《南华真经》Vol. 2

When sages govern badly, thieves run rampant and cannot be stopped. This is the sages’ fault. As the saying goes, fish cannot be separated from deep waters, and the state’s vital powers must not be put on display. A sage is one of the world’s most important instruments and should not be displayed to the world.

Therefore, abandon the vaunted title of sage and clever schemes, and great robbers will cease to appear. Stop placing value on jade and pearls, and petty thieves will not arise. Burn the tallies and smash the seals—tokens used in ancient times for proof and authorization—and the people will return to simplicity. Set aside measuring vessels and break the balance beams, and the people will no longer fight over possessions. Only when the sages’ laws that disrupt the world are destroyed can the people begin to speak on equal terms.

Throw the six pitch standards into disarray, destroy instruments such as the yu and se, and plug the ears of musicians like Shi Kuang; then people throughout the world will no longer rely solely on hearing. Eliminate elaborate patterns and colors, and cover the eyes of sharp-sighted people like Li Zhu; then people throughout the world will no longer rely solely on sight. Destroy tools such as the compass, cord, and carpenter’s square, and have skilled craftsmen like Gong Chui lay aside their techniques; then people throughout the world will once again possess their own abilities. The highest skill, as the saying goes, appears to be clumsiness.

Strip away the vaunted virtue of Zeng Shen and Shi Yu, silence the teachings of Yang Zhu and Mozi, and set aside the names of benevolence and righteousness; only then will the people’s De return to an undivided whole. When people rein in their showy cleverness, the world will not be misled. When they do not rely solely on quick wits, the world will not be burdened by them. When they do not flaunt their schemes, the world will not be confused. When they nurture their original De, the world will not stray into wrong paths.

Zeng Shen, Shi Yu, Yang Zhu, Mozi, Shi Kuang, Gong Chui, and Li Zhu each established their own virtue or skill outwardly, thereby disrupting the world. These things are not necessary for governing the world. Do you not know what the age of perfect De was like?

Long ago, when Rongcheng, Dating, Bohuang, Zhongyang, Lilu, Lixu, Xuanyuan, Hexu, Zunlu, Zhurong, Fuxi, and Shennong governed the world, people kept records by tying knots. They found their food delicious and their clothes beautiful, loved their own customs, and lived peacefully in their homes. Neighboring states could see one another, and the crowing of chickens and barking of dogs could be heard across their borders, yet people grew old and died without visiting one another. In an age like this, governance may be said to have reached its highest point.

Today, however, the people are made to crane their necks and rise onto their toes as they ask, “Is there a worthy person somewhere?” Then they set off with provisions to seek an audience, leaving their families behind and neglecting their work. Their footprints spread across the territories of the feudal states, and their carriage tracks even cross one another a thousand miles away. This is the consequence of rulers esteeming cleverness. When rulers pursue cleverness single-mindedly without following the Dao, the world falls into chaos.

How do we know this is so? The more bows, crossbows, bird traps, shooting devices, and ingenious techniques there are, the more easily birds are hunted. The more hooks, bait, nets, and fishing techniques there are, the more the fish in the water are disturbed. The more barriers, snares, and traps there are for enclosing beasts, the less peace the wild animals in the marshlands can know. The more deceit, sophistry, and clever arguments distinguishing “hardness and whiteness” or “sameness and difference” there are, the more ordinary people are misled by words.

Thus, the world falls into chaos time and again because cleverness is held in esteem. Everyone knows to pursue what they do not know, yet does not know how to cherish what they already know. Everyone knows to condemn what they consider bad, yet does not know to examine what they have already decided is good. This is what brings about great disorder. Those above then violate the clear principles governing the sun and moon; those below deplete the vital energies of mountains and rivers; and in between, they disrupt the rhythms of the four seasons. From tiny creatures that breathe and move to small beings that take flight, all lose their own nature. How powerful is the disorder that esteeming cleverness brings to the world!

Since the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, people have cast aside all kinds of plain, natural common folk and favored those who scheme and ingratiate themselves with others. They have abandoned quiet, unambitious lives lived in accord with nature and become eager for complicated, artificial actions. As a result, even living things such as insects and plants have lost their own natures. A fondness for cleverness has thrown the world into such disorder! This has been the case since the Three Dynasties: plain common folk are cast aside in favor of schemers who flatter; quiet contentment and Wuwei (non-action) are abandoned in favor of frantic, artificial activity. This frantic, artificial activity alone is enough to throw the world into disorder.

The True Classic of Southern Florescence, Volume Two, “Outer Chapters: Letting Be,” Chapter Eleven

We have heard of letting all things under Heaven grow freely and dwell in peace, but not of governing them by controlling them. “Letting be” means fearing that people will give free rein to their nature; “sparing” means fearing that they will alter their original De (Virtue/Power). If people under Heaven neither give free rein to their nature nor alter their De, who would need to govern the world?

In ancient times, Yao governed the world and made its people happy, with everyone glad to follow their own nature. Yet this did not amount to quiet ease. Jie governed the world and made its people weary and distressed, with everyone suffering because their nature was suppressed. This was certainly no joy either. Neither peaceful nor joyful, such a state does not accord with De; what does not accord with De cannot last.

Excessive joy can injure a person’s Yang, while excessive anger can injure their Yin. When both Yin and Yang are damaged, the seasons fall out of their proper course and cold and heat cease to harmonize, eventually turning back to harm the human body. When people’s joy and anger become erratic, their lives lack a steady pattern, and their minds cannot settle, they can no longer act in a natural and orderly way. Then contrived behavior begins to appear throughout the world: some strive artificially for lofty conduct, while others sink into base expediency. In time, there arise people like Robber Zhi, the legendary great bandit, as well as conduct like that of Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu, renowned for their virtue.

Therefore, offering the whole world as a reward for the good would not be enough, and offering the whole world as punishment for the wicked would not be enough either. However vast the world may be, it cannot suffice as a means of reward and punishment. From the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties onward, people have been in constant turmoil, always treating reward and punishment as matters of utmost importance. When, then, have they had the leisure to settle their nature and life?

Moreover, those who delight in visual beauty become absorbed in colors; those who delight in pleasing sounds become absorbed in music. A love of benevolence may disturb one’s original De; a love of righteousness may turn one away from the natural order. A love of ritual may turn it into a means of displaying skill; a love of music may lead to absorption in song and sound. A love of the way of sages may turn it into a means of showing off one’s talents, while a love of cleverness may encourage faultfinding and error.

If people under Heaven can settle their nature and life, these eight things may be present or absent. If they cannot, the eight things will be pursued deliberately, entangling and piling up until they disturb the world.

When people everywhere begin to revere and cherish these things, the troubles of the world grow severe. If people can live in keeping with their original nature, these eight things may be present or absent without consequence. But if they cannot, the eight things will make them constrained and entangled, cramped and uneasy, and throw the world into disorder. When people everywhere begin to revere and cherish them, the world’s confusion grows severe as well. Is it enough simply to surpass them and set them aside? People still fast before discussing them, kneel to present them, then beat drums, sing, and dance in their praise. Why should I do such things?

Therefore, when a noble person has no choice but to govern the world, the best course is to follow things as they are and practice Wuwei (non-action). Only through Wuwei can people everywhere live in keeping with their original nature. So only someone who values their own life more than governing the world can be entrusted with the world; only someone who cherishes the world as they cherish themselves can be given charge of it.

If a noble person does not disturb the Five Viscera—that is, the inner life of body and mind—and does not deliberately display cleverness, they can sit quietly like a corpse while manifesting transformations like a dragon. They can be silent as an abyss yet command the force of thunder. When their spirit stirs, the world responds and acts in accordance with the Dao. They remain at ease in Wuwei, and all things grow and transform of their own accord. What time would I have to govern the world deliberately?

Cui Qu asked Lao Dan, an honorific for the Daoist sage: “If you do not govern the world, how can you set people’s hearts at rest?” Lao Dan said, “You must never disturb people’s hearts. The human heart is always lowering one side and raising another; as those above and below contend, they bind and harm one another. The heart also subjects the weak to the strong. When it is polished and carved, it burns like a blazing fire and chills like solid ice. It changes with such speed that in an instant it seems to rise and fall, reaching beyond the Four Seas. At rest, it is deep and still; in motion, it hangs high like the sky. Angry, proud, and impossible to restrain—the human heart is perhaps the only thing like this.”

In ancient times, the Yellow Emperor first stirred people’s hearts with benevolence and righteousness. Yao and Shun then worked themselves to the bone, with their thighs wasting away and the hair on their shins worn off, striving to nourish the bodies of the people. They also burdened the Five Viscera with worry, made benevolence and righteousness their means of governing, and devised laws by relying on people’s vital energy and emotions.

Even so, Yao was still not fully equal to the task. He therefore exiled Huan Dou to Mount Chong, moved the Sanmiao people to Sanwei, and banished Gong Gong to Youdu. All this shows that he still could not bring complete peace to the realm.

By the age of the Three Kings, the realm was shaken even more deeply. Below, there was a tyrant like Xia Jie; above, there were worthy men like Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu. Confucians and Mohists also arose one after another. People began to suspect one another and give way to anger and pleasure; the ignorant and the clever deceived each other. Those who judged something good accused those who judged it bad, while the false mocked the truthful. As a result, the realm declined. People’s Virtue was no longer alike, and their nature and life fell into disorder. Everyone pursued cleverness, exhausting the people’s strength.

Then instruments of punishment and tools such as knives, saws, ink lines, hammers, and chisels appeared one after another, and the realm fell into chaos. The trouble began with the disturbance of people’s minds. The worthy withdrew to the depths of mountain ravines and beneath perilous cliffs, while the ruler of ten thousand chariots sat in the court, anxious and unsettled. Now, the bodies of those condemned to death lie piled head to head; people wearing cangues and leg stocks crowd together; and those suffering punishment or execution are everywhere. Yet Confucians and Mohists still argue and gesticulate among the instruments of torture. Alas, how utterly without remorse or shame they are!

I do not know how what is called sagacity and wisdom could fail to become the joints of a cangue, or how what is called benevolence and righteousness could fail to become the handles of a stock. How can we know that men like Zeng Shen and Shi Qiu were not arrows used by Xia Jie and Shang Zhou to kill people? Thus it is said: “Cast aside sagacity and discard cleverness, and the realm will be perfectly governed.”

Huangdi had been Son of Heaven for nineteen years, and his commands were carried out throughout the realm. Hearing that Guang Chengzi, a legendary adept of the Dao, lived on Mount Kongtong, he went to visit him and said, “I have heard that you understand the Great Dao, and I venture to ask about its essential meaning. I wish to draw upon the vital energy of Heaven and Earth to help the five grains grow and nourish the people. I also wish to master the changes of Yin-Yang and bring about the flourishing of all things. How should I do this?”

Guang Chengzi replied, “You ask about the true nature of all things, yet what you seek to control is merely their outermost remnants. You govern the realm yourself and still wish to command Yin-Yang and bring forth the growth of all things. How could you possibly do so?”

Your earlier desire for an official position was precisely what harmed your nature. If you governed the world, clouds would bring rain without gathering, plants would wither before their leaves turned yellow, and the light of the sun and moon would grow ever dimmer. With a mind as restless as yours, always eager for quick results, how could you speak of the highest Dao?

The Yellow Emperor withdrew and set aside the affairs of the world. He built a small, secluded hut, spread a mat of white thatch, and lived there quietly. Later, he went to invite Master Guangcheng. Guangcheng lay facing south, his back turned to his visitor. The Yellow Emperor stood downwind, approached on his knees, bowed, and asked, “I have heard that you understand the highest Dao. How should I cultivate myself so that I may endure?”

Guangcheng rose with a solemn expression and said, “A good question. Come, I will tell you about the highest Dao. Its subtlety is deep and remote; at its utmost, it is obscure and traceless, still and soundless. Do not look, do not listen. Guard your spirit and quiet your mind, and your body will naturally become upright. Be sure to remain still and clear. Do not tire your body or disturb your vital energy; in this way you may live long. Let your eyes pursue nothing they see, your ears pursue nothing they hear, and your mind make no false distinctions. Then your spirit will safeguard your body, and your body will endure. Carefully guard what is within and keep what is outside clear. Too much knowledge brings ruin.

“I once led you to the utmost realm of brightness, to the source of supreme Yang; I also led you through the gate of profound mystery, to the source of supreme Yin. Heaven and Earth each have their ruler; Yin and Yang each have their hidden store. Carefully guard yourself, and all things will naturally flourish. I hold fast to the Dao of the One and dwell in harmony with Yin and Yang. Thus I have cultivated myself for twelve hundred years, and my body has never grown old.”

The Yellow Emperor bowed again and said, “What Master Guangcheng has said is truly the Way of Heaven.” Guangcheng said, “Come, I will tell you more. All things are without end, yet people believe they have a conclusion. All things are beyond measure, yet people believe they have limits. One who attains the Dao may become an emperor above or a king below; one who loses the Dao can see only brightness above, while below is bound by the endless transformations of all things…”

Those who stray from my Dao may raise their minds toward the light, yet their bodies sink down and turn to earth. All things grow from the soil and in the end return to it. So I will leave you and enter the Gate of the Infinite, roaming the boundless wilderness. I will shine with the sun and moon and endure as long as Heaven and Earth. If you follow me, you will be clear and perceptive; if you turn away from me, you will be darkened and confused. All people will die. Could I alone endure forever?

The Cloud General was traveling east. Passing the branches of Fuyao, he happened to meet Hunmeng, the spirit of primordial Qi said to embody the natural force of the cosmos. Hunmeng was slapping his thighs and leaping about for pleasure. Seeing him, the Cloud General hesitated and stopped. He stood respectfully and asked, “Elder, who are you, and what are you doing?”

Hunmeng kept leaping about and paid him no attention. The Cloud General tried again: “There is something I would like to ask you.” Hunmeng looked up at him and said, “Ah.”

The Cloud General said, “The weather above is out of harmony, and the vital breath of the earth below is stagnant. The six Qi—Yin, Yang, wind, rain, darkness, and brightness—are moving out of balance, and the four seasons have lost their proper order. I wish now to harmonize the essences of the six Qi and nurture all things. What should I do?”

