《抱朴子内篇》Vol. 1

The Inner Chapters of Baopuzi (Baopuzi Neipian) comprises twenty scrolls, in this order: “Expounding the Mystery” (Changxuan), “On Immortals” (Lunxian), “Addressing the World” (Duisu), “Golden Elixir” (Jindan), “Ultimate Principle” (Zhili), “Subtle Intent” (Weizhi), “Resolving Difficulties” (Sainan), “Explaining Stagnation” (Shizhi), “Intent of the Dao” (Daoyi), “Clarifying the Root” (Mingben), “Immortal Medicines” (Xianyao), “Discerning Questions” (Bianwen), “Extreme Words” (Jiyan), “Diligent Seeking” (Qinqiu), “Miscellaneous Responses” (Zaying), “Yellow and White” (Huangbai), “Ascending and Crossing” (Dengshe), “Authenticity of Earth” (Dizhen), “Distant Reading” (Yaolan), and “Dispelling Delusion” (Quhuo). The original table of contents is lost; this list has been reconstructed from the chapter titles in the main text.

By nature I am unremarkable, without extraordinary talent—I merely happen to love the way of wuwei (non-action). Even if I could spread my wings and soar to the highest heavens, or run faster than the wind and keep pace with the sun’s shadow, I would still prefer to fold my strong wings and mingle among small birds, and hide my swift steps to walk beside lame donkeys. How much more so when Heaven and Earth have only given me ordinary, short, weak wings, and Creation has endowed me with extremely slow legs? I know my limits clearly: I do not force what I cannot do.

How could I, like a fly, envy those who shoot up to the sky; or like a lame turtle, whip myself to chase a racing hare? How could I dress up an ugly face hoping someone like Mogŭ would win praise from a writer like Yang Xiong; or offer something as base as sand and pebbles to a merchant of gems and expect a thousand in gold?

If one tries to match the stride of Kuafu—the giant who chased the sun—with the tiny steps of the Jiaojiao, a fabled dwarf, strength will fall short and a fall is hard to avoid. If Yao Li, the assassin famed in the Spring and Autumn era for his slight frame, were forced into contests like lifting cauldrons, he would likely injure sinews and bones; the people of Qin had cases of broken bones from such feats. So I do not expect the rich and honored to agree with me; I am content with hardship and poverty. Plain tea and coarse food can still taste like delicacies; a humble thatched hut has its own peace.

Thus, even when great houses are close at hand, I do not cling to them; when someone who truly understands the Dao is far away and the road is hard, I still go to learn. Strange books worth studying are not few, but most speak in hidden language and cannot be grasped at once. Without a deep and careful mind, one cannot probe them; without steady diligence, one cannot see them through. Daoist scholars of wide learning are rare, while those who guess and speak at random are many.

Some are eager for the Way and wish to cultivate, yet in haste do not know where to begin; doubts arise and they find no one to ask. I write this book to outline in broad terms the basic principles of the path of longevity. The subtlest content cannot be fully put into writing, so I can only speak in general and offer one thread as an example. I hope those who are puzzled and long for answers may read it, take hold of the point, and infer the rest. I do not mean that people of shallow thought and narrow sight can thereby fully plumb the hidden or master the far-reaching. I merely touch on what comes first.

Confucian scholars of the world know only to revere the Duke of Zhou and Confucius. Their minds are bound by convention; they spend their lives clinging to fixed doctrines. They do not believe in immortals and transcendents, treating such matters as idle, absurd tales. When they see a book like mine, they will not merely laugh—they will slander the genuine principles within. Therefore this work is not meant to please the vulgar crowd.

I have written several books in the zi (masters) genre. This one is titled the Inner Chapters, in twenty scrolls; there are also Outer Chapters, each arranged as its own sections. Though it hardly deserves to be hidden in a famous mountain stone chamber, I still wish to seal it in a golden cabinet and leave it for perceptive readers. Those with whom one cannot discuss such matters should not be allowed to see it. What matters is that later generations who love long life may use it to resolve their doubts. Do I imagine I can convince those who never believed in the first place?

Respectfully composed as a preface by Ge Hong, styled Zhichuan.

Baopuzi, Inner Chapters, Volume 1: Expounding the Mysterious

Ge Hong said: Xuan (the Mystery) is the beginning of all things in nature and the common root of every phenomenon. So profound and subtle is it that it has no form and cannot be seen; so vast and far-reaching that its wonders cannot be fathomed. It rises above the nine heavens and spreads wide enough to cover the four directions; it is bright as sun and moon and swift as lightning. At times it flashes forth and vanishes in an instant; at times it drifts like the turning of stars, at times it ripples in deep pools, at times it floats like clouds and mist. It appears as “being” according to the signs of the ten thousand things, yet rests in silent formlessness and becomes “non-being.” It can sink into the deepest darkness and can ascend to the celestial pole where the North Star stands. Neither metal nor stone matches its hardness; neither morning dew nor gentle rain matches its softness. Though square, it is not bound by the carpenter’s square; though round, it is not confined by the compass. When it comes, no one sees it; when it goes, none can follow.

Heaven is high because of it, earth is low because of it; clouds move and rain falls because of it. It nurtures primordial qi (yuanqi) and gives birth to Yin and Yang; it breathes in the primordial breath of the cosmos and molds the myriad kinds of beings; it drives sun, moon, and stars and creates the ten thousand things of the undivided world. It governs the subtle mechanism of creation, stirs the qi of the four seasons, holds the deep stillness of emptiness and harmony, and lets brilliance unfold in full; it restrains turbid qi and lifts clear qi, harmonizing the He and Wei rivers. Add to it and it does not overflow; draw from it and it is never exhausted; gain it and one is not thereby more glorious; lose it and one is not thereby ruined. Therefore, when Xuan dwells in body and mind, joy knows no end; when Xuan departs, the body declines and spirit disperses.

