even a brief moment entirely free of worry.

“Fine and abundant” refers to exquisite food and ample clothing. “Restlessly” describes rushing about in pursuit of something; “at a loss” describes being bewildered and helpless. How is rushing about for empty fame, then living in fear to avoid trouble, any different from being imprisoned and bound in shackles?

The phrase “to differ in what is different and alike” means that action arises from within: one need only avoid going against the natural order. When there is joy to be found in the present, enjoy it openly rather than giving it up in pursuit of fame. Roam in pleasure in keeping with one’s nature, without coming into conflict with the myriad things. People naturally cherish the fame that survives them, but one should not court punishment and calamity for the sake of a name. In other words, do not sacrifice your life for fame.

These words, however, are too blunt and do not seem suited to be handed down as instruction. The Zhuangzi does not express itself this way.

Yang Zhu said: What makes all things different from one another is their condition while alive; what makes them the same is death. While alive, there are distinctions between the wise and the foolish, the honored and the lowly. That is what makes them different. After death, all decay, disperse, and perish. That is what makes them the same.

Yet whether one is wise or foolish, honored or lowly, is not something one can decide for oneself. Nor can one control the decay and dispersal that follow death. So life is not something people bring about by their own choice, and death is not something they choose for themselves. The wise cannot make themselves wise, and the foolish cannot make themselves foolish; neither can people control whether they are honored or lowly.

Thus, at root, all things are the same in life and death, wisdom and folly, honor and lowliness. One who lives ten years will die, just as one who lives a hundred years will die. The humane, virtuous, and wise will die, as will the cruel and foolish. In life, one may be Yao or Shun; after death, one is no more than decaying bone. In life, one may be Jie or Zhou; after death, one too becomes decaying bone. Since all ultimately come to the same end, who can say they are different? For now, simply make the most of life. Why spend time worrying about what comes after death?

Lin Xiyi explains: Though people differ while alive, after death they return to the same state. This is like Du Fu’s words: Confucius and the bandit Zhi ultimately return to dust alike. “Qu” means to move toward or face. First make the most of the days before death; where is there time to dwell on what follows? Zhang Han said, “For now, let us finish the cup of wine before us,” and Bai Juyi wrote, “Do not think of the endless affairs beyond you; for now, finish the limited cup before you.” Both express this idea.