Hunmeng kept leaping about. Turning his head, he said, “I don’t know. I don’t know.” The Cloud General got no answer.

Three years later, the Cloud General was traveling east again. Passing the outskirts of Song, he happened to meet Hunmeng once more. The Cloud General was overjoyed and hurried up to him, saying, “Heavenly Elder, have you forgotten me? Heavenly Elder, have you forgotten me?” He bowed twice and knocked his head on the ground, then said, “I beg you to instruct me.”

Hunmeng said, “I drift wherever I please, without knowing what I seek. I follow my nature, without knowing where I am going. While wandering for pleasure, I happened to meet you. Those who wander for pleasure are busy only observing how things are of themselves. What could I know?”

The Cloud General said, “I thought I had already let things take their own course, yet the people always follow me. I have no choice but to respond to their needs. Now they all look to me as their example. Please give me a word of guidance.”

Hunmeng said, “Ah, how terrible! You have disrupted the natural order and gone against the nature of all things, preventing the mysterious Dao of Heaven from coming to fruition. Herds of beasts have scattered in alarm, and birds cry out at night. The calamity spreads to plants and trees, and disaster reaches even the insects. These are all the faults caused by governing the people.”

The Cloud General said, “Then what should I do?”

Hunmeng said, “Ah, you have done great harm! Go back, confused and weary.”

Yun Jiang, the legendary spirit of the clouds, said, “I have encountered a grave difficulty. I hope you will offer me a word of guidance.” Hong Meng, the legendary spirit of nature, said, “Ah, nurture your spirit. Simply dwell in Wuwei (non-action), and all things will transform of themselves.” Yun Jiang asked, “Then what should I do?” Hong Meng replied, “Ah, you are too impatient in your questioning. Go back in a daze, without a care.”

Hong Meng continued, “Nurture your spirit. Simply dwell in Wuwei, and all things will transform of themselves. Let go of your body and set aside your cleverness. Forget the distinctions of human relationships and the things outside you, and become one with all things. Open your mind and settle your spirit. Be still and inactive, without contrivance. All things flourish and grow, each returning to its root without knowing it. In undifferentiated chaos, they never depart from their true nature. If you deliberately try to understand them, you will instead leave that true nature behind. Do not ask their names or investigate their reality; all things naturally grow of themselves.”

Yun Jiang said, “Heaven bestowed De (Virtue/Power) upon me and let me understand silence and Wuwei. I have sought this out for myself, and only now have I come to understand it.” He bowed twice, touching his head to the ground, then rose and took his leave.

People in the world all like others to be like themselves and dislike those who are different. They favor those who resemble them and reject those who do not because they make it their aim to outdo everyone else. But if they are set on outdoing everyone, how could they truly rise above everyone? Following the people brings stability. If one’s knowledge and abilities fall short of theirs, yet one still seeks to govern the state, that is to place oneself above the people.

Such a person wants others to agree with him, yet rejects those who differ, because he is always trying to outdo everyone. But if he is set on winning, how could he truly rise above everyone? Following the people brings stability. If someone like this seeks to govern the state, he sees only the gains made by the Three Kings, the traditional title for ancient sage rulers, and fails to see the dangers they faced. This is to gamble with the fate of the state. How could a state rely on luck again and again without being lost? The chance of preserving it is less than one in ten thousand, while the possibilities that could bring about its downfall are beyond counting. How sad that those who possess land and a state do not understand this.

Those who possess a state hold great things in their hands. Anyone who holds great things must not be controlled by external things. Only by remaining free of their control can one master them. One who understands how to master external things, while remaining free of their control, can do far more than govern the people of the world.

The Nanhua Zhenjing (the Zhuangzi) says that to enter and leave the four quarters of Heaven and Earth, roam throughout the Nine Provinces, and come and go freely, bound by nothing, is called “being unique.” Such a person is supremely noble.

When a great person teaches others, it is like a form appearing in a reflection or a sound producing an echo. When someone comes with a question, that person responds, doing what they can to resolve the doubts in the questioner’s mind and becoming a support for all under Heaven. They dwell where there is no echo, and their actions are not confined to any fixed direction. They lead people back and forth amid turmoil and change, roaming through a realm without end. Their comings and goings have no boundaries and are not limited by the beginnings of the sun and moon’s courses. In discussing forms and the myriad things, they return to “great sameness,” the state in which all things are one. Great sameness is without limit. If one forgets oneself, where could attachment to the idea of “existence” arise? Those who see only “existence” are ordinary gentlemen of antiquity; those who can see “nonexistence” are people attuned to Heaven and Earth.

Although the myriad things are lowly, one cannot do without relying on them. Although the people are of low status, one cannot do without following them. Although affairs are subtle, one cannot do without addressing them. Although laws and measures are inconspicuous, one cannot do without putting them into practice. Although the Way and right conduct are lofty, one cannot do without finding a home in them. Although benevolence is close at hand, one cannot do without extending it to all. Although ritual is restrained, one cannot do without accumulating it. Although virtue is inward, one cannot do without elevating it. Although the Dao returns to unity, one cannot do without adapting it to change. Although Heaven’s workings are mysterious, one cannot do without following them.

Thus, the sage observes the Way of Heaven without interfering recklessly, cultivates De without being burdened by it, follows the Great Way without deliberate scheming, draws near to benevolence without relying on it, values right conduct without accumulating a reputation, observes ritual without concealment, handles affairs without evading them, orders laws and measures without causing disorder, relies on the people without looking down on them, and follows the myriad things without departing from them. There is nothing among the myriad things that should be deliberately controlled, yet there is nothing that can be left entirely undone. Without understanding the Way of Heaven, one cannot make De pure; without comprehending the Great Way, one has no basis for action. Not to understand the Great Way is truly lamentable.

What is the Dao? There is the Way of Heaven and the way of humanity. What is Wuwei (non-action) and naturally honored is the Way of Heaven; what involves action and therefore brings toil is the way of humanity. The Way of Heaven occupies the leading position; the way of humanity occupies the subordinate one. The Way of Heaven and the way of humanity are far apart.

Acting naturally through Wuwei (non-action) and following one’s inherent nature belong to the Dao of Heaven. Deliberate action that brings entanglement belongs to the human way. Occupying the position of ruler and directing things belongs to the Dao of Heaven; occupying the position of minister and being put to use by others belongs to the human way. The Dao of Heaven and the human way differ greatly, and must be examined with care.

This concludes the second section of the Spring chapters of the Nanhua True Scripture.

Although Heaven and Earth are vast, their transformations follow a single pattern. Although the myriad things are many, the fundamental principles for governing them are consistent. Although the people are numerous, they still require a ruler to lead them. A ruler takes De (Virtue/Power) as the foundation, follows the Dao (the Way), and thereby accomplishes his work. Thus the rulers of antiquity governed the world without deliberate action, simply following Heaven’s De.

Viewed from the perspective of the Dao, the legitimacy of rulers throughout the world becomes clear; viewed from the Dao, the moral obligations between ruler and minister become evident; viewed from the Dao, people’s abilities can be put to proper use in public office; and viewed broadly from the Dao, the responses of the myriad things can each be appropriately arranged.

What understands the workings of Heaven and Earth is De; what runs through the myriad things is the Dao; what governs people from above is government; and what consists in a particular skill is technique. Technique is contained within government, government within moral principle, moral principle within De, and De within the Dao; the Dao, in turn, is governed by Heaven. The rulers of antiquity had no greed, and the world was well supplied. They took no deliberate action, and the myriad things grew and changed of themselves. Their minds were deep and still, and the people were at peace. The Record says: “Understand one fundamental principle, and all things will be connected. Have no selfish thoughts in your heart, and even spirits and deities will submit.”

Confucius said: “The Dao covers and sustains the myriad things. How vast it is! A noble person must examine it deeply. Acting in accord with Heaven is called ‘Heaven’; expressing oneself without contrivance is called ‘De’; caring for people and benefiting the myriad things is called ‘benevolence’; allowing differences to coexist is called ‘greatness’; acting without insisting on being unlike others is called ‘breadth’; possessing a wealth of diverse things is called ‘abundance.’

“Maintaining De is called ‘order’; bringing one’s De to fulfillment is called ‘establishment’; following the Dao is called ‘wholeness’; and not allowing external things to wound the mind is called ‘integrity.’ A noble person who understands these ten points can be broad-minded and unburdened by particular affairs, while responding fully to the myriad things. Such a person would not covet wealth, even if gold were hidden in the mountains and pearls in the depths. They would not seek the company of the powerful and wealthy; they would not rejoice in long life or grieve over an early death; they would not take pride in success in office or feel ashamed of hardship; they would not claim temporary gains for themselves, nor regard ruling the world as a position that makes them exalted.”

When the Dao becomes manifest, it can make things clear. All things return to a single whole, and life and death reveal the same essential nature. Confucius said, “The Dao is deep and still, yet clear and flowing. Bells and stone chimes cannot sound unless they are struck. Though they have the capacity to make a sound, they will not ring without being struck. Who in all the world can prescribe what all things should take as their own end?”

One who possesses the De of a king—deep, natural virtue—ordinarily follows nature and makes no special effort to master worldly affairs. He is rooted in what is fundamental, yet his understanding reaches into the mysterious. His De is therefore vast, and all things respond to what appears within him. A body cannot come into being without the Dao, and life cannot become manifest without De. To preserve the body and fulfill life, to establish De and understand the Great Dao—is this not the way of one who possesses the De of a king?

His realm is boundless. Suddenly it appears, stirring into vigorous action, and all things move with it. This is what it means to possess the De of a king. He sees clearly in the deepest darkness and hears harmony in silence. Thus he penetrates ever more deeply and can bring forth all things; he is ever more mysterious and can bring each thing to its essential core. When he engages with all things, he supplies what they need through emptiness. Moving in accord with the times, he also enables things to return to their proper ends. Whether large or small, long or short, near or far, each finds what is fitting.

The Yellow Emperor was traveling north of the Red River. He climbed a hill on Mount Kunlun and gazed southward. On his way back, he lost the Dark Pearl, a symbol of the Dao or profound wisdom. He sent Knowledge to search for it, but Knowledge could not find it. He sent Li Zhu, a man of exceptional eyesight, but he could not find it either. He sent Chigou to search, but Chigou could not find it. At last he sent Xiangwang, a presence that seemed both to exist and not to exist, without form or image. Xiangwang found it. The Yellow Emperor exclaimed, “How strange! Xiangwang was able to find it!”

Yao’s teacher was Xu You; Xu You’s teacher was Nie Que; Nie Que’s teacher was Wang Ni; and Wang Ni’s teacher was Bei Yi. Yao asked Xu You, “Can Nie Que be brought into accord with the Way of Heaven? I would like to ask him about it through Wang Ni.”

Xu You said, “Dangerous indeed! To entrust the world to Nieque to govern it. Nieque is clever and perceptive, exceptionally talented, and quick to respond. His natural gifts surpass those of ordinary people, yet he uses the human mind to bear the Way of Heaven. He does know how to prohibit wrongdoing, but he does not know how wrongdoing comes about. Can such a person accord with the Way of Heaven? He can only act by relying on artificial methods, and has lost the naturalness of following the Way of Heaven.

“He thinks only of preserving himself, yet makes things change from their original forms. He prizes cleverness and darts about with the speed of fire. Pulled along by affairs, he becomes patterned by external things. He looks this way and that, responding to whatever he encounters. He bends himself to meet everyone’s needs, yet does not know where wrongdoing comes from. Can such a person accord with the Way of Heaven? He can only act by relying on artificial methods, and has lost the naturalness of following the Way of Heaven. He thinks only of preserving himself, yet makes things change from their original forms. He prizes cleverness and rushes about; pulled along by affairs, he rises and falls with external things. He looks this way and that, responding to whatever he encounters. He caters to everyone’s needs and changes along with the myriad things, without ever having a constant principle. How can this accord with the Way of Heaven?

“Still, there are indeed people in the world who can be fathers to the people, but cannot be their ancestors. Governing is often the beginning of disorder, and it is also what brings calamity upon ministers when they face their ruler. To occupy the ruler’s position and govern may itself become a source of harm.

“Yao went on an inspection tour to Hua. The border official of Hua said to him, ‘Ah, sage! Allow me to offer you a blessing: may you live a long life.’ Yao said, ‘No need.’ The official said again, ‘May you be wealthy.’ Yao said, ‘No need.’ The official said once more, ‘May you have many sons.’ Yao said, ‘No need.’ The official said, ‘A long life, wealth, and many sons are what people all desire. You alone do not want them. Why is that?’ Yao said, ‘Many sons bring many worries; great wealth brings many affairs; a long life brings many troubles…’”

The Way of Heaven operates without hoarding, and so the myriad things are brought forth. The way of emperors and kings operates without hoarding, and so the people of the realm gather around them. The way of sages operates without hoarding, and so people throughout the four seas are convinced. One who understands the Way of Heaven, comprehends the way of the sages, and fully grasps the De of emperors and kings can let things take their natural course. The mind then settles into profound stillness, free from all unease.

Sages are still not because they deliberately make stillness a virtue, but because nothing among the myriad things can disturb their minds; thus they are able to be still. When water is motionless, it clearly reflects a person’s beard and eyebrows. When its surface is level, it serves as a reliable standard for measurement, and skilled carpenters take it as their model. If still water is so clear, how much more so the human spirit? When a sage’s mind grows still, it can reflect the myriad things like Heaven and Earth, and reveal them like a mirror.

Emptiness, stillness, calm detachment, solitude, and Wuwei (non-action) are the balanced way of Heaven and Earth and the highest state of moral cultivation. Emperors and sages therefore use them to settle and nourish themselves. When the mind is settled, it becomes empty and still; when it is empty and still, it is inwardly full. Once it is full, the patterns of the myriad things become apparent. Emptiness and stillness bring stability; only with stability can one act, and then one can respond to things appropriately. If one remains still and does not act recklessly, those who carry out particular tasks should each take responsibility for their own duties. Without reckless action, the mind is at ease. When the mind is at ease, troubles cannot easily intrude, and life is prolonged. Emptiness, stillness, calm detachment, solitude, and Wuwei are the root of the myriad things.