The five tones and eight sounds, the clear shang and flowing zhi modes—all pleasing music—harm the ear; vivid, gaudy colors injure the eyes; ease, pleasure, fine wine, and rich food disturb the heart; cold beauty, coquettish bearing, and faces adorned with powder and rouge shorten life. Only the way of Xuan can grant true longevity.

Those who do not understand Xuan may possess many pleasures, yet theirs is not lasting joy: a single glance may become a cause of death, a single word may bear on rise and fall, survival or ruin. They dwell in lofty towers and painted pavilions, as if overlooking clouds and rain; ornate chambers blend colors, curtains layer like mist; beauties arrayed in quiet rooms, golden cups clinking, strings played together, Zheng dances swaying in profusion, mournful flutes rising to the sky. They float on feather-decked boats, pick fragrant herbs in orchid gardens, admire red blossoms beside pearl-like pools; they climb high to gaze far and briefly forget sorrow, lean over water and forget morning hunger; they pass through rich gates and ride out in carriages with vermilion wheels. Yet when joy reaches its peak, sorrow follows; when things are full, loss must come. Thus when music ends, sighs arise; when the feast breaks up, the heart feels grief. This is the momentum of how things move, like a shadow always following the body. Such pleasures are borrowed for a time, not truly lasting; once they are gone, it is as if something is missing in the heart.

The profound Dao (Xuandao—the deep and subtle Great Way) must be realized from within and guarded through outward constancy. When you put it into practice, you rely on Shen (spirit); when you forget it, only concrete form and objects remain. They respond to one another like shadow and echo. These are merely appearances mediated by external things—not the true substance—so when things pass away, it seems as if they are lost along with them.

“Realize the profound Dao from within and guard it through outward holding; in using it, rely on spirit; in forgetting it, only form and objects remain”—this sums up its essential message. Those who truly comprehend the profound Dao are honored without needing the authority symbolized by the yellow battle-axe; those genuinely united with it are wealthy without rare possessions.

The profound Dao is too high to scale and too deep to fathom. The cultivator rides flowing radiance, drives surging Qi, crosses the six directions (above, below, and the four quarters), and moves through boundless space; he may emerge from the utmost height or enter the bottomless depth. Passing through gate upon gate without end, he travels realms subtle and deep, wandering at ease in indistinct twilight as if beyond what the ordinary world can see. He swallows the ninefold essences in the clouds and savors the six Qi between crimson mists; he lingers in dim obscurity and soars in what is too fine to grasp; his feet tread coiling rainbows and his steps trace the turning heavens. This is the state reached by one who has attained the Dao.

Going one step deeper still, one arrives at truly knowing sufficiency. Those who know sufficiency can withdraw from the world and decline office, nourishing their spirit in mountains and forests; even when gifted, they willingly remain among ordinary people, fostering vast, upright qi amid grass and wild growth.

They wear patched clothes and tie themselves with straw rope, yet do not trade these for splendid official robes; they walk with a staff and do not exchange that for the grand display of carriages and retinues. Hide a luminous pearl in the depths of Mount Song, and other stones will not come to fight over it; sink armored scales in dark deep water, and one can avoid the harm of drilling and burning. In movement and stillness they know where to stop, so wherever they are, they feel content. They let go of fleeting glory and keep off paths that invite ruin.

Chanting and long cries among green cliffs, they see the ten thousand things as dust; resting content beneath leafy shade, they take crimson gates and great mansions to be no more than hovels tied shut with rope. To hold a plow in the fields and suddenly to hold command insignia is, to them, like holding a whip; coarse tea and clear spring water make lavish sacrificial feasts no different from plain fare.

At ease within Wuwei (non-action), they do not contend for name or rank, and so they do not weigh noble against base. They guard a thick, simple nature—without craving, without worry—preserving their inborn disposition unbound by things, dwelling in the ordinary and gladly accepting simplicity. Broad in mind and free in bearing, they follow natural arising; vast and boundless, they align with the creating and transforming of Heaven and Earth. They seem dim yet bright, turbid yet clear; slow-seeming yet swift, depleted-seeming yet full.

How would they, like the invocator who tends the corpse in sacrifice, leave their own place to take the master craftsman’s role? How would they step over sacrificial vessels and the chopping block to stir the pot for an ignorant cook, or put down compass and square to assist a clumsy artisan who cuts his hand? They are not troubled by petty trifles, nor do they take the joys and sorrows of common folk as their own. They are not elated by worldly praise, nor fearful of slander echoed by the crowd. They do not let external things disturb their inner essence and qi, nor let gain and loss stain their pure nature.

Therefore the utmost wealth and rank cannot entice them—what else is there to delight in? Blades at the body or boiling water cannot coerce them—what is there to grieve in calumny? They are often unmoved by clamor and have never allowed themselves to be mixed with external things.

Those people use rare pearls to shoot sparrows and lick hemorrhoids with their tongues to curry favor with the powerful; they climb rotting ropes to reach bird nests and dare to swim the raging currents of Lüliang to catch fish. In the morning they are still praised as lofty, unsociable guests; by evening they are corpses for foxes and crows to pick at. Beams give way, food in the cauldron spills, people fall into the water and cannot save themselves. Such things are what people in the world scramble after, afraid they will not keep up—yet when the clear-sighted think of them, they feel only chill sorrow in the heart.

Therefore, one who has attained the Dao does not play elegant music such as Shao or Xia, nor display literary grace or talent; he spreads his wings in the wild regions of the five directions without troubling escorts for his carriage. He hides scales and horns where they need not be used and does not rely on narrow caves to guard against danger. When he lowers his head, he has no worry of being summoned by owls; when he raises it, he has no danger of regretting that he climbed too high. No one knows him, and his tracks are deep and vast.

End of Baopuzi Neipian, Volume One.