To understand and apply this principle while occupying the throne is the way of a ruler like Yao. To understand and apply it while serving as a minister is the way of a minister like Shun. To embody it in a position above others is the virtue of an emperor or Son of Heaven; to embody it in a position below others is the way of the Mysterious Sage and Plain King—one who has a sage’s virtue but does not occupy the throne. To withdraw with it and wander among rivers, seas, and mountains, one earns the respect of hermits. To advance with it and govern the affairs of the world is to accomplish great deeds, win renown, and bring the realm into unity.

Stillness of mind makes one a sage; appropriate action makes one a king. One who does not act recklessly yet is honored, and who preserves simplicity, possesses a beauty with which nothing under Heaven can compete.

When one understands the virtue of Heaven and Earth, one understands the root and source and so harmonizes with the workings of Heaven. One can then bring harmony to all under Heaven and foster peace among people. Harmony among people is called “human joy”; harmony with Heaven is called “heavenly joy.”

Zhuangzi said, “My teacher! My teacher! He orders the myriad things without making them discordant; his grace extends through countless generations, yet he does not claim benevolence. He precedes high antiquity, yet does not boast of longevity. He covers and bears Heaven and Earth, and carves and shapes the myriad things, yet does not claim skill. This is called heavenly joy.”

Thus, one who understands heavenly joy follows the natural course of things in life and changes along with the myriad things after death. In stillness, one shares the virtue of Yin; in action, one flows with Yang. Therefore, one who understands heavenly joy does not resent Heaven, draw criticism from others, become entangled in external things, or incur punishment from ghosts and spirits.

Thus, in action, one is like Heaven; in stillness, like Earth. When the mind is settled, one can govern all under Heaven. Ghosts and spirits cannot cause mischief, the hun and po souls do not grow weary, and the myriad things submit. To move through Heaven and Earth with a mind empty and still, and to reach through all things—this is called heavenly joy. Heavenly joy is the state of mind by which the sage nourishes all under Heaven.

The virtue of a ruler should take Heaven and Earth as its foundation, Dao and De as its guiding principles, and Wuwei (non-action) as its constant way. Through non-action, one can draw on the strength of all under Heaven and still have capacity to spare. Through action, one is driven by the affairs of all under Heaven and finds one’s strength insufficient. That is why the ancients valued non-action.

If those above practice non-action and those below do so as well, their virtue is the same; when their virtue is the same, those below no longer regard themselves as subjects. If those below act and those above act too, their ways of doing things are the same; when their ways are the same, those above can no longer be the rulers. Those above must therefore practice non-action to make use of all under Heaven, while those below must act to serve all under Heaven. This is an unchangeable principle.

Thus, the ancient rulers of all under Heaven, even when their wisdom surpassed that of Heaven and Earth, did not personally deliberate; even when their eloquence could discern the finest distinctions among the myriad things, they did not boast of it; even when their abilities could reach to the ends of the four seas, they did not act on their own. This is the principle of following the Dao.

The ancient rulers who governed the world had the wisdom to see through the workings of Heaven and Earth, yet did not take every matter upon themselves to consider. Their words could describe all things, yet they did not boast of their eloquence. Their abilities could reach across the four seas, yet they did not personally manage everything. Heaven does not create the myriad things by its own hand, yet they transform and come into being of themselves. Earth does not grow the myriad things by its own hand, yet they nourish and develop of themselves. The ruler governs through Wuwei (non-action), and the affairs of the world can then each come to completion in their own way. Thus, nothing is more wondrous than Heaven, nothing more abundant than Earth, and nothing more far-reaching than the ruler’s De (Virtue/Power). The ruler’s De accords with Heaven and Earth: following their ways, setting the myriad things in motion, and allowing people to fulfill their respective duties. This is the way of governance.

The root of governance lies with the ruler; its lesser details lie with the ministers. The guiding principles belong to the ruler, while the ministers attend carefully to specific affairs. Mobilizing troops and wielding weapons are lesser details of rule through De. Rewards and punishments, benefits and harms, and the Five Punishments—the five forms of punishment in ancient times—are lesser details of moral instruction. Rituals, laws, institutions, social ranks, and specific regulations are lesser details of governance. The sounds of bells and drums, and the bearing of dancers, are lesser details of music. Weeping, wearing mourning clothes, and the distinctions among grades of mourning attire are lesser details of funeral rites. Each of these five kinds of detail requires the prior activity of spirit and intention—the inner mind and methods of governance—before it can be put into practice. The ancients, too, attended to such practical matters, but did not place them first.

The ruler comes first, and the ministers follow; the father comes first, and the son follows; the elder brother comes first, and the younger brother follows; the older come first, and the younger follow; men come first, and women follow; the husband comes first, and the wife follows. The order of higher and lower, and of what comes first and later, is a pattern in the workings of Heaven and Earth, so the sage takes Heaven and Earth as his model. Heaven is exalted and Earth is low: this is the place of the spirits. Spring and summer come before autumn and winter: this is the order of the four seasons. As the myriad things grow, each sprout takes its own form; waxing and waning, flourishing and declining, they change in an unbroken succession. Heaven and Earth are already so wondrous, yet they still have an order of higher and lower, first and later—how much more so must this be true of human relationships?

In ancestral temple sacrifices, closeness and distance among kin are observed; at court, rank is honored; in village life, the elderly are respected; and in conducting affairs, the worthy are given precedence. These are all the order of the Great Dao. To speak of the Dao while denying its order is not to speak of the Dao. To speak of the Dao while going against the Dao itself—how could that be speaking of the Dao at all?

Thus, those in ancient times who truly understood the Great Dao first understood the Way of Nature, and only then spoke of Dao and De. Once Dao and De were understood, they spoke of benevolence and righteousness; once those were understood, they spoke of each person’s duties and conduct. Once duties were made clear, they spoke of punishments and status; once punishments and status were made clear, they spoke of assigning people according to the work at hand. Once this was understood, they spoke of examining and reviewing conduct. Once examination and review were understood, they spoke of right and wrong; once right and wrong were understood, they spoke of rewards and punishments.

When rewards and punishments were made clear, the foolish and the wise each found their proper place, the high and the low each occupied their proper station, and the benevolent and worthy, as well as the unkind and unworthy, each acted according to their nature. Tasks were to be assigned according to each person’s abilities, and duties carried out according to one’s status. To serve the ruler, govern the people, deal with all things, and cultivate oneself by these principles, without resorting to schemes and contrivances but returning to what is natural—this is called great peace, the highest achievement of governance.

An ancient text therefore says, “There are punishments, and there are statuses.” The ancients had long made use of punishments and systems of status, but these were not the foremost principles of governing the state. When the ancients spoke of the Great Dao, they advanced through five stages before speaking of punishments and status; they advanced through nine before speaking of rewards and punishments. To speak hastily of punishments and status is to misunderstand their foundation; to speak hastily of rewards and punishments is to misunderstand their point of departure.

To speak only of the Great Dao, or to debate solely within its bounds, is still ultimately to discuss matters governed by people. How, then, could this be used to govern others? To leap straight to punishments and status, rewards and punishments, is to know the tools of governing a state but not the principles of governance. These tools can be applied throughout the world, but they are not enough to govern the world. Such a person is called a skilled debater: someone who understands only one aspect. How, then, could they govern others?

The details of ritual and law, institutions, status, and punishments were all known to the ancients. But these were means by which those below served those above, not the foundation by which those above nurtured and governed those below.

Once, Shun asked Yao, “When you, the Son of Heaven, govern the world, what is in your mind?” Yao replied, “I do not slight those who have no one to rely on, nor do I abandon those who are suffering. I feel compassion for hardship and death, care for children, and pity women. This is how I set my mind.”

Shun said, “This is certainly beautiful, but it is not yet great enough.” Yao asked, “Then what would count as great?” Shun replied, “Let Heaven’s De (Virtue) manifest itself naturally, and the world will be at peace. The sun and moon shine, the four seasons proceed, and day and night each follow their proper course. The clouds move and rain falls, nourishing all things.”

Yao said, “Would that not mean ceaseless activity? You follow Heaven; I follow human affairs. Heaven and Earth are the greatest things since antiquity, and the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun all praised them together. So what did the ancient kings do to govern the world? Nothing more than follow Heaven and Earth.”

Confucius traveled west to deposit books at the Zhou court. Zilu advised him, “I have heard that Lao Dan, the Zhou official in charge of the archives—said to be Laozi—resigned and retired. Since you wish to deposit books, perhaps you could ask him for help.” Confucius said, “Good.”

Confucius went to see Lao Dan, who declined to help. Confucius then explained the central ideas of twelve classics and spoke of benevolence and righteousness. “Benevolence and righteousness are essential,” he said. “I hope to hear your view.” Lao Dan asked, “May I ask whether benevolence and righteousness are part of human nature?” Confucius replied, “They are. A gentleman cannot be a gentleman without benevolence, nor establish himself without righteousness. Benevolence and righteousness are the nature of a True Person. What could there be to question?” Lao Dan asked again, “What do you mean by benevolence and righteousness?” Confucius said, “A heart at ease, caring for everyone without partiality: that is the true substance of benevolence and righteousness.”

Lao Dan sighed. “Ah, this is nearly enough to keep us talking without end. To love everyone—is that not too broad and impractical? And to claim complete impartiality: does that claim itself not carry a bias? Do you want the world never to lose those who care for it? Heaven and Earth already have their enduring order; the sun and moon already have their radiance; the stars already have their places; birds and beasts already gather in flocks; trees already grow. You need only act in accord with De and follow the Dao (the Way); that is enough. Why so urgently raise the banner of benevolence and righteousness, proclaiming them everywhere like someone beating a drum to search for a lost child?”

This passage uses the dialogue between Yao and Shun, and between Confucius and Lao Dan, to express the idea of following the natural order of Heaven and Earth. “Raising the banner of benevolence and righteousness” means promoting and proclaiming these ideals by name.

“Alas, Master, you have disrupted people’s natural dispositions.”

Shi Chengqi visited Laozi and asked, “I have heard that you are a sage, so I did not mind the long journey and came especially to meet you. I traveled for many days without daring to rest. But now that I see you, you do not seem like a sage. Leftover vegetables are piled up in the house, and you have even abandoned your younger sister—how unkind! Cooked and uncooked food is set before you, yet you cannot eat it all, while you keep accumulating more, as though there were no end.”

Laozi made no reply, remaining calm.

The next day, Shi Chengqi came to see Laozi again and said, “Yesterday I criticized you, but today my mind is at peace. Why is that?”

Laozi said, “Those who think themselves clever, marvelous, or sage-like—I have long regarded such titles as things one can cast off. Yesterday you called me an ox, and I was called an ox; you called me a horse, and I was called a horse. If that is indeed how things are, then if someone gives me a name and I refuse to accept it, I will only invite trouble again. I go along with the names used in the moment, not because I am attached to them.”

Shi Chengqi lowered his head and stepped forward, moving like a crow that avoids its own shadow. He asked, “How should one cultivate oneself?”

Laozi said, “Your expression is arrogant, your gaze is raised, your head is lowered, and your mouth is tightly shut. You look ready to charge forward with all your might, yet suddenly stop. In your actions you insist on controlling everything; when you flare up, you are like a trigger mechanism abruptly released. When you observe, you scrutinize too closely, thinking yourself clever and perceptive, with better insight than others. None of these qualities can be trusted. On the border there is a man called ‘Thief’ who is just like this.”

The Master said, “The Dao is vast and boundless: so great that it has no end, so small that nothing is left out. All things are contained within it. It is so broad that nothing lies beyond its embrace, so deep and distant that it cannot be measured. Form, De (Virtue/Power), benevolence, and righteousness are all minor aspects of the spiritual Dao. Without being a perfected person, who could grasp their proper measure?

“When the perfected person takes his place in the world, is his realm not vast? Yet the world cannot become a burden to him. Amid the world’s turmoil and change, he does not rush after it. He sees clearly what is real and is not altered by gain; he probes the reality of all things and holds fast to their root. Thus he can stand beyond Heaven and Earth, forget all things, and remain wholly undisturbed in spirit. He is at one with the Dao and joined with De, while placing ideas such as benevolence and righteousness in a secondary position; therefore, they cannot burden him either.”

Here, “the perfected person” means someone who understands the Great Dao and whose spirit is not bound by external things. “Dao” and “De” are central concepts in Daoist cultivation and the cosmic order.

Things in the world keep changing, but I do not rise and fall with them. I examine what is real and reliable, and do not alter my judgment for the sake of gain. By probing the reality of things and holding fast to their source, I can transcend Heaven and Earth and let go of all things; my spirit has never been troubled. When one understands the Dao (the Way) and accords with De (Virtue), placing benevolence and righteousness in a secondary position and treating ritual and music as guests, the heart of the Perfected Person finds a settled home.

What people in the world prize as the “Dao” is often entrusted to books. Yet books merely record words, and the true value of words lies in expressing meaning. Meaning, in turn, points to something. What it points to cannot be conveyed by words alone. Still, people prize books written in words. Even if everyone respects books, they may not truly understand what makes them valuable, for what they respect may not be what is truly valuable in them.

The eye can see only shapes and colors; the ear can hear only names and sounds. It is lamentable that people think shapes, colors, names, and sounds are enough to grasp the reality of things. In fact, if these cannot convey reality, then those who truly understand may not be able to speak of it, and those who can speak may not truly understand. How could people in the world grasp this?

Duke Huan of Qi was reading a book in the hall, while Wheelwright Bian was making a wheel below. He set down his hammer and chisel, went up into the hall, and asked Duke Huan, “May I ask what words you are reading?” The duke replied, “The words of the sages.” Wheelwright Bian asked, “Are the sages still alive?” The duke said, “They are dead.” Wheelwright Bian then said, “Then what you are reading is only the dregs left behind by the ancients.”

Duke Huan said, “I am reading a book. What business is it of a wheelwright to comment on it? If you can explain your reasoning, I will let it pass; if you cannot, I will punish you.” Wheelwright Bian said, “I judge this from my own work. When I make a wheel, if I use too little force with my hands, the fit is loose and insecure; if I use too much, the wood catches and will not go in. The feel of just the right amount of force, neither too little nor too much, can be known only in the hands and brought into accord with the mind. There is a principle in it, but I cannot explain it in words. I have been unable to pass this skill on to my son, and he has been unable to learn it directly from me. That is why, at seventy, I am still making wheels with my own hands. Perhaps the ancients, along with what could not be passed on, died as well.”

Therefore, what the ruler had read was nothing more than the dregs left behind by the ancients.

Does Heaven move? Does Earth rest in stillness? Do the sun and moon each follow their own courses? Who governs all this and keeps its order? And who, while doing nothing, sets the myriad things in motion? Perhaps their movement is like a mechanism turning, compelled to do so? Perhaps they revolve without end, unable to stop by themselves? Do clouds appear in order to bring rain, or does rain become clouds? Who causes these phenomena to wax and wane? Who remains at ease while bringing forth and flourishing the myriad things? The north wind rises, now turning west, now east, circling and lingering in the air. Who breathes it in and out? Who remains at ease while making the wind blow across all things? I venture to ask what causes this.

The legendary ancient shaman Wuxian called out, “Come, and I will tell you. Heaven has six limits—the boundaries above, below, and in the four directions—and five constant principles, the enduring laws of nature. When rulers follow these principles, the state is at peace; when they go against them, calamity follows. When affairs in the Nine Rivers are brought under order, one’s De (Virtue/Power) is complete, and one can watch over and illuminate the world below, all under Heaven will rally to that ruler. This is what is called the Supreme Sovereign.”

Tang, the Grand Steward of the Shang dynasty, asked Zhuangzi about benevolence. Zhuangzi said, “Tigers and wolves have benevolence too.” Tang asked, “What do you mean?” Zhuangzi replied, “Father and son love one another. How can you say they are not benevolent?” Tang then asked, “May I ask what the highest benevolence is?” Zhuangzi said, “The highest benevolence does not cling to distinctions of closeness and distance.”

Tang said, “I have heard that without distinctions of closeness and distance, there can be no love; without love, there can be no filial piety. Can you say that the highest benevolence is unfilial?” Zhuangzi said, “That is not so. The state of the highest benevolence is so lofty that filial piety cannot encompass it. This is not a claim that it opposes filial piety; it goes beyond the level at which filial piety is discussed. Someone traveling south reaches Ying, the capital of Chu, and faces north, yet cannot see Mount Ming in the distance. Why? Because it is too far away.

“So, to fulfill filial piety with reverent deference is easy; to fulfill it with true love is harder. To fulfill it with love is easy; to forget one’s concern for one’s parents is harder. To forget that concern is easy; to make one’s parents forget what one has done for them is harder. To make one’s parents forget what one has done for them is easy; to have everyone under Heaven cease clinging to gratitude toward one another is harder. To have everyone under Heaven cease clinging is easier; to have everyone under Heaven also forget oneself is harder still.”

One who truly possesses De (Virtue/Power) has virtue surpassing that of Yao and Shun, yet makes no deliberate display of it. His beneficence extends across ten thousand generations, though people throughout the world may not even know of it. Why merely sigh and speak of benevolence, righteousness, and filial duty? Filial devotion and fraternal respect, benevolence and righteousness, loyalty and trustworthiness, chastity and integrity—these are all efforts people make, striving by such means to put virtue into practice. They are not worthy of excessive praise.

Thus, when the most exalted state is attained, the honors bestowed by the state cease to matter; when the greatest abundance is attained, the state’s wealth ceases to be important; when the greatest aspiration is fulfilled, fame and praise need no longer be sought. The true Dao (the Way) does not change.

Beimen Cheng asked the Yellow Emperor, “You once performed the music of ‘Xianchi’ in the wilds of Dongting. When I first heard it, I felt afraid. Hearing it again, I felt eased. The last time I heard it, I was bewildered and disoriented, my mind and spirit in a daze, unable to control myself.”

The Yellow Emperor said, “You probably did feel all of that. I matched it to human affairs, regulated it by the Dao of Heaven, put it into practice through ritual and righteousness, and grounded it in Great Clarity—a clear and open state of mind. The highest joy begins with human affairs, follows the principles of Heaven, moves according to the Five Virtues corresponding to the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water), follows nature, and then harmonizes the four seasons so that all things may be brought into accord.

“The seasons take turns, and all things grow in their proper time. There is flourishing and decline, each change following its own order. Clear and turbid intermingle, Yin-Yang harmonizes, and the music flows and shines. When hibernating creatures begin to stir, I rouse them with a sound like thunder. The music has no fixed ending and no fixed beginning. It contains death and life, surging and rising. Its movement is often boundless, impossible to anticipate or confine, and so you felt afraid.

“Then I performed it through the harmony of Yin-Yang and illuminated it with the radiance of the sun and moon. At times the music is brief, at times extended; at times gentle, at times forceful. It changes constantly yet remains in harmony with itself, adhering to no fixed pattern. In a valley, it fills the valley; in a hollow, it fills the hollow. It fills empty spaces while holding fast to spirit, changing in accordance with the forms of things. Its presence extends far and wide; it is called ‘High and Bright.’”

Therefore, ghosts and spirits keep to the depths of darkness, while the sun, moon, and stars each follow their own courses. I make them stop at their limits, then set them turning without end. You try to grasp them through thought, but cannot understand; you try to see them, but cannot; you try to catch up with them, but cannot. Bewildered, you stand on an open road that branches in every direction, with no shelter or support, leaning against a withered paulownia tree as you sing. The things your eyes would see have reached their furthest limit; the things your strength would pursue have exhausted you. You will never reach my realm.

When form is filled within emptiness, it can unfold with the current and change along with things. You follow change, and so find rest. Then I play for it with sounds without end, harmonizing them with nature’s rhythms. All things seem to gather as one and flourish; music flows among the trees, though no trace of its form can be seen. Sound spreads everywhere, unconstrained, dark and deep, until no sound can be heard. It moves where there is no fixed direction and rests in the depths of the unseen. People sometimes call it death, sometimes life; sometimes substance, sometimes flourishing. It shifts and flows, never bound to a fixed note. People of the world are puzzled by this and turn to sages for confirmation. Sages can understand the true nature of things and follow Heaven’s mandate. The faculties endowed by Heaven do not act recklessly, while the senses—ears, eyes, and the rest—are all complete. This is called “Heavenly music”: music that follows nature and is felt within. It has no fixed sound, yet brings joy to the heart.

So Youzhong composed this hymn: “Listen for it, yet no sound can be heard; look for it, yet no form can be seen. It fills Heaven and Earth and embraces the six directions. You want to hear it, but have no way to make contact with it—this is why you are perplexed.” At first, the music startles people, and their alarm gives rise to strange sensations. Then it brings them to rest, and their slackness lets their minds and spirits drift away. In the end, it leaves them bewildered, and their bewilderment makes them seem foolish. Yet even in foolishness, one can draw near to the Dao. The Dao can bear people up and carry them forward together.

Confucius was traveling west to the state of Wei. Yan Yuan asked Master Jin, “What do you think will come of my teacher’s journey this time?” Master Jin said, “Alas, I fear your teacher will fall into difficulty.” Yan Yuan asked, “Why?” Master Jin replied, “Before a straw dog used in sacrifice has been brought out for the offering, it is kept in a bamboo basket and covered with embroidered cloth…”

Yan Yuan asked Master Jins: “What do you think of Confucius’s conduct?” Master Jins replied, “Alas, I fear Confucius is headed for trouble.”

Yan Yuan asked, “Why?” Master Jins answered, “A straw dog used in a sacrifice is placed in a bamboo basket and covered with embroidered cloth before it is set on the altar. The person conducting the rite fasts and reverently presents it. Once the ceremony is over, passersby trample its head and back, and those gathering firewood take it away to burn. If someone were to put it back in the basket, cover it with embroidered cloth, and set it beside a house or bedroom, people would likely find it a nuisance rather than show it respect.

“Now Confucius takes the rites and laws practiced by the sage kings of old—things that, like a straw dog after the sacrifice, have had their time—and uses them to teach his disciples, urging them to live and teach by them. So he was trapped beneath a tree cut down in the state of Song, stripped of his position in the state of Wei, and brought to hardship in the lands of Shang and Zhou. Is this not because he remains immersed in an old dream? And when he was besieged between Chen and Cai, with no food for seven days and life hanging by a thread, was that not because he was blind to the situation?

“On water, the best way to travel is by boat; on land, it is by cart. A boat can travel on water, but if you push it onto dry land, it will go nowhere for the rest of its life. Are the past and the present not as different as water routes and land routes? Are the circumstances of the Zhou dynasty and the state of Lu not as different as the uses of a boat and a cart? To carry Zhou practices over into Lu is like pushing a boat onto dry land: it takes effort and achieves nothing, and it may even bring disaster. Confucius does not understand that true transmission has no fixed method. Only by adapting to the changes in things can one avoid meeting obstacles at every turn.

“Have you never seen a well sweep? It is a lever used to draw water: when someone pulls it, it dips down; when they let go, it rises again. It simply moves in response to a person’s actions. It does not set out to pull anyone along, and so it need not offend people by rising and falling.

“The rites, standards of conduct, and laws of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors were not valued because they were the same as one another, but because each governed its own age well. They are like pears, plums, oranges, and pomelos: their flavors differ, yet each suits the taste. Thus, rites, standards of conduct, and laws should change in accordance with the times.”

Thus, rites, norms, and laws are all things that change with the times. If you tried to dress a macaque in the ceremonial robes of the Duke of Zhou, it would bite, tug, and tear until it had stripped them off completely. The difference between ancient times and the present is like the difference between a macaque and the Duke of Zhou’s robes.

Xi Shi, a woman famed for her beauty in the Spring and Autumn period, suffered pain in her chest. Frowning and clutching her chest, she walked through the village. An ugly woman from the village saw her and thought this looked beautiful. She went home and walked through the village too, clutching her chest and frowning. When the wealthy villagers saw her, they shut their gates and stayed inside; when the poor saw her, they fled with their wives and children. She knew only that the look of frowning and clutching her chest appeared beautiful, but not why Xi Shi looked beautiful that way. How regrettable! The Master—Confucius—was likely to find himself in a difficult position.

At the age of fifty-one, Confucius had still not heard the Great Dao, so he traveled south to Pei to visit Lao Dan (Laozi). Lao Dan asked, “You’ve come. I hear you are a worthy man from the north. Have you attained the Dao?” Confucius replied, “Not yet.” Lao Dan asked, “Where have you sought it?” Confucius answered, “I have sought it in rites and institutions for five years, but have not attained it.” Lao Dan then asked, “And where did you seek it after that?” Confucius replied, “I sought it in the transformations of Yin and Yang for twelve years, and still have not attained it.”

Lao Dan said, “Just so. If the Dao could be presented to another, people would all present it to their ruler. If it could be given to another, people would all give it to their kin. If it could be told directly to another, people would all tell it to their brothers. If it could be passed on to another, people would all pass it down to their descendants. But the Dao cannot be transmitted in this way, for no other reason than this: without a guiding center within the mind, the Dao cannot dwell there; without a suitable means of support outside, the Dao cannot be put into practice. What issues from within cannot reveal the Way of the sage unless the world outside receives it; what enters from outside cannot remain unless the mind within has a guiding center.”

Fame belongs to everyone; it is a public possession and should not be coveted in excess. Benevolence and righteousness are like lodging lent temporarily by an innkeeper: one may stay for a night, but not linger for long. If you keep fixating on benevolence and righteousness, you may instead invite blame.

The perfected people of ancient times—those whose cultivation had reached a high level—used benevolence only as a means of acting and stayed for a time in righteousness, then roamed freely in the realm of carefree Wuwei (non-action). They lived in simple fields and made their home in gardens that sought nothing from outside. “Carefree roaming” means freedom through Wuwei; “simplicity” means that life is easy to sustain; and “seeking nothing” means making no demands on the outside world. The ancients called this way of life “wandering in search of the Real”: a journey in search of one’s true nature and a life of freedom.

Those who regard wealth as most important cannot relinquish their stipends. Those who prize status cannot give up their reputations. Those enamored of power cannot hand authority to others. While holding on to these things, they live in fear; when they let them go, they feel grief. Their hearts lack clear insight, and so they are trapped in an endless pursuit that can never satisfy them. This is what it means to suffer Heaven’s punishment.

Resentment and gratitude, taking and giving, admonishing and instructing, killing and sparing life: these eight practices are all instruments of governance. Only those who follow the fundamental changes and harbor no obstruction in their hearts can use them well. Thus, what is called “rightness” means bringing things into proper order. If the heart is fixed on what is not so, the “Heavenly Gate” that leads to the Great Dao will not open.

Confucius went to see Lao Dan (Laozi) and spoke of benevolence and righteousness. Lao Dan said, “If flying dust gets into your eyes, the world in all four directions will seem upside down. If mosquitoes bite your skin, you will be unable to sleep all night. When benevolence and righteousness are displayed too conspicuously and disturb people’s hearts, they bring no greater disorder than this. You should keep the people of the world from losing their unspoiled nature. You yourself should act in accord with the natural breeze and stand firm in De (Virtue/Power). Why make such a great commotion, as if carrying a drum everywhere to search for a lost child?”

A swan need not bathe every day for its feathers to be naturally white; a crow need not be dyed black every day for its feathers to be naturally dark. The natural states of black and white need no further explanation. Pursuing fame and praise cannot make the human heart any broader.

When a spring dries up, the fish are stranded on land. They breathe on one another and moisten one another with spittle, but this is no match for living freely in rivers and lakes.

When the spring dried up, the fish were stranded on land. They moistened one another with the dampness in their mouths, wetting each other with spittle. Better for each to return to the rivers and lakes, where they could forget one another.

After Confucius paid a visit to Lao Dan (Laozi), he did not speak for three days. A disciple asked, “When you met Lao Dan, what did you intend to advise him about?” Confucius said, “Only now have I truly seen a dragon. When it gathers, it takes shape as a whole; when it spreads out, its patterns appear. It rides the clouds and nurtures Yin-Yang. I opened my mouth, but could not speak. What could I possibly have advised Lao Dan about?”