Volume Two: “On Immortals”

Someone asked: “Immortals can live long without dying—is that really so?”

Baopuzi replied: “Even if one’s eyes are extremely sharp, one cannot see every thing that has form; even if one’s hearing is extremely keen, one cannot hear every thing that has sound. Even walkers as skilled as Dazhang and Shuhai travel far fewer roads in a lifetime than roads they have never walked; even men as broadly informed as Yu, Yi, and Qixie know far less than what they do not know. Myriad are the things in the world—what kind of thing would not exist? How much more so for the ranks of immortals—they are not rarely attested in the records of classics and histories. How then could the way of not dying fail to exist?”

The questioner then laughed heartily and said: “Whatever has a beginning must have an end; whatever exists is bound to perish. Thus sages such as Sanwu Qiu and Dan, wise men such as Qi, Liang, and Ping, eloquent debaters such as Duan, Ying, Sui, and Li, and brave warriors such as Gui, Yu, and Wuding—all alike cannot escape death. That is the constant pattern of human life and an outcome that cannot be avoided.

“In the world one only hears of plants and trees that wither before the frost, or fade in midsummer; of grain that ears without flowering, or fruit that falls before it ripens. One never hears of anyone living ten thousand years, eternally alive without dying. The ancients, when they read and pursued learning, did not seek to become immortals; when they discussed affairs, they did not speak of strange marvels. They set aside heterodox ways, followed the natural order, treated the tortoise and the crane as creatures of different kinds, and regarded death as no more unusual than morning turning into evening.

“To rack one’s mind and restrain oneself in pursuit of what brings no benefit is like carving flowers on ice or cutting designs in rotting wood—ultimately nothing can be achieved. Better to deploy lofty strategies for governing the world, draw down present blessings, let purple and blue official sashes wind layer upon layer, ride in splendid carriages and walk at ease, and let delicacies in the cauldron replace the coarse life of the plow—is that not also good? I often recall the satire in the ‘Fu Tian’ chapter of the Book of Poetry against boundless greed, and I deeply ponder Confucius’s acknowledgment that human beings must die in the end.

“Do not try to grasp formless wind, catch an elusive shadow, seek what can never be obtained, or walk a path that by nature cannot be walked. To cast off glory and take on hardship, to abandon what is easy and force oneself to conquer what is extremely difficult, is like a bereft household chasing a wandering woman—you will lose on both counts. Shan and Zhang, trusting one-sided views, only invite trouble from within and without.

“Ban and Di could not grind stone and tile into fine needles; Ou Ye could not cast lead and tin into a Ganjiang sword. What cannot be done, not even spirits can do; what cannot be accomplished, heaven and earth cannot accomplish. Where in the world is there a wondrous art that can turn the old young again, or bring the dead back to life? Yet you would prolong the life of the short-lived cicada so that it survives many years and seasons, and nurture the morning mushroom so that it knows many phases of the moon—is that not utterly absurd? I hope you will think this over carefully and turn back from error in good time.”

Ge Hong replied: When a person's hearing fails, they hear nothing even when thunder shakes the heavens; when sight fails, they see nothing even when the sun, moon, and stars hang bright in the sky. Is that because the thunder is too faint or the celestial display too dim? It is simply that the deaf say there is no sound and the blind say there is nothing to see. How much more so when strings and pipes play in harmony and dragon-and-mountain motifs weave into splendid designs—deaf and blind persons cannot savor the elegant music or the gorgeous patterns.

Thus deafness and blindness, as defects of the body, make people disbelieve in the thunder god Fenglong and the stars above. As for matters even more subtle, if the mind is dark and obstructed, they will not believe that figures such as the Duke of Zhou and Confucius ever lived in antiquity—still less can one speak to such people of the way of immortals.

Life and death, beginning and end, are indeed the broad pattern of things; yet among things there are also many differences—not all cases are alike. Change is manifold and the marvelous has no fixed form; things may resemble one another while their concrete situations differ greatly, so one cannot judge them by a single rule. It is often said that what has a beginning must have an end, but to lump everything together that way does not accord with thorough understanding.

Summer is when all things should flourish, yet shepherd's purse and water chestnuts may wither; winter is when grass and trees should die back, yet bamboo and cypress may stay lush. If we say what begins must end, heaven and earth seem never to exhaust themselves; if we say every living thing must die, turtles and cranes are famed for long life. In midsummer yang flourishes and heat should reign, yet cool days may occur; in deep winter yin peaks and cold should prevail, yet warmth may briefly return. A hundred streams flow east, yet mighty rivers also run north; the earth is usually still, yet it sometimes quakes and splits. Water is generally cold, yet there are hot springs in the Warm Valley; fire should burn hot, yet at Xiaoqiu there is cold flame. Heavy things normally sink, yet in the southern sea there are mountains of floating stone; light things normally float, yet at Xiangke there is water that makes feathers sink.

The ten thousand things differ and cannot be judged by one standard—this has long been so. Among all living beings, humans are most endowed with spirit; since humans are held the noblest life, one might think they ought to be alike—yet in fact they are not. Wise or foolish, wicked or upright, beautiful or ugly, long- or short-lived, pure or turbid, chaste or licentious—even speed of action and what each seeks and loves—all vary, as far apart as heaven from earth or ice from fire. Since ordinary people already differ so much, why find it strange that immortals differ from the common run and do not die like ordinary humans?

If one holds that the Qi allotted to each thing has a fixed measure, then do such changes as pheasants turning into clams, sparrows into clams, worms in the soil growing wings, river frogs flying up to the sky, water oysters becoming clams, aquatic plants turning into maggots, field mice becoming fine horses, rotting grass becoming fireflies, alligators turning into tigers, and snakes becoming dragons—do none of these really happen?