Zigong said, “So there really is someone who sits still like a corpse yet displays the transformations of a dragon; whose voice is like thunder yet is as quiet as an abyss; and whose movements seem like Heaven and Earth. Could I go and see him too?” So Zigong used Confucius’s name to visit Lao Peng. Lao Peng was leaning back on his seat in the hall. Hearing of the visitor, he raised himself slightly and said, “I am old, and my days are passing. What would you like to admonish me about?”

Zigong said, “The Three Kings and Five Emperors each governed the world differently, yet all left behind a reputation. You alone consider them not to have been sages. Why is that?”

Lao Peng said, “Young man, come closer. What makes you say that their ways of governing the world were different?”

Zigong replied, “Yao abdicated the imperial throne in favor of Shun, and Shun passed it on to Yu. Yu relied on force to govern the world, while Tang used military campaigns to punish his enemies. King Wen submitted to King Zhou of Shang and did not dare defy him, but King Wu rebelled against Zhou and refused to submit. That is why I say their methods differed.”

Lao Peng said, “Young man, come closer, and I will tell you how the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the world. When the Yellow Emperor governed, he brought the people’s hearts into unity. If someone’s parents died and they did not weep, the people saw nothing wrong with it. When Yao governed, he taught people to love their parents. If someone observed a period of mourning for their parents with special distinctions, the people also saw nothing wrong with it. When Shun governed, he made people’s hearts competitive. Some gave birth after ten months of pregnancy, and their children could speak at five months old. Before they had even grown into children, they were already arguing, and people began to die young. When Yu governed, he changed people’s hearts. Each person made plans for themselves, and warfare came to be regarded as justified. Killing thieves was not counted as killing people; people formed their own separate groups, and the world was thrown into turmoil. Then the Confucians and Mohists arose. At first, they still upheld the proper order of human relationships. Now even women are discussing these matters—what more is there to say?”

I tell you: when the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors governed the world, they were said to be bringing it under control. In truth, the world was never in greater disorder than it was then. The Three Sovereigns’ clever schemes went against the light of the sun and moon above, damaged the vital energies of the mountains and rivers below, and disrupted the order of the seasons in between. Their cleverness surpassed that of tiny insects and birds and beasts with scant tail feathers, yet it kept all things from peacefully preserving their own nature and way of life. They even thought themselves sages. Is that not shameful? They truly had no sense of shame at all!

Zigong stood uneasily, at a loss. Confucius said to Lao Dan, “I have studied the six classics—the Book of Poetry, the Book of Documents, the Book of Rites, the Book of Music, the Book of Changes, and the Spring and Autumn Annals—and thought I understood them well. I also knew their principles. I once expounded the Way of the former kings to seventy-two rulers, explaining the teachings and governance of the Duke of Zhou and the Duke of Shao, yet not one ruler was willing to adopt them. People’s hearts are truly difficult to persuade. Is the Way simply too hard to explain?”

Laozi said, “It is fortunate that you have not met a ruler who truly wished to govern the world. The six classics are no more than worn-out traces left by the former kings. How could they be the root of what those kings did? What you speak of, too, is only their traces. Traces are made by feet, but are traces the feet themselves?

“When egrets mate, they gaze at one another without moving their eyes, and still they reproduce. Among insects, the male calls from upwind and the female answers from downwind, and they reproduce. Some creatures even develop into male and female on their own, and reproduce. The nature of things cannot be forcibly changed; the endowment of life cannot be arbitrarily altered; the course of events cannot be forcibly stopped; and the Dao cannot be obstructed. When you truly grasp the Dao, you can make your way in any circumstance. Without the Dao, nothing you do will work.

“Confucius stayed indoors for three months. Then he came to see Laozi again and said, ‘I understand now. Crows hatch their young; fish pass bubbles from mouth to mouth; minute creatures transform and grow. When a younger brother is born, the elder brother cries. All things have their own natural processes of generation and transformation—how could these be forcibly stopped? The Dao, too, cannot be obstructed. When you grasp the Dao, you can make your way in any circumstance. Without the Dao, nothing you do will work.’”

“Qiu (Confucius) has gone a long time without adapting himself to the changes of creation. If he does not change along with creation, how can he change others?” Laozi said, “That is right. You have understood.”

Deliberately striving for lofty conduct, keeping apart from worldly life, making grand pronouncements, and criticizing the customs of the age are merely ways to appear proud. These are favored by those who withdraw to the mountains and forests and shun the ways of the world, and by those who would rather grow withered and thin or cast themselves into an abyss.

Speaking of benevolence and righteousness, loyalty and trustworthiness, respectfulness, frugality, and modesty is merely a way to cultivate oneself. These are favored by scholars in peaceful times, by those who teach and transform others, and by those who travel in search of learning.

Speaking of establishing great achievements and winning a fine reputation, observing the rituals between ruler and minister, and putting the relations between those above and below in order is merely a way to govern the state. These are favored by those who serve at court, honor the ruler, strengthen the state, and pursue achievement.

Withdrawing to lakes, marshes, and open wilderness, fishing at leisure and doing nothing, is a way to seek ease. This is favored by those who shun the world and live in seclusion, and by recluses who love a leisurely life by rivers and seas.

Breathing and exhaling, expelling stale Qi and drawing in fresh Qi, then moving the limbs like a bear climbing a tree or a bird stretching its body, is a way to prolong life. This is favored by practitioners of Daoyin (guiding and stretching exercises that use breathing and bodily movement to nourish the body), and by those who preserve their physical form and seek longevity.

As for one who does not deliberately pursue lofty conduct yet is naturally noble, does not cling to benevolence and righteousness yet is naturally cultivated, does not seek fame yet can govern well, does not need to withdraw to rivers and seas to be at ease, and can live long without practicing Daoyin: such a person neither deliberately forgets anything nor deliberately possesses or pursues anything. Their mind is calm, open, and boundless, and all that is good follows naturally. This is the Dao of Heaven and Earth, and the De of the sage.

Thus it is said that calmness, stillness, emptiness, and Wuwei (non-action) are the harmonious state of Heaven and Earth and the root of Dao and De. When the sage is at ease, they are peaceful and simple; being peaceful and simple, they are calm and broad. With a peaceful, calm, and broad mind, troubles cannot enter and harmful influences cannot assail them. Their De is therefore preserved, and their spirit remains unharmed.

Thus it is said that in life the sage follows the natural course of things, and in death changes along with the myriad things. In stillness, they share the De of Yin; in movement, they flow with the changes of Yang.

Do not rush to bring about good fortune or take the lead in inviting disaster. Respond only when stirred, act only when pressed, and do something only when there is truly no alternative. Set aside clever schemes and deliberate arrangements, and follow the patterns of nature. In this way, one suffers neither calamities from Heaven nor entanglement by external things, neither criticism from others nor punishment from ghosts and spirits. In life, one seems to drift through the world; in death, one rests.

Do not deliberate or plan in advance. Let the heart be clear without showing off; let words and actions be trustworthy without making formal agreements. Sleep without dreams, wake without worries, keep the spirit pure and undivided, and let the hun and po souls remain unwearied. To be empty, still, and at ease through Wuwei (non-action) is to accord with the De (natural virtue) of Heaven.

Thus it is said: sorrow and joy disturb De; happiness and anger lead one away from the Dao; likes and dislikes damage De. When the heart is not moved by grief or delight, De has reached its utmost. To remain single-minded and unchanging is the utmost stillness; to make nothing contrived is the utmost emptiness and quietude; to avoid entanglement with external things is the utmost detachment; not to go against nature is the utmost purity.

When the body is overworked and gets no rest, it declines. When the spirit is continually spent, it grows weary. If weariness lasts, vitality is depleted. Water, by nature, is clear when free of impurities and still when undisturbed. If blocked and unable to flow, it cannot remain clear. This is the outward sign of Heaven’s De.

Thus it is said: keep pure and undivided, still and single-minded without change, detached and free of contrivance, and let action follow nature. This is the way to nourish the spirit. It is like owning a sword from Gan and Yue, famed in ancient times, and keeping it treasured in its scabbard, using it sparingly because it is regarded as a precious object.

The human spirit reaches in all directions and flows without end; there is nowhere it cannot go. It connects upward with Heaven, spreads throughout the earth below, and transforms and nourishes the myriad things. Its workings cannot be depicted in images. This state is called “being one with the Emperor,” meaning being in accord with the Dao of Heaven. The Way of pure simplicity requires only that one devote oneself to guarding the spirit. Preserve it without loss, and one becomes one with the spirit. When the spirit is single and unobstructed, it accords with the patterns of nature.

There is a saying among the people: ordinary people value profit, the upright value reputation, the worthy value ambition, and sages value the purity of their nature. “Plain” means free of admixture; “pure” means that one’s spirit has not been damaged. Those who embody purity and simplicity are called “Real Persons.”

Those who shape their nature by worldly standards, then rely on worldly learning to recover their original state; whose minds are unsettled by worldly desires, yet who hope through them to see clearly—such people may be called deluded.

In ancient times, those who understood the Way of governance cultivated wisdom through stillness. They lived without deliberately putting their cleverness to use; thus, it is said that they used wisdom to cultivate stillness. Wisdom and stillness nourished one another, and nature gave rise to harmony and order. De is harmony; the Dao is order. When De embraces all things, it is benevolence; when the Dao brings order to all things, it is righteousness. When righteousness and order are made clear, and people and things draw close to one another, this is loyalty. When the heart is sincere and returns to genuine feeling, this is joy. When trust takes shape in one’s bearing and accords with the forms of ritual, this is ritual propriety. Ritual and music should arise naturally from human nature. When they are imposed one-sidedly, the world falls into disorder.

Those who think themselves upright instead obscure their own De. Once De is obscured, its natural character is lost, and all things lose their own nature.

The ancients lived in an age of undivided simplicity. They were one with all things and dwelled in calm detachment. Yin and Yang were harmonious and still; spirits and ghosts were undisturbed; the seasons followed their proper course; things were not harmed, and living beings did not die before their time. Though people had wisdom, there was no need to use it. This was called “the Supreme Unity,” the state in which all things were blended as one. No one then acted deliberately; everything followed its own nature.

Later, as De gradually declined, people came under the rule of Suiren and Fuxi. They still responded to things, but were no longer wholly one with them. De declined further. Under Shennong and the Yellow Emperor, people were at peace, but no longer followed their nature. When De declined yet again, and Tang Yao and Yu Shun governed the world, systems of rule and instruction arose, and the ways of sincerity and simplicity gradually faded. People turned away from the Great Way and pursued what was called goodness; they acted with harsh and calculating virtue, thereby departing from their nature and following the contrivances of the human mind.

People began to read one another’s thoughts and compete for advantage, but this was not enough to bring peace to the world. So they added systems of ritual and expanded their body of specialized knowledge. Ritual forms damaged simplicity and authenticity; specialized knowledge led people’s minds astray. From then on, the people were confused and disordered, unable to return to their natural feelings or recover their original state. From this we can see that the world lost the Great Way, and the Great Way departed from the world. People then added still more ritual forms and expanded their learning further, deepening this estrangement.

Literary refinement conceals one’s unadorned nature, while an abundance of knowledge confuses the mind. The people then become bewildered and disordered, unable to return to their nature and recover their original state. From this we can see that both the world and the Dao have declined: when the world declines, the Dao declines with it; the Dao and the world harm one another. In such circumstances, how can those who cultivate the Dao make it flourish in the world? And how can the world make the Dao flourish? The Dao cannot flourish through the world, nor can the world flourish through the Dao. Even if a sage does not live in the mountains and forests, his Virtue remains hidden from view. To be hidden does not mean deliberately concealing oneself.

The recluses spoken of by the ancients did not hide their bodies and refuse to appear, nor did they keep silent, much less conceal their knowledge and refuse to put it to use. They withdrew only because the times and their fortunes were profoundly unfavorable. When circumstances were right, they responded to the moment and put their aspirations into practice throughout the realm, returning to undivided purity and remaining unburdened by external things. When circumstances were wrong, they endured their lot in the world, rooted themselves in stillness, rested in what was most complete, and waited for the moment to come. This is the way to preserve oneself.

Those in ancient times who knew how to cultivate themselves did not use argument to dress up their wisdom, knowledge to constrain the world, or learning to damage their Virtue. They rested calmly in their place and returned to their nature. That was all. What more was there to do? The Great Dao is not confined to trivial conduct, and Virtue is not confined to narrow understanding. Narrow understanding damages Virtue; cramped conduct damages the Great Dao. Therefore, it is enough simply to set oneself right. To rest content in one’s complete nature and take joy in it is what it means to fulfill one’s aspirations.

For the ancients, fulfilling one’s aspirations did not mean holding high office and enjoying honor. It meant that nothing could add to one’s happiness. Today, people use the phrase to mean gaining an honored position. Carriages and horses, ceremonial robes and headdresses—the marks of distinction in ancient times—are not inherent in one’s nature or life. They are things that happen to come one’s way and lodge with one only temporarily. When they arrive, one cannot keep them out; when they depart, one cannot hold them back. So one does not let honor make the mind unrestrained, nor conform to worldly conventions because of poverty. In success and failure alike, one remains equally at ease, and so has no worries. Today, people become unhappy as soon as they lose these external things. This shows that even when they seem happy, their hearts have never been at peace. Those who hand themselves over to external things and lose their nature amid worldly life are called people who have turned things upside down and fallen into disorder.

When the autumn rains arrive on schedule, the waters of many rivers flow into the Yellow River. Its surface grows broad, and the banks and sandbars in the water stretch out in a vast expanse, so that even cattle and horses cannot be distinguished from one another. The River Earl (the god of the Yellow River) is delighted and thinks that all the world’s magnificent sights are gathered in his domain.

He follows the current eastward until he reaches the North Sea. Facing east, he cannot see where the sea ends. The River Earl turns to the Sea God Ruo (the god of the North Sea) and sighs, “As the saying goes, when people hear a great many teachings, they think no one can surpass them. That describes me. I once heard that some people belittled Confucius’s learning and looked down on Bo Yi’s virtuous conduct. At first I did not believe it. Now that I have seen with my own eyes your boundless sea, I understand: if I had not come before you, I would have been in danger of being mocked by those who understand the Great Dao.”