If one holds that humans receive an upright nature (zhengxing), unlike ordinary animals, and that when Heaven grants life it makes no fundamental distinction among beings, then what are we to make of Niu Ai turning into a tiger, an old woman of Chu into a giant turtle (yuan), Zhili (also written Huoqian) into a willow, a Qin maiden into stone who then lives again after death, men and women changing bodily form, Lao Peng’s long life and infants dying in youth—what accounts for these? If people and things truly differ, where would such difference ever end?

As for transcendents who nourish the body with medicinal elixirs and extend life through cultivation methods (shushu), so that inner illness never arises and outer harm cannot touch them—even though they may endure without dying and their original body stays unchanged—why do infants die so young? If there really is a difference here, where would it ever end?

Transcendents use elixirs to care for the body and shushu to prolong life, keeping internal disease from arising and external disaster from striking. Though they can live on without dying while the body remains as it was, if such techniques truly exist, nothing should be beyond reach. Yet people of shallow insight cling to ordinary custom; because they say no one in the world has seen a transcendent, they conclude that such things cannot exist at all. But what is so remarkable about what the eyes have once seen? Heaven and earth are vast without bound—could their marvels ever be exhausted? People look up at the sky yet may not know that sky is above; they walk the earth all their lives yet may not know what lies beneath it. Their own body is right there on them, yet they do not know why the mind and will are as they are; life is in their own hands, yet they do not know how far cultivation can extend it. How much more so the path of transcendents (shenxian zhi dao), profound and far, and the principle of Dao and De (daode), subtle and abstruse—to judge whether such subtle realities exist or not by the short reach of eye and ear, is that not lamentable?

Suppose there were someone of outstanding wisdom and talent who willingly hid away and sought no appointment, veiled their brilliance and reined in their polish, cast off falsity and stripped away desire, held fast to the Great Dao (Da Dao) in a realm of pure simplicity, and set worldly affairs aside—yet the world would still use shallow eye and ear to decide whether subtle things exist or not. Is that not lamentable?

Suppose someone of outstanding talent and wisdom willingly withdrew from public life and never took office, reining in his reputation and hiding his abilities, stripping away pretense and abandoning desire, guarding his authentic self in the simplest and purest state, and paying no heed to the petty affairs of the world—people might still fail to recognize him. Sometimes no one even reached the level of leaving no name and no trace, and could not see the spirit hidden beneath a plain exterior. Immortals are all the more different in aspiration and path: they treat wealth and rank as misfortune, glory and honor as filth, precious objects as dust, and fame as morning dew that vanishes in a moment. They walk through blazing fire without being burned, tread lightly on deep waters, spread their wings toward clarity and emptiness, ride the wind and mount the clouds, rise toward the heavens, and dwell on Mount Kunlun (the legendary mountain of immortals). How could those whose spirits are dull and who only follow worldly ways ever see them?

Even when immortals wander in the human realm for a time, they conceal their true nature and their wonders; outwardly they are no different from others and walk side by side with the crowd—who could tell? Only if they were like Jiaojian with square pupils in both eyes, or like Qiong Shu with ears on the crown of the head, or like Mahuang riding a dragon or Prince Jin driving a white crane himself, or bearing scales and serpent heads, or riding golden chariots in feather robes, might people recognize them. Otherwise, unless one has eyes that see into the hidden, who could see their forms? Unless one has ears that hear the subtle, who could hear their voices?

Because people do not believe in immortals and often slander them, perfected practitioners (those who have attained the Dao) loathe this climate and hide themselves all the more. What ordinary people love is what superior adepts (shangshi) hate; what vulgar people prize is what the Perfected Person (zhiren) despises. Those of great talent and broad capacity who nurture expansive Qi (haoran zhi qi) are still unwilling to meet shallow, restless people mired in the dust of the world—how much less would immortals hurry to make themselves known to worldly folk and allow them to pry and inquire? That they are unknown to the world is hardly strange.

Human sight cannot see clearly even a hundred paces away; if one then insists that what is seen exists and what is not seen does not exist, then how many things in the world must lie outside what people’s eyes can take in?

To measure the sea with a finger is to stretch the finger to its limit and declare the ocean fully measured; to compare a mayfly to a giant turtle, or a brief lifetime to the span of the great cypress tree—how could such things be done?

Emperor Wen of Wei (Cao Pi), widely read and well informed, claimed that nothing in the world had escaped his notice. He once asserted that there was no knife that could cut jade, nor cloth that would not burn in fire, and he wrote these claims into his Dianlun (Discourses on the Classics). Before long, both objects appeared. Emperor Wen sighed and immediately destroyed that essay. Matters do not always admit a fixed verdict—this is roughly the point.

Prince Si of Chen (Cao Zhi), in his Shiyi Lun (Essay on Resolving Doubts), wrote that at first he took so-called Daoist arts to be nothing but false talk meant to fool the common people. Later he saw Emperor Wu (Cao Cao) put Zuo Ci and others to the test and changed his mind. Zuo Ci abstained from grain for nearly a month without his complexion failing or his strength differing from normal; he also often said he could go fifty years without eating. Cao Zhi exclaimed: “It is truly so—what room is left for doubt?”

Cao Zhi also recorded that Cao Cao had Gan Shi apply medicine to live fish and then put them into boiling oil. Fish without the medicine could be eaten once cooked; fish that had held the medicine in their mouths could swim all day as if still in water. They also treated mulberry leaves with medicine to feed silkworms, which did not age even in the tenth month; they fed “year-halting medicine” to chicks and newborn puppies, which then stopped growing; they fed “white-restoring medicine” to a white dog, and after a hundred days its fur turned entirely black.

From this one knows that not everything under heaven can be fully understood, and one must not draw dogmatic conclusions from subjective guesswork. Cao Zhi only regretted that he could not cut off sensual desires and devote himself to learning the way of long life. Both Cao Pi and Cao Zhi were widely read and outstanding in talent; at first they too disbelieved such things, and only in their later years sighed that the principles of the world are hard to exhaust. Those who fall short of them cannot be blamed for not believing in immortals.

Liu Xiang’s learning was broad; he could probe subtle and profound principles and distinguish true from false, examining what exists and what does not. His Liexian Zhuan (Biographies of Immortals) records more than seventy immortals. If immortal affairs were entirely unreal, why would he have invented them from nothing? Remote antiquity cannot be seen with one’s own eyes; one can only rely on books and transmitted accounts. The records in Liexian Zhuan are clear and explicit—immortal affairs were surely real. Yet because these books did not come from the school of the Duke of Zhou and their events were not recorded by Confucius himself, people in the end would not believe. On this reasoning, would not everything in ancient historical records have to be treated as empty? And not immortals alone?

Ordinary people, greedy for glory and chasing profit, use their own minds to surmise the ancients; hence they do not believe that in the past anyone refused imperial abdication or held ministerial rank lightly—figures such as Chao Fu, Xu You, Old Master Lai, and Zhuang Zhou—and think such things impossible. All the more so for immortal affairs, which are inherently hard to know: how would people readily believe? Many hold that Liu Xiang was no sage and therefore refuse to take his compilations as sole authority—this is especially lamentable. The records of the Lu scribe could not be as complete as heaven and earth, yet Confucius still used them to compile the classics; Sima Qian’s insight could not match the sun and moon in brightness, yet Yang Xiong still called his work a true record. Liu Xiang was a famous Confucian and worthy man of the Han—how can his accounts be lightly discarded?

People do not believe that the path of immortality can be cultivated, nor do they admit that human life can be extended, largely because Qin Shi Huang and Han Wudi sought immortality without success, and the methods of the fangshi Shaojun and Luan Daxing likewise showed no clear results. Yet one cannot conclude that there were no wealthy men like Tao Zhu and Yi Dun in antiquity simply because Qin Lou and Yuan Xian were poor; nor can one say there were no beauties like Nanwei and Xishi in the past simply because Wuyan and Suli were homely.

Even on the road, some travelers do not get far; in farming, some harvests fail; in trade some lose money, and in war some campaigns achieve nothing. How much more difficult is the quest for immortality—and how can every person who tries succeed? If Qin Shi Huang, Han Wudi, Shaojun, and Luan Daxing sought without attaining, perhaps they were diligent at first and slack later, or perhaps they never met a true master. That they alone did not succeed is hardly enough to prove that there is no path of immortality in the world.

The pursuit of longevity and cultivation of the highest Dao hinge on resolve, not on wealth or rank. If someone is not suited to the path of immortality, high office and great riches become a heavy burden instead. Why? Cultivation for immortality calls for ease and contentment, clarity and detachment—washing away cravings and desires, turning inward to gather the spirit, resting in wuwei (non-action) like a corpse, unmoved by outer things. A ruler, by contrast, bears the weight of governing the realm, handles tangled affairs of state, and day and night minds ten thousand matters; the spirit runs in every direction. If even one person is not settled, the kingly Way falls short; when the people err, he takes it as his own failure in rule. Strong wine disrupts harmonious qi; beauty harms the root of life—and other things that drain essence, wear down thought, and break stillness and purity are too many to list. When mosquitoes bite the skin, one cannot sit or stand at ease; when lice swarm, one finds no peace. The turmoil that comes with governing the world is far worse than that.

How could a ruler shut out the world’s noise, fold in talent and wit, hide the body long in seclusion, regulate breath and nourish qi, keep prolonged fasts and purification, personally tend the alchemy furnace, rise early and sleep late, and refine the “Eight Stones” (the mineral elixirs of Waidan, external alchemy)? Emperor Wu of Han reigned long and lived to a fair age—that much was a small benefit of nurturing life. But that benefit was like a dipper of water against vast expense, or a field ditch trying to fill the sea.

Daoist methods emphasize purity, stillness, and non-action, so that one may forget the physical body; yet rulers strike enormous bells and beat thunderous drums until the noise deafens and agitates the mind. They also display every sort of skill, capturing birds and beasts from water and heights, racing in swift pursuit.

Daoist methods teach compassion for all things, not harming even the smallest insect; yet when rulers grow angry they slaughter on a vast scale, wielding the yellow axe (symbol of punitive authority), and in an instant corpses lie for a thousand li and blood soaks the ground, with executions repeated in the marketplaces.

Daoist methods counsel avoiding rank, bloody food and fasting to cleanse the intestines; yet rulers boil rich meats, slaughter countless lives, and set out every delicacy before them, seasoning and cooking with many ingredients until they are sated.

Daoist methods urge universal love and treating others as oneself; yet rulers bully the weak, attack disorderly states, and in chaos destroy other nations to expand their territory, seize others’ altars of state, drive the people toward death, and leave them to die far from home with bones exposed in the wild. Great armies clash in the Five Ridges; heads of Dayuan hang at the North Gate; those buried alive or taken captive number in the hundreds of thousands, corpses piled into platforms that reach the clouds, white bones covering mountains and filling valleys.

Qin Shihuang left nine households in ten nursing rebellion; Han Wudi left the people weary and lamenting, with the population cut by half. Prayer can bring benefit, and curses can bring harm. The dead, if they received kindness, may still repay with “tied grass” after death; if they receive only empty rites, they will resent it. The people’s resentment strikes at the ruler’s vital point; humans and ghosts may share the same bitter poison.

Those two rulers had only the name of loving the Dao of immortals, not the actual practice. They could not fully follow even plain, near-at-hand principles, let alone hear what is deep and hidden. No one who had attained the Dao compounded elixirs for them, so that they could not achieve long life is not surprising.

We ordinary people are also poor and destitute—our homes as bare as Sima Xiangru’s, our bellies as empty as the man at Yisang who had no food. Even if someone compounded an elixir of immortality for us, we could not obtain long life—and that is not surprising either.