The Sea God Ruo says, “You cannot discuss the sea with a frog in a well, because it is confined to the bottom of the well. You cannot discuss ice with a summer insect, because it is limited by the season. You cannot discuss the Great Dao with someone of narrow understanding, because that person is confined by fixed doctrines. Now you have left the riverbanks and seen the sea, and recognized the limits of your own understanding. So the Great Dao can now be discussed with you.

“Of all the waters under Heaven, none is greater than the sea. Countless rivers flow into it, and no one knows when they will stop, yet they do not make its waters overflow. Its waters flow out through the Tail Gate, the legendary outlet for the sea, and no one knows when they will stop, yet they do not make the sea run dry. The sea does not change with the turning of spring and autumn, nor is it affected by drought or flood. Its vastness far exceeds that of rivers and streams, beyond all calculation. Yet I never boast of it, because I know that beside Heaven and Earth, my own form is no more than a tiny stone or tree in a great mountain. Since I consider myself so small, what is there to boast about?

“Viewed within Heaven and Earth, are not the Four Seas like a small pool in a vast marsh?”

Consider the place China occupies among the Four Seas. Isn’t it like a grain of rice in a great granary? People call the totality of all things “the ten thousand things,” and human beings are only one kind among them. Within the Nine Provinces, wherever grain grows and boats and carts travel, people live; yet human beings are still only one kind among the ten thousand things. Compared with all things, aren’t human beings like a single hair on a horse?

The Five Emperors succeeded one another in ruling; the Three Kings contended for all under Heaven; humane people worried over worldly affairs, and capable people labored and hurried about. All their efforts amounted to no more than this. Boyi sought fame by yielding all under Heaven, and Confucius displayed the breadth of his knowledge by speaking about the affairs of all under Heaven. In doing so, they too thought themselves extraordinary. Isn’t this like how you once prided yourself on the waters of the Yellow River?

The River Earl said, “Then may I regard Heaven and Earth as great, and a hair as small?”

The Spirit of the Northern Sea replied, “No. The size of the ten thousand things has no limit, time has no end, the boundaries between things are not fixed, and endings and beginnings have no constant determination. So a truly wise person observes things from both near and far: knowing that what is small is not insignificant and what is great is not excessive; understanding that the measure of things has no limit, and seeing how the present and the past change. Thus, in cramped surroundings, they do not feel oppressed, and in open spaces, they do not become complacent, because they know that time has no end. They observe the changes of fullness and decline, and feel no joy when they gain something or sorrow when they lose it, because they understand that the boundaries between things are not fixed. Seeing the principle that runs through both smooth and difficult circumstances, they feel no joy at birth and no fear of death, because they know that endings and beginnings have no fixed boundary.

“What people know is less than what they do not know; the time people spend alive is less than the time before they were born. To use knowledge of the utmost limitation to fathom Heaven and Earth, which are vast beyond measure, can only lead to confusion and unease. In light of this, how can one claim that a single hair marks the limit of what is smallest? And how can one claim that Heaven and Earth exhaust the bounds of what is greatest?”

The River Earl said, “People who debate such matters say that what is most minute has no form, and what is greatest has no boundary. Is this true?”

The Spirit of the Northern Sea replied, “Look at the great from the perspective of the small, and you cannot see it in its entirety; look at the small from the perspective of the great, and you cannot see it clearly. The minute is the utmost degree of smallness; the immense is the utmost degree of vastness. So the two appear in different ways. This is determined by the circumstances of things. What people call minute and coarse both refer to things that have form; things without form cannot be distinguished by number or measure.”

No thing can be confined, and even its number cannot be exhausted. What words can explain is only a thing’s more superficial aspect; what the mind can grasp is its more subtle aspect. There are also things that words cannot make clear and the mind cannot perceive or comprehend. They belong neither to the subtle nor to the superficial.

Thus, the great person does not act with the aim of harming others, nor rely on words to boast of benevolence and favor. They do not act for profit, nor look down on gatekeepers and servants. They do not contend over possessions, nor make a show of yielding. They do not always depend on others to get things done, nor judge people by how much they labor with their own hands. They do not look down on those who seek wealth and profit. At times their conduct differs from common custom, but they do not deliberately seek to appear unconventional. In general, they act in accord with others, yet do not for that reason despise those who accommodate them. Official rank and stipends in this world are not enough to spur them on; punishments and disgrace are not enough to make them feel humiliated. They understand that right and wrong cannot be divided absolutely, and that the small and the vast have no fixed boundaries.

Someone said, “Those who have attained the Dao do not seek renown; the highest De does not deliberately seek to be acquired; the great person has no private self. This is to reduce distinctions to their utmost.”

The River Earl, the spirit of the Yellow River, asked Beihai Ruo, the spirit of the North Sea: “If we look from outside things or from within them, where should we draw the line between noble and base? And where should we draw the line between large and small?”

Beihai Ruo replied: “From the perspective of the Dao, the myriad things have no nobility or baseness. From the standpoint of each thing itself, each values itself and looks down on other things. From the worldly point of view, nobility and baseness are not determined by things themselves. From the standpoint of difference, if we follow what is large in a thing and call it large, then every thing can be called large; if we follow what is small in a thing and call it small, then every thing can be called small. Understand that Heaven and Earth are like a grain of rice, and the finest hair is like a mountain, and the scale of difference becomes clear.

“From the standpoint of a thing’s function, if we acknowledge its existence in terms of what it possesses, then every thing has something of its own; if we say it does not exist in terms of what it lacks, then every thing can also be said to lack something. Understand that things may be opposites yet cannot replace or do without one another, and each thing’s own function and bounds are thereby established. From the standpoint of each thing’s inclinations, if we affirm what it considers right, then every thing has what is right in its own way…”

If we follow one way of thinking and declare things “nonexistent,” then everything can be called “nonexistent.” Once we understand that opposites differ from one another and cannot replace one another, the distinct functions and proper bounds of things become clear.

From different standpoints, if we use one standard to decide what is right, everything can be called right; if we use another standard to decide what is wrong, everything can be called wrong. Once we understand that Yao and Jie each acted according to their own nature, yet each judged the other to be wrong, we can see the difference in their aims and conduct.

Long ago, Yao and Shun yielded the imperial throne to others, while Zizhi’s attempt to yield the throne brought disaster. Shang Tang and King Wu of Zhou became rulers through warfare, while Bai Gong Sheng perished in his struggle for power. This shows that the conventions governing yielding and rivalry, the conduct of Yao and Jie, and the distinctions between noble and lowly all change with the times. They cannot be treated as eternal, unchanging standards.

A great roof beam can be used to batter down a city wall, but not to plug a small hole; this is because different objects have different uses. Fine horses such as Qiji and Yili can run a thousand li in a day, yet they are no better than a wildcat at catching mice; this is because abilities differ. At night, crows and magpies can catch fleas and see the tiniest things. But by day, even with their eyes wide open, they cannot see a mountain; this is because natures differ.

So should we simply exalt “right” and reject “wrong,” exalt “order” and reject “disorder”? Those who do so still do not understand the principles of Heaven and Earth or the nature of the myriad things. It is like acknowledging Heaven while denying Earth, or acknowledging Yin while denying Yang. Clearly, that will not work. Anyone who insists on this claim and refuses to abandon it is either foolish or deceitful.

The ways in which rulers yielded the throne differed, and so did the systems of succession in the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties. Those who went against their times and defied custom were called usurpers; those who followed the times and conformed to custom were regarded as acting in accordance with what is right.

River Earl, your understanding is so shallow! How could you know the boundaries between the noble and the lowly, or the measure of what is great and small?

River Earl asked, “Then what should I do, and what should I not do? Should I yield or accept, pursue or let go? What, in the end, should I do?”

The North Sea’s Ruo replied, “From the standpoint of the Dao (the Way), what is there to call noble or lowly? This is called following change without clinging to anything. Do not let your purpose be constrained; accord with the Great Way. What is there to call much or little? This is called giving and receiving as they come and go with change. Do not hold fast to one course, lest you turn away from the Great Way. Be as solemn as a state with a ruler, yet do not claim its virtue as your own. Be as far-reaching and universal as a state’s altar to the god of the soil, yet do not monopolize its blessings.”

If a person can flow in every direction like water, free from constraint, the mind can accord with the Great Dao. But if they are always tallying gains and losses and meeting restrictions at every turn, their actions will fall out of accord with the Great Dao.

In governing a state, one should act with the solemnity of a ruler directing affairs, yet not claim the merit as one’s own. When making offerings to the God of the Soil, who governs the land, one should likewise not claim the blessings as one’s own. The Great Dao is vast and boundless, constrained by no limits. It embraces all things without favoring or aiding any one of them; this is called “without a fixed direction”—having no set bounds or bias. In the Great Dao’s view, all things are equal. How could one distinguish what is short from what is long? The Dao has neither end nor beginning, while things are born and die. It does not depend on the forms things have already taken. Things are sometimes empty and sometimes full, yet the Dao does not settle into any one form. The years cannot be halted, and time cannot be held back. Things wax and wane, fill and diminish, and every ending becomes a new beginning. These are the basic principles for discussing the Great Dao and the patterns of change among things.

The generation and transformation of things happen swiftly, like a galloping horse. Nothing moves without changing, and nothing remains fixed in place for even an instant. Why, then, insist on doing or not doing? Things naturally change of themselves.

The River Earl asked, “If that is so, what is there to value in the Dao?” The Lord of the Northern Sea replied, “One who understands the Dao must understand the principles of things. One who understands those principles must understand how circumstances shift. One who understands how circumstances shift will not let external things injure them. A person whose De has reached the highest level cannot be heated by fire or drowned by water; cold and heat cannot harm them, and birds and beasts cannot attack them. This does not mean they deliberately approach such dangers. It means they can discern safety and danger, face fortune and misfortune with composure, and decide carefully when to advance or withdraw. For this reason, nothing can harm them.”

Thus, inborn nature is within, while human contrivance is external; the foundation of De lies in following one’s inborn nature. Understand the ways of Heaven and humanity, and you will know to take the Dao of Heaven as your foundation and your natural endowment as your guide. You must also judge the moment and the circumstances, bend or extend, advance or withdraw, and return to the root to investigate the utmost principles of things.

The River Earl asked, “What is Heaven, and what is humanity?” The Lord of the Northern Sea replied, “Oxen and horses are born with four legs: this is their nature. Putting a halter on a horse and a nose ring on an ox is human contrivance.” So do not use human contrivance to damage inborn nature, do not let customs or preconceptions damage what Heaven has allotted, and do not sacrifice your true nature for the sake of fame.

So do not let human desires harm your natural nature, do not let a passing circumstance harm what is essential to life, and do not give yourself up in pursuit of fame. Carefully guard what is genuine and do not let it be lost: this is called returning to your true nature.

Kui, a legendary one-legged creature, envied Xuan; Xuan envied the snake; the snake envied the wind; the wind envied the eyes; and the eyes envied the heart. Kui said to Jiao, “I hop along on one foot, and already feel that nothing can compare with me. Now you can command many feet—what must that be like?”

Xuan said, “It is not like that. Have you never seen spittle? When it is sprayed out, the large drops look like pearls and the small ones like mist. They fall in a steady stream, too many to count. You see only my body moving, but do not know what makes it move.” Xuan said to the snake, “I have many feet, yet I cannot move as fast as you, who have none. Why is that?” The snake said, “It is like the natural workings that send spittle falling in countless drops. How could such natural workings be changed so easily? Why would I need feet?”

The snake said to the wind, “I move by twisting my back and flanks, so you can see me in motion. You rush up from the North Sea and rush down into the South Sea, yet seem to do nothing. Why is that?” The wind said, “That is indeed so. I rise from the North Sea and enter the South Sea. Yet someone can point a finger at me and overcome me; someone can stamp a foot on me and overcome me. Even so, only I can break great trees and overturn large houses. That is why many small forces cannot defeat me: it is where my true strength lies. Only a sage can achieve such a great victory.”

When Confucius was traveling in Kuang, the people of Song surrounded him on every side. He continued to play the zither and sing without stopping. Zilu came in to see him and said, “Master, why are you still so cheerful?” Confucius said, “Come, let me tell you. I have always tried to avoid hardship, yet have never managed to escape it. That is fate. I have always tried to find a way to success, yet have never attained it. That is the time. When Yao and Shun ruled, no one in the realm was frustrated or unable to fulfill their aims—not because everyone knew how to strive for success. When Jie and Zhou ruled, no one in the realm achieved success or high rank—not because everyone had forgotten how to strive for it.”

Such are the differences shaped by circumstance: to move through water without avoiding dragons is the courage of a fisherman; to walk on land without avoiding rhinoceroses and tigers is the courage of a hunter; to face clashing blades and regard death as though it were life is the courage of a brave warrior. But to know that adversity has its allotted course and success its moment, and to face great danger without fear—that is the courage of a sage. Which kind of courage does You have? My fate is governed by its own course.

Before long, armored soldiers came forward and reported, “We thought he was Yang Hu, so we surrounded this place. We now see that he is not. Please allow us to withdraw.”

Gongsun Long asked Wei Mou, “In my youth I studied the Way of the ancient kings; as I grew older, I mastered the practice of benevolence and righteousness. I can argue that different things are the same, and distinguish hardness from whiteness. I can argue for ‘not so’ and ‘so,’ for ‘impossible’ and ‘possible,’ confounding the wisdom of the hundred schools and leaving everyone’s arguments without reply. I thought I had reached the utmost understanding. But now, after hearing Zhuangzi, I feel bewildered; his views seem entirely different from mine. I do not know whether my skill in argument falls short of his, or my understanding is inferior to his. Now I find myself unable to say a word. Please explain the reason.”