For us ordinary people, family circumstances are often extremely poor: the home may be as bare as Changqing’s (Sima Xiangru’s) four empty walls; the belly often knows the hunger of Yisang (a place name from a tale of starvation); in winter one may shiver like Rongyi (a figure of legendary poverty), in summer dwell in a hut as cramped as Ruyong’s (another figure of legendary destitution), with nowhere even to shade oneself from the sun. To travel far, one has no boat or carriage; to do anything worthwhile, one has no one to help. At home there are no fine objects to enjoy; abroad there is no pleasure of sightseeing. The mouth tastes no delicacies, the eyes see no splendor, the nose catches no fragrance, the ears hear no pleasing music. Worries gnaw within; many hardships crowd the doorstep. If life in the world is like this, what is there worth holding on to?

Some have already obtained the secret of seeking the Dao, or met an extraordinary teacher, yet still fret over wife and children and cling to ancestral graves and native soil, delaying departure until death comes; they grow old day by day without noticing. They clearly know that long life can be pursued, yet cannot cultivate; they clearly dislike worldly fame and gain, yet cannot let go. Why? Because attachment to kin and familiar life is hard to erase, and the resolve to leave the world is not easy to fix firmly.

Moreover, the ancient Two Emperors (legendary sovereigns), as rulers of all under Heaven, had many pleasures to drown in and many favorites close at hand. Even to ask them to fast and keep purity for ten days or to dwell in quiet solitude for a few days would likely be beyond them—how much less to set aside beloved consorts, reduce lofty rank, renounce fine food, cast off inner desire, turn from glory and splendor, and go alone to seek the deep and remote way of immortals? Such persons are rare indeed. So looking through past and present, those who attain the immortals’ way are mostly men of poverty and low station, not men of power and position.

As for Luan Tai (a personal name)—as I understand him, his insight was shallow indeed. He craved wealth and honor, hurried to amass goods, and lived by boasting empty things for petty profit, heedless that this would bring disaster. He was a small man, cunning and false—how could he prove that there are no immortals under Heaven?

In ancient times, King Goujian of Yue once grew angry over being bitten by flies, and his soldiers vied with one another to rush into fire; King Ling of Chu favored slender waists, and many in the realm went hungry; Duke Huan of Qi loved exotic foods, and Yi Ya even steamed his own son to present to him; the ruler of Song rewarded those who maintained filial mourning while staying thin, with the result that the dead filled house after house. Whatever a ruler desired, there were always those who contrived to satisfy it.

Emperor Wu of Han recruited fangshi (method masters) and treated them with exceptional favor, which emboldened these men to fabricate outlandish tales. If Le Tai truly possessed the Dao, why would he have needed to wait until he was killed before displaying his abilities? Those who possess the Dao regard rank and title as no more precious than scalding broth or farm tools, view official seals and sashes as though they were mourning garments, and treat gold and jade as mud and excrement, seeing splendid houses as prisons. How could such a person merely speak grandly, gamble on fortune for glory, dwell in palaces adorned with cinnabar pillars, accept gifts of incalculable value, wear the seal and sash of the Five Benefits General, marry a princess, and become addicted to power and profit without end? From this one can confidently conclude that he had not attained the Dao.

According to the Record of Li Shaojun's Household compiled by Dong Zhongshu, Li Shaojun possessed a method for longevity and freedom from death, but his family was poor and could not afford the materials needed to refine elixirs. He therefore came to the Han court to seek wealth by this means; once his practice was complete, he departed.

According also to the Han Palace Daily Records, when Li Shaojun was about to leave, Emperor Wu dreamed that he and Li Shaojun were climbing Mount Song together. Halfway up the mountain, a messenger riding a dragon and holding a tally descended from the clouds, saying that Taiyi (the Supreme One) was summoning Li Shaojun. When the emperor awoke, he told those around him: "Judging from my dream, Shaojun is about to leave me." Several days later, Li Shaojun claimed illness and died. Long afterward, the emperor ordered his coffin opened; there was no corpse inside, only clothes and a hat.

The Immortal Scriptures say that superior practitioners of the Dao ascend bodily into the sky and are called celestial immortals (tianxian); middling practitioners roam famous mountains and are called earthly immortals (dixian); inferior practitioners die first and then shed their old body, and are called corpse-liberation immortals (shijie xian). Li Shaojun was likely one who achieved immortality through corpse liberation.

In recent times, when the gourd immortal Hu Gong took Fei Changfang away, and when the Daoist Li Yiqj departed with two disciples, both feigned death and had their families bury them in coffins. Several years later, Fei Changfang returned. Someone once saw Li Yiqj and his two disciples in Pixian County; their families each opened the coffins and found in all three coffins only a bamboo staff, with characters written on it in cinnabar. These are all examples of achieving immortality through corpse liberation.

In the past Wang Mang cited ancient classics to dress up his wicked conduct; that does not mean every Confucian was a usurper and rebel. Sima Xiangru used the zither to draw near Zhuo Wenjun; that does not mean refined music makes people sink into lust. Someone choked to death on grain—we should not blame Shennong for teaching people to sow. Someone died in a fire—we should not blame Suiren for inventing fire-drilling. Someone capsized and drowned in a boat—we should not blame the Yellow Emperor for building boats. Someone got drunk on wine—we should not deny Du Yi’s merit in brewing it.

How can one decide that the way of immortals (xian) certainly does not exist just because Luan Tai practiced fraud? It is like seeing Zhao Gao and Dong Zhuo and saying there were no Yiyin, Duke of Zhou, or Huo Guang in antiquity; or seeing Shang Chen of Chu and Modun of the Xiongnu and saying there were no filial sons like Boqi and Xiaoji in antiquity.

Scriptures of immortals contain methods for summoning spirits and impeaching demons, and arts for making people see ghosts. When ordinary people hear of this, they all take it for fiction. Some say there are no ghosts or spirits in the world. Some admit ghosts and spirits exist but hold they cannot be summoned or impeached. Others say those who can see ghosts—men called xi, women called wu—have an inborn gift that cannot be learned.

But in the Book of Han and Grand Historian Sima Qian’s records, the Qi man Shaoweng was made Wencheng General by Emperor Wu of Han. After the emperor’s beloved Lady Li died, Shaoweng could make the emperor see her as if she were still alive; Shaoweng also made the emperor see the Stove God. These matters are clearly recorded in the histories. If arts can make spirits appear, and can make people who normally cannot see ghosts see them, then by the same reasoning, what other methods could not be accomplished?

Ghosts and spirits often manifest strange lights and shapes among the people; the classics too record many things about them. Ordinary people already disbelieve that there are ghosts and spirits under heaven; how much more so when immortals dwell in lofty, remote places, apart from the turbidity of the human world, traveling far and not returning. Those who have not attained the Dao—how could they see or hear them? Confucians and Mohists know such matters are not fit to speak of in teaching, so they never say immortals truly exist. That ordinary people do not believe is hardly surprising.

Only those with genuine insight can examine and test various methods, gather evidence, and confirm that certain things truly exist. Such understanding can be grasped only by those who see for themselves; it cannot be forced on others. That people in the world do not believe is therefore hardly surprising.

Only those with genuine insight can test various methods, obtain verification, and know for certain that immortals really exist. This can be known only by the few who recognize it in person; others cannot be compelled to accept it. Thus, not having seen ghosts or immortals is no grounds for concluding that there are no immortals in the world.

Everyone knows that they possess a soul—the union of spirit and vital soul (hun and po). When part of the soul departs, a person falls ill; when it all departs, the person dies. When the soul leaves in part, the fangshi have techniques to restrain and recover it; when it leaves entirely, the ritual classics prescribe ceremonies to summon it back. Nothing is closer to us than this, yet the soul is born with us and stays until life’s end, and no one has ever directly heard or seen it. Can one deny that the soul exists simply because it cannot be heard or seen?

The ghost of Fu who repaid a kindness, the angry spirit of Cheng Tang toward the state of Qi, Shen Sheng conversing with the fox-child, Duke Du taking revenge on King Xuan of Zhou, Peng Sheng appearing in the form of a black pig, Ruyi in the shape of a grey dog, Guan Fu guarding Tian Fen’s fields, Ziyi slaying Yan Jian, Rushou descending at Shen, Marquis Luan lodging in a commoner’s house, Su Jiang expounding prognostic texts (chenwei), Xiaosun composing writings, the divine lord speaking at Shanglin, and Luo Yang holding office at the court of Wu—these matters involving ghosts and spirits are all recorded in the classics, with evidence that is clear and too numerous to count. Yet those whose vision is closed still say that ghosts do not exist. If so, how much less is immortality and long life heard of in the world—and how can one expect everyone to believe?

To demand that all believe would be as hard as asking a gnat to carry a great mountain or a frog at the bottom of a well to undertake a long journey. Some people have never seen dragons, qilin, or luan-phoenixes and other auspicious creatures, yet they assert that none exist in the world and that the ancients merely invented such omens to exhort rulers to strive, hoping that kings might draw these rare signs to themselves. Given that, how can one expect everyone to believe that immortals exist?

People of the world, because Liu Xiang’s attempt at refining the elixir did not succeed, say that he loved to probe the strange and spread what is false, and they take everything he wrote in the Biographies of Immortals (Liexian Zhuan) to be fabricated. How truly lamentable! It is like throwing away a foot-long precious night-shining jade because of a tiny flaw, or deciding that the priceless Chunjun sword is worthless because of a nick the size of a needle point. That is not how those of far-reaching insight handle things, nor is it the attitude with which Master Feng appraised swords. Duke Zhu therefore grieved, and Xue Zhu likewise sighed deeply.

Methods of refining the elixir are all preserved in the scriptures of immortals. The King of Huainan once excerpted them and compiled the Hongbao Pillow Book. Although the book records these methods, it withholds the crucial content; one must have the oral formulas, and someone who understands the art must explain the text line by line, before one can actually practice. Many of the substances named in the book are also given under alternate names, so they cannot be looked up from the characters alone and used directly.

Liu Xiang’s father Liu De obtained this book while handling the case of the King of Huainan; he did not receive transmission from a master. Liu Xiang himself did not understand Daoist techniques. He happened to read the book and assumed that the full meaning was all written on the page, which is why his attempt at refining the elixir failed.

As for the Biographies of Immortals, Liu Xiang selected and arranged it from a book written by the Qin dynasty grandee Ruan Cang; some entries he recorded after seeing things with his own eyes—they were not random invention. Even the songs of reckless men, the sages would still choose from them; words of woodcutters and farmers sometimes cannot be lightly discarded. Just as when gathering turnips, one should not throw away the leaves because the roots are poor. How can one, because of a single error among a hundred judgments, decide that the classics are entirely untrustworthy? How can one, because the sun and moon are occasionally eclipsed, say that the sun and moon in the sky no longer shine?

Crystal bowls made abroad are actually produced by mixing together five kinds of ash. In the regions of Jiaozhou and Guangzhou today, quite a few people already know this method and can cast them. When you tell ordinary people about this, they often refuse to believe it, insisting that crystal is formed in nature from the start, just like jade.

Since gold that forms naturally in the world really does exist, how could ordinary people believe that gold can also be refined by human art? The ignorant do not even believe that realgar red (cinnabar-red pigment made from lead) and lead white (white pigment made from lead) come from the transformation of lead, nor that mules and jue-lü (the offspring of horse and donkey crosses) are born from donkeys and horses. They always assume that each kind of thing has its own fixed origin—how much more so for matters that are harder to understand.