Gongzi Mou leaned on the table, sighed deeply, and, looking up at the sky, laughed. “Have you never heard of the frog at the bottom of a well? It said to the giant turtle from the Eastern Sea, ‘How happy I am here! I hop about on the well curb, and when I grow tired, I rest in a crumbling place in the wall. When I leap into the water, it supports my armpits and chin; when I step into the mud, it covers my feet and ankles. I look around at the little insects, crabs, and tadpoles, and none of them can compare with me. I alone possess this well water and roam freely in the well. My happiness has reached its peak. Why don’t you come visit sometime?’”

The sea turtle of the Eastern Sea had not yet fully set its left foot inside when its right knee was already pressed against the boundary. It had no choice but to retreat along the edge and tell the frog in the well, “A thousand li of distance cannot show how vast the sea is; a thousand ren of height cannot tell how deep it is. When Yu the Great controlled the floods, nine out of ten years brought floods, yet the sea did not rise because of them. In the time of King Tang of Shang, seven out of eight years brought drought, yet the sea did not shrink because of it. The sea does not change with the passage of time, nor does it grow or diminish with the amount of water. This is the vastness and delight of the Eastern Sea.”

Hearing this, the well frog was stunned and at a loss. Zhuangzi said, “You do not understand the difference between right and wrong or between realms, yet you still want to understand my words. That is like asking a flea to carry a mountain or a tiny insect to run across a river: it is bound to be beyond their capacity. You do not understand the most subtle arguments, and are satisfied only with the small benefits close at hand. Are you not just like the well frog?”

“The Dao, the fundamental principle underlying all things, begins in the depths and leads toward a boundless realm. There is no distinction between north and south; the spirit opens wide and merges into the immeasurable. There is no distinction between east and west; it arises from the obscure and returns to the great openness. Yet you are so constrained that you want to understand through observation and find answers through debate. That is like peering at the sky through a bamboo tube or measuring the earth with an awl. Is that not far too narrow? Go.”

“Have you not heard of the young man from Shouling who went to Handan to learn how to walk? He failed to learn the people of Handan’s way of walking and instead forgot the way he had always walked. In the end, he could only crawl home. If you do not leave now, you will forget your own abilities and lose the learning you already possess.”

When Gongsun Long heard this, his mouth gaped open and would not close; he raised his tongue and could not lower it. Then he fled.

Zhuangzi was fishing beside the Pu River. The King of Chu sent two senior officials to visit him first. They said, “We hope to entrust the affairs of Chu to you.” Holding his fishing rod, Zhuangzi did not turn around. He said, “I have heard that Chu has a divine tortoise that died three thousand years ago. The king keeps it in a bamboo box and treasures it in the ancestral temple. Would that tortoise rather have died and left behind its bones, to receive such honored offerings, or would it rather have lived, dragging its tail through the mud?”

The two officials replied, “It would rather have lived, dragging its tail through the mud.”

Zhuangzi said, “Go away. I would rather drag my tail through the mud and live.”

When Zhuangzi went to visit Huizi, who was serving as prime minister in the state of Liang, someone said to Huizi, “Zhuangzi has come to replace you as prime minister.” Huizi was frightened and searched throughout the state for Zhuangzi for three days and three nights.

When Zhuangzi met Huizi, he said, “In the south there is a bird called the yuanchu, a legendary divine bird. Do you know it? It takes flight from the Southern Sea and flies toward the Northern Sea. It will perch only on a parasol tree, eat only bamboo seeds, and drink only from a sweet spring. Just then, an owl has found a rotten rat. The yuanchu flies past, and the owl looks up and cries, ‘Hah!’ Are you now trying to frighten me with your state of Liang?”

Zhuangzi and Huizi were strolling on a bridge over the Hao River. Zhuangzi said, “The minnows swim about so freely and easily. This is the happiness of fish.” Huizi said, “You are not a fish. How do you know that fish are happy?” Zhuangzi said, “You are not me. How do you know that I don’t know fish are happy?” Huizi said, “I am not you, so of course I don’t know what you think. You are not a fish, so you don’t know that fish are happy. That much is perfectly clear.”

Zhuangzi said, “Let us begin with what you said. You just asked, ‘How do you know that fish are happy?’ By asking this, you have already acknowledged that I know they are happy; you are only asking how I know. I know it here, on the bridge over the Hao.”

Is there truly absolute happiness in the world? Is there a way to preserve life fully? What should a person do, what should they rely on, what should they avoid, and where should they dwell in peace? What should they pursue, and what should they give up? What is worth loving, and what should be disliked?

What people value is wealth and rank, long life, and a good name. They enjoy bodily comfort, delicious food, fine clothes, beautiful features, and pleasing music. They scorn poverty and low status, a short life, and a bad name. People suffer when their bodies cannot be comfortable, their mouths cannot taste fine food, their bodies cannot wear fine clothes, their eyes cannot see beauty, and their ears cannot hear music. When they fail to obtain these things, they grow anxious and afraid. To treat one’s life this way is deeply confused.

The wealthy labor and manage their affairs, accumulating great stores of possessions, yet may not be able to enjoy them to the full. In their treatment of life, they place far too much value on external things. The eminent worry day and night, repeatedly calculating whether they have acted correctly. Their treatment of life, too, is distant and misguided. From the moment a person is born, worries come with them. Those who live long endure many troubles; even after a long life, they remain anxious. What is there to value in such longevity? To treat life so distantly is truly out of proportion.

Those known for their moral integrity are often praised for trying to set the world right, but this may not preserve their own lives. I do not know whether what is called good is truly good, or is in fact not good. If it is good, it may still fail to preserve one’s life; if it is not good, it may help others survive. Thus it is said that if a loyal remonstrance goes unheeded, one should yield and stop arguing. Wu Zixu, a minister of the state of Wu during the Spring and Autumn period, persisted in remonstrating and thereby brought harm upon himself. Had he not argued, however, his reputation for loyalty would never have been established. In light of this, can there be any fixed standard for so-called good conduct?

As for the things people do and enjoy nowadays, I do not know whether they truly bring happiness or not. I see people rushing after them, busy and restless, as if they had no choice, yet all of them say they are happy. I can neither be sure that this is true happiness nor conclude that it is not. Is there truly happiness in the world?

I believe that following what is natural and acting without contrivance is true happiness, yet this is precisely what ordinary people most dislike. Hence it is said that the greatest happiness seems to be no happiness, and the highest praise does not consist in receiving praise. Right and wrong in the world are ultimately difficult to judge with ease. Even so, when it comes to the things everyone says are enjoyable, I still cannot be sure they are truly happiness, nor can I say that they certainly are not.

Does true happiness exist? I believe that doing nothing is true happiness, yet ordinary people regard it as the most painful thing. The greatest happiness, then, is happiness pursued without intention; the highest renown is to seek no renown. Whether the right and wrong of the world can ever truly be judged is hard to say. Even so, Wuwei (non-action) can let people regard right and wrong with calmness. True happiness can bring life to rest, and only Wuwei comes closest to this state. Let me try to explain.

Heaven is clear through Wuwei; Earth is still through Wuwei. When Heaven and Earth come together in Wuwei, all things are transformed and brought forth. It is vast and boundless: all things seem to sprout from it, yet no definite source can be found. It is subtle and unfathomable, without any fixed form. The myriad things grow and flourish, all developing from Wuwei. Thus, although Heaven and Earth do nothing, there is nothing that does not come to completion through them. Who among humankind can attain Wuwei?

When Zhuangzi’s wife died, Huizi came to mourn her. Zhuangzi sat cross-legged, beating a clay basin and singing. Huizi said, “You lived together with your wife. She raised your children and grew old with you. When she died, it would have been enough if you had not wept. But to beat a basin and sing—isn’t that going too far?”

Zhuangzi said, “It is not so. When she first died, how could I have felt nothing? But when I traced her life back to its beginning, there was originally no life. Not only was there no life; originally there was no form. Not only was there no form; originally there was not even Qi (vital energy). She was mixed into the formless and traceless, and later a transformation took place. Qi transformed and formed a body; the body transformed and life came into being. Now she has transformed again and moved toward death. This is like the turning of the four seasons—spring, summer, autumn, and winter. A person lies peacefully asleep in the great house of Heaven and Earth, yet I was weeping and wailing as I followed her. I thought this showed that I did not understand the course of Heaven, so I stopped crying.”

Zhilishu and Huajieshu went to wander among the Mound of the Dark Earl and the Ruins of Kunlun, said to be where the Yellow Emperor rested. Before long, a tumor grew on Huajieshu’s left elbow, and he grew troubled, disliking this transformation. Zhilishu asked, “Do you hate it?” Huajieshu replied, “No. Why should I hate it? Life is only a body borrowed for a time; borrowed life is no more than dust and dirt. Birth and death are like day and night. Besides, you and I were already watching transformations. Now transformation has come upon me—what is there for me to dislike?”

When Zhuangzi went to the state of Chu, he saw an empty skull whose bones still retained the shape of a human body. He tapped it with his horsewhip and asked, “Did you come to this because you clung to life and went against the natural order? Or because your state was lost and you suffered execution by sword and axe? Did you come to this because you did something wrong and were ashamed to face your parents, wife, and children? Because you suffered hunger and cold? Or because you reached old age and died at the end of your natural span?”

After speaking, Zhuangzi drew the skull close, used it as a pillow, and lay down to sleep. In the middle of the night, the skull appeared to him in a dream and said, “What you said just now sounded like the words of a debater. Everything you described is a burden suffered by the living. The dead have none of these troubles. Would you like to hear what it is like after death?” Zhuangzi replied, “I would.”

The skull said, “After death, there is no ruler above and no subject below, and no need to worry about the changing seasons or the affairs of the world. One is at ease and free, with Heaven and Earth as one’s years. Even the joy of facing south as a king cannot compare with this freedom.”

Zhuangzi did not believe it. He said, “If I asked the Controller of Fate, who governs life and its length, to bring you back to life, restore your bones, flesh, and skin, and return you to your parents, wife, children, neighbors, and acquaintances, would you be willing?” The skull furrowed its brow and said, “How could I give up the joy of facing south as a king and return to the toil of the human world?”

When Yan Hui was about to leave for the state of Qi, Confucius looked worried. Zigong rose from his seat and asked, “Your student ventures to ask: Yan Hui is going to Qi. Why are you concerned, Master?” Confucius said, “That is a good question. Guan Zhong once said something that I agree with: a small bag cannot hold a large object, and a short-handled water scoop cannot reach a deep well. Each person’s natural endowment and physical form have their limits, and so does what they are suited to bear. These things cannot easily be increased, diminished, or changed.”

I worry that if Yan Hui explains the teachings of Yao, Shun, and the Yellow Emperor to the Lord of Qi, and adds the sayings of Suiren and Shennong, the lord will search inwardly for these teachings but find no answers. He will become bewildered, and once a person falls into confusion, he may even lose his life.

Have you not heard? Once, a seabird alighted outside the capital of Lu. The Lord of Lu welcomed it in person and housed it in the ancestral temple. He held a banquet in its honor and had the music of “Nine Shao” performed. He also prepared a grand sacrificial offering of an ox, a sheep, and a pig for it to eat. But the seabird was dazed and distressed. It did not dare eat a piece of meat or drink a cup of wine, and after three days it died. This was raising a bird in the way people enjoy, not in the way suited to birds.

To raise a bird according to its nature, one should let it live in a deep forest, wander freely on sandbars, and float on rivers and lakes, feeding on small fish. Let it move and rest with its flock, living in peace. It even dislikes hearing human speech—how could it endure such elaborate ceremony?

When music such as “Xianchi” and “Nine Shao” is played across the open reaches of Lake Dongting, birds fly away, beasts flee, and fish dive beneath the water. People, by contrast, turn to look together. Fish live in water, while people can drown in it: their preferences and experiences are simply different. Thus the sages of antiquity did not demand that everyone have the same abilities or make everyone do the same things. They required only that titles accord with what is real, and principles suit the circumstances. This is called bringing things into proper order and preserving good fortune.

As Liezi traveled, he accepted food offered by people along the way. Seeing a hundred-year-old skull, he picked up a stalk of grass, pointed to it, and said, “Only you and I know that life may not truly be life, and death may not truly be death. Are you truly nurturing life? Am I truly rejoicing?”

The kinds of things in the world undergo many transformations. When a seed receives water, it grows into a lush plant. What grows where water and earth meet becomes a dragon maiden’s garment; what grows on high ground becomes a hill crow. When the hill crow finds a suitable environment, it becomes crow’s-foot. The root of crow’s-foot becomes a navel dragonfly, and its leaves become butterflies. The butterflies then transform into worms, which live beneath the ao and resemble something shed; they are called jiu-rang. After a thousand days, jiu-rang turn into crows, called qian-yu-gu.

The tiny foam on the bones of Qian Yu turns into Si Mi, and Si Mi in turn becomes Shi Yun. Yi Xia emerges from Shi Pei! Its appearance is yellow, like shed skin, and it is called Jiu Rang. After a thousand days, Jiu Rang turns into a crow, called Qian Yu. The foam on Qian Yu’s bones turns into Si Mi, and Si Mi in turn becomes Shi Yun, from which Yi Xia emerges. Huang Yue is born from Jiu You; Bie Yin is born from a decaying earthen jar. Yang Xi and Bu Bi accompany one another. Old bamboo gives rise to Qing Ning; Qing Ning gives rise to Cheng, Cheng to a horse, and the horse to a human being. In the end, the human being returns to the processes of transformation. All things arise from these transformations, and in the end all return to them.

End of the third chapter, “Spring,” of the True Classic of the Southern Florescence.

Note: In the textual collation of the original, the first occurrence of “fu” was changed on the basis of the Shide edition; “qi” was added on the basis of the Shide edition; the passage “As for the greatest joy … harmonizing all things” was added on the basis of the Shide edition; and the characters “er,” “cai,” and “zhi” were each emended according to the Shide edition.

Those who understand the principles of life do not force it to do what it cannot do. Those who understand the principles of destiny do not cling to investigating what lies beyond their control.

Caring for the body first requires material provisions such as food. Yet even when provisions are abundant, the body may still not be cared for properly. Once there is life, the body cannot be separated from it; still, a person’s body may remain while life has already departed. Life cannot be refused when it comes, nor held back when it leaves. The pity is that people believe caring for the body is enough to preserve life. If caring for the body truly cannot preserve life, what in the world is worth doing? Even when doing certain things may not preserve life, they must still be done, because people cannot avoid doing them.