The less one knows, the more things seem strange—this is a common pattern in the world. It is truly so: the principle is as clear as sunlight in the sky, yet people are like someone standing under an inverted steamer (an ancient vessel for cooking food)—how could they see the real principle?

Someone objected: “Among human beings there are long-lived figures like Peng Zu, just as among trees there are pines and cypresses—they are that way from birth. How could such a thing be acquired through learning?”

Baopu Zi replied: “Heaven and Earth generate and nurture the myriad things, yet human beings possess the greatest spiritual endowment. Those who grasp shallow principles can command the myriad things; those who grasp deep principles can extend their years and long preserve life. Knowing that superior medicinals can prolong life, they take such medicinals in pursuit of transcendence; knowing that turtles and cranes live long, they emulate their daoyin practices (methods of regulating the body and circulating qi for health and longevity) to increase their lifespan.

“The foliage of pines and cypresses differs from that of other trees, and the bodily form of turtles and cranes differs from that of other creatures. Peng Zu was still a human being, not a different species. That he alone lived long was because he attained the Dao—it was not innate. Other trees cannot imitate pines and cypresses, and the mass of animals cannot learn from turtles and cranes, so their lives are brief. If a person is intelligent and clear-sighted and can cultivate Peng Zu’s way, he can achieve the same result.

“If one holds that there are no immortals in the world, then in the records of ancient worthies nearly a thousand are named, with their deeds and experiences written down—these are not empty words. If one says they merely received special qi by birth, their transmitted accounts all speak of having masters, of cultivating and taking medicinals—they did not know it from birth. If Daoist arts cannot be learned, then the many transformation techniques—changing appearance, swallowing swords and spitting fire, sitting and vanishing then standing and appearing, raising clouds and mist, summoning insects and serpents, gathering fish and turtles, as well as turning stone into water, jade into powder, gold into liquid, entering water without wetting, treading on blades without injury—are said to number more than nine hundred kinds; performed according to method, all can take effect. Why alone refuse to believe that the immortal way can also be perfected?

“Achievement of the immortal way is slow and the taboos are many. Without extraordinary resolve and firm will, one cannot hold to the practice. Some have a little interest but harbor doubts, abandon it halfway, and afterward say that long life through the immortal way can never be obtained after all.

“The Immortal Scriptures say: Taking elixir pills and guarding the One (single-mindedly holding the spirit) enables one to endure as long as Heaven; refining Jing to return Qi and practicing taixi (breath regulation imitating the fetus in the womb) can extend life without limit. These are all weighty sayings of the supreme Dao. Worthy people in the world still manage inward integrity and open conduct, not deceiving Heaven or breaking faith—how much more so the ancient perfected ones: would they fabricate out of nothing what could never be realized, to deceive later generations? If a person’s fate lacks the connection, in the end he will not believe, and one cannot force him to believe.”

Someone objected: “The long life of turtles and cranes is nothing but idle talk passed around in the world. Who could stay with these two kinds of creatures from birth to death and see with their own eyes how long they live?”

Baopuzi replied: “Once you grasp the key to knowing things, the farthest reaches of the eight directions are as if in the palm of your hand, and events a hundred generations ago are as if they happened before your eyes. To understand something, you do not always need it right beside you, nor must you wait until you see it with your own eyes.”

The Yuce Ji (Jade Tally Annals), a Daoist text, says that a thousand-year turtle has a body of five colors and two bony ridges on its forehead like horns; it can understand human speech, floats on lotus leaves or hides beneath grass, and sometimes a white snake coils on its shell. A thousand-year crane cries at the proper seasons and can perch in trees; a crane that has not yet reached a thousand years will never roost in a tree. Its body is entirely pure white, and its head is wholly red. From these signs one can tell their age. Yet old animals are mostly clever and usually hide in remote, secluded places, so people seldom see them.

According to the Yuce Ji and the Changyu Jing (Daoist scriptures), long life is not limited to turtles and cranes. Tradition says a thousand-year pine has branches that spread upward on all sides while its crown stays low, so from afar it looks like an inverted umbrella; inside the tree there may hide a green ox, green sheep, green dog, or green human figure, each having lived a thousand years. The books also say serpents can live extremely long; macaques live eight hundred years and become gibbons, gibbons five hundred years and become jue (a legendary beast), and jue can live two thousand years; toads can live three thousand years, and the qilin two thousand. The horse Tenghuang and the beast Jiguang can each live three thousand years. The thousand-year bird and ten-thousand-year fowl have human faces and bird bodies, with lifespans matching their names. Tigers, deer, and hares can live a thousand years; at five hundred years their fur turns white. Creatures that reach five hundred years can also transform their form.

Foxes and wolves can live eight hundred years; by five hundred they are skilled at transformation and can take human form. Rats can live three hundred years; at one hundred their fur turns white, and they can use human circumstances for divination. They are called zhong and can foretell good and ill in a given year and events a thousand li away. There are too many such accounts to record one by one. Those with wide experience recognize things when they see them; those rich in learning are not baffled when they meet a case. Why must one always keep company with turtles and cranes to know this? If one does not even recognize common things, then many plants in the garden and birds and beasts in fields and ponds remain unknown—how could one know strange and great matters?

The Shiji, “Liezhuan of the Tortoise and Divination,” says that in a household on the Jiang-Huai region, when a child was small he once put a turtle on a bed frame. The child grew up and lived to old age and death; when the family moved the bed, the turtle was still alive. By that count it had lived at least fifty or sixty years without eating or drinking and did not die. It was plainly unlike ordinary creatures—what reason is there to doubt that turtles can live a thousand years? Immortal classics take the turtle’s mode of breathing as a model (referring to methods such as guixi, “turtle breathing”)—is that without grounds?

Taichang of Yingchuan, Chen Shaofang