To avoid being burdened by the body and worldly affairs, the best course is to free oneself from worldly concerns. Let go of them, and there is nothing to worry about. With nothing to worry about, the mind becomes balanced and calm; when the mind is balanced and calm, one can change and renew along with all things. To reach this state is to draw close to the Dao (the Way). What is there in worldly affairs worth taking too seriously? What is there in life worth deliberately casting away? If one is not driven by affairs, the body will not be worn out. If one does not cling to life, one’s Jing and Qi will not be depleted. When the body is kept whole and Jing and Qi are restored to abundance, one can become one with the Way of Heaven.

Heaven and Earth are the parents of all things. When things gather, they take form; when they disperse, they return to the beginning of a new generation. When neither form nor vital energy is diminished, this is called being able to follow change. When Jing and Qi are refined to their utmost, they can in turn assist the natural Way.

Liezi asked Guanyin, “A perfected person can dive into water without choking, walk on fire without feeling its heat, and travel above all things without fear. How can one reach such a state?”

Guanyin replied, “It is because they hold fast to the pure and harmonious Jing and Qi with undivided focus, not because of cleverness, skill, or reckless bravery. Sit down, and I will explain. All that has appearance, shape, sound, or color is a concrete thing. How far apart are things from one another, really? And on what grounds can we say that any one of them transcends all things and reaches the first source? In the end, it is still a thing with form and color. All things arise from what has neither form nor trace, and come to rest where change ceases. If you fully grasp this, how could external things constrain you?”

That person abides by standards that do not lean too far in any direction and shelters within laws that have no end. They wander freely where all things begin and end. They keep their nature focused, nurture their vital essence and energy, and bring their De into harmony with all things, thereby understanding the principles by which things come into being. In this way, their inborn nature remains whole and their spirit undivided. How could external things intrude upon or harm them?

A drunk person who falls from a moving cart does not necessarily die, even if the cart is traveling fast. Their joints and bones are the same as anyone else’s, yet they suffer injury differently, because their spirit remains whole. They do not know when they are riding, nor when they fall. Life and death, fear and alarm, cannot enter their heart, so they are not easily harmed by what they encounter. If drunkenness can preserve such wholeness, how much more can following one’s nature bring it about? The sage entrusts the heart and spirit to the Way of Heaven, and so nothing can harm them.

A supple, flexible branch is hard to break. Even someone nursing a grudge does not blame a roof tile blown by the wind. In this way, all under Heaven can be calm and balanced. When the Way is followed, the world is free from the calamities of attack and war, and from killing and punishment.

Do not suppress people’s natural nature; open the nature that follows the Way of Heaven. When this nature is opened, De can grow. Forcing it open and driving human nature instead damages life. If we neither go against nature nor overlook people’s circumstances, the people may be able to preserve their true nature.

When Confucius (Kongzi) was traveling to Chu, he passed through a wood and saw a hunchback catching cicadas with sticky poles. His movements were so practiced that it seemed he was picking them up from the ground. Confucius asked, “Your skill is remarkable. Do you have a special method?”

The old man replied, “I do. After five or six months of practice, I could stack two clay pellets without letting them fall. Then I seldom missed when catching cicadas. When I could stack three without dropping them, I missed only once in ten tries. When I could stack five without dropping them, catching cicadas became like picking them up from the ground. When I stand, my body is as steady as a tree stump; when I extend my arm, it is as still as a withered branch. However vast Heaven and Earth may be, however many things there are, my mind thinks only of the cicada’s wings.”

I do not waver or lean to one side, and I would not trade all the things in the world for a cicada’s wing. What, then, could I fail to accomplish?” Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “When the mind is wholly focused and does not wander, the spirit will gather. Is that what the hunchback was talking about?”

Yan Yuan asked Confucius, “Once, while crossing the deep Xiangyuan, I saw a ferryman handling his boat with remarkable skill. I asked him, ‘Can anyone learn to row a boat?’ He said, ‘Yes. A good swimmer can learn after a few attempts. A diver, even if he has never seen a boat before, can row one in no time.’ I asked him again, but he would not explain. What does this mean?”

Confucius said, “A good swimmer can learn to row after a few attempts because he does not let the water weigh on his mind. A diver can row a boat even without having seen one before because he sees the deep waters as level ground and the boat capsizing as no more than a cart rolling backward. All manner of upsets and changes may unfold before him, yet they cannot disturb his mind. Such a person would be at ease wherever he went.

“When the wager is a roof tile, a gambler plays with skill. When it is a belt hook, he grows anxious. When it is gold, he becomes tense and loses his composure. His ability is the same in each case, but because he values the stake, he is held in thrall by external things. Anyone who attaches too much importance to things outside himself is likely to become clumsy within.”

Tian Kaizhi paid a visit to Duke Wei of Zhou. The duke said, “I have heard that Master Zhushen understands how to nurture life. You have spent time with him. Did you hear anything from him?”

Tian Kaizhi replied, “I only stood at the doorway with a broom, ready to serve. How could I have heard anything from the master?”

“Master Tian, you need not be so modest,” said the duke. “I would like to hear what you know.”

Tian Kaizhi said, “I heard the master say that someone who knows how to nurture life is like a shepherd: he watches for the sheep that fall behind and promptly drives them on with his whip.”

“What does that mean?” asked the duke.

Tian Kaizhi replied, “In the state of Lu, there was a man named Shan Bao who lived among the mountain crags and drank spring water. He did not compete with the people for profit. He lived to the age of seventy and still had the appearance of a baby. Unfortunately, he encountered a hungry tiger, which killed and ate him in the end.”

There was a man named Zhang Yi who liked to make friends among the great and powerful. He traveled everywhere, leaving no place unvisited. He lived to the age of forty, then died of an internal fever. Bao nurtured what was within, while the tiger damaged his outward form; Zhang Yi cared for his outward form, while illness attacked what was within. Neither of them looked after what was fundamental.

Confucius said, “Do not keep everything hidden within, and do not flaunt everything outwardly. Stand calmly between the two, like a piece of firewood. If you can manage these three things, your reputation will reach the highest heights.”

On a dangerous road, one person in ten may lose their life. So fathers and sons, brothers and brothers warn one another, and only dare set out after gathering in a large group. Is that not wise? What people truly ought to guard against is the harm that comes from food and drink at the table. To remain unaware and take no precautions against it is a mistake.

The official in charge of sacrifices, dressed in ceremonial robes, came to the pigsty and said to the pigs, “Why are you afraid of death? I will feed you for three months, have you fast for ten days and bathe for three, then lay white rushes beneath you and place your body on an elaborately decorated sacrificial vessel. Would you be willing to do that?” A pig replied, “Rather than eat grain husks and live in a pigsty, let me make my own choice while I am still a pig. If I can enjoy the honor of riding in a carriage and wearing a cap while alive, and after death be laid on an ornate sacrificial vessel and placed in the ancestral temple, then I am willing.” Considered from the pig’s point of view, it would refuse this arrangement; when making their own choices, people are willing to accept it. How different are the choices of people and pigs?

When Duke Huan of Qi went hunting in a marsh, Guan Zhong drove his carriage. The duke saw a ghost, seized Guan Zhong’s hand in fright, and asked, “Father Zhong, what do you see?” Guan Zhong replied, “I see nothing.” After returning, Duke Huan declared himself ill and stayed indoors for several days.

A man from Qi named Li Qie Gao’ao said to Duke Huan, “You have harmed yourself. How could a ghost harm you? When anger and distress disperse and cannot be restored, a person grows weak; when Qi surges upward and cannot descend, it makes a person prone to anger…”

When Qi flows downward but does not rise, it makes people prone to forgetfulness. When Qi neither rises nor falls, but remains in the middle of the body between the heart and chest, it makes people ill.

Duke Huan asked, “Then, are there ghosts in the world?” The Crown Prince replied, “Yes. In deep water there is Lü; on the back of the Ao turtle there is Ji. In places indoors where filth and dust have accumulated, Thunder dwells there. In low-lying places in the north are the strange beings Bei’a, Xialong, and Yue; in low-lying places in the northwest is Zhiyang. In the water there is Wangxiang; on earthen mounds there is Xing; in the mountains there is Kui; in the wilderness there is Fanghuang; and in marshes there is Weishe.”

Duke Huan asked, “May I ask what Weishe looks like?” The Crown Prince said, “Weishe’s body is as thick as a wheel and as long as an axle. It wears purple clothes and a red hat. It is afraid of the sound of the thunder chariot; when it hears it, it clasps its head in its hands and stands still. Anyone who sees it can probably become a hegemon.” Duke Huan laughed heartily and said, “That is exactly what I saw!” He then straightened his robes and cap and invited the Crown Prince to sit with him. Before the day was out, he felt his illness had eased.

Ji Yizi was training fighting cocks for the king. After ten days, the king asked, “Are the cocks ready?” Ji Yizi replied, “Not yet. Their minds are unsettled, and they still rely on a surge of blood and energy.” Ten days later, the king asked again. Ji Yizi said, “Not yet. They still react when they hear a sound or see a shadow.” Another ten days passed, and the king asked once more. Ji Yizi said, “Not yet. Their eyes are still sharp and their vigor is still strong.” Ten more days later, Ji Yizi said, “They are nearly ready. Even when other cocks crow, they are no longer affected. They look like wooden cocks: their spirits are held within, and their De is complete. The other cocks dare not challenge them; when they see them, they turn and flee.”

Confucius was watching a waterfall at Lüliang. The water plunged from a height of thirty ren, and its spray rushed on for forty li; even fish and turtles could not swim across it. Confucius saw a man swimming in the water and thought he had met with misfortune and was seeking death, so he sent his disciples along the current to chase after him and rescue him. The man swam several hundred paces, climbed ashore, let his hair hang loose, and wandered along beneath the embankment, singing. Confucius followed him and asked, “At first I thought you were a ghost, but on closer inspection I see you are a man. May I ask if you have some special way of crossing the water?” The man replied, “There is no special way. At first, I simply let my hair hang loose, sang, and swam beneath the embankment.”

Confucius followed behind him and asked, “At first I thought you were a ghost. Looking closely, I see you are human. May I ask whether there is a technique for walking on water?” The man replied, “No, I have no particular technique. At first I learned by adapting to my surroundings; later, I made it part of my nature; in the end, I settled into my fate. I sink down with the water and rise up as it surges. I follow the water’s patterns and do not impose my own intentions on it. That is how I can walk on water.”

Confucius asked, “What do you mean by first learning through your surroundings, then making it part of your nature, and finally settling into your fate?” The man replied, “I was born in the hills, so I grew accustomed to life in the hills: that was learning through my surroundings. I grew up by the water, so I became accustomed to life in the water: that was my nature. I do not know why I am this way; I simply am, of my own accord. That is fate.”

Qing the Carpenter, from the state of Lu, carved wood to make vessels. When they were finished, everyone who saw them was astonished, as though they had seen ghosts or spirits. The Marquis of Lu asked him, “What skill did you use to make them?” Qing replied, “I am only a craftsman. What special skill could I have? There is just one thing: whenever I prepare to make a vessel, I never dare let my Qi scatter. I always fast first and quiet my mind. After fasting for three days, I no longer think about congratulations, rewards, or rank. After five days, I no longer think about praise or blame, or whether my skill is good or poor. After seven days, I suddenly forget that I have limbs and a body. By then, the affairs of the court no longer occupy my mind; my skill is wholly focused, and disturbances from the outside world have disappeared. Only then do I enter the forest and observe the nature of the trees. When I have chosen a piece of wood with the right shape, and the form of the vessel has become clear in my mind, I begin to make it. If the wood is not suitable, I do not proceed. In this way, I use what is natural to accord with what is natural. That is probably why the vessels seem so marvelous to people.”

Dongye Ji drove his carriage for Duke Zhuang to watch. The horses advanced and stopped with the precision of a straightedge, and turned left and right with the precision of a compass. Duke Zhuang thought no one could surpass his skill, and told him to make a hundred consecutive circuits before returning. Yan He happened upon them and, seeing this, said, “Dongye Ji’s horses are about to collapse from exhaustion.” Duke Zhuang said nothing. Before long, the horses indeed collapsed, and the carriage returned. Duke Zhuang asked, “How did you know?” Yan He replied, “The horses had already spent all their strength, yet he kept driving them on. That is how I knew they were about to collapse.”

When Gong Chui, the legendary master craftsman, turned objects and made carriage covers, his fingers moved in accord with the material. He did not deliberately measure or calculate in his mind, and so his spirit remained focused and unencumbered.

Forget the foot, and the shoes fit; forget the waist, and the belt sits comfortably. Learn to forget disputes over right and wrong, and the mind can be at ease. When the heart is neither changed by external things nor blindly swayed by the outside world, one can handle affairs just right. At first, comfort comes from a good fit; if comfort endures, it is because even the idea of “comfort” has been forgotten. In this way, the mind can be single-minded and free of constraint.

A man named Sun Xiu went to visit Bian Qingzi. Distressed, he said, “I live among my fellow villagers, and no one thinks my conduct improper. When danger comes, no one says I lack courage. Yet my crops fail when I farm, and I serve my ruler in a time of disorder. I am shunned in my village and driven out of the district and county. What wrong have I committed to deserve this arrangement by Heaven? Why have I been dealt this fate?”

Bian Qingzi said, “Have you never heard how the perfected person—the one whose cultivation has reached a high level—lives and conducts himself? Such a person forgets the body and its organs, such as the liver and gallbladder, and does not cling to the senses of ear and eye. At ease and unselfconscious, they wander beyond the dust of the world and roam freely in a realm without desire. This is called acting without claiming credit, and helping things grow without ruling over them.

“Now you flaunt your cleverness to astonish the ignorant, and deliberately polish your own character to make others seem base. You shine so brightly it is as if you walk along carrying the sun and moon. You have kept your body intact, with all four limbs and nine apertures—the sensory openings of the eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and so on—and have not met with a calamity that left you deaf, blind, lame, or hunchbacked, setting you apart from ordinary people. That alone is good fortune. What leisure have you to resent Heaven? Go home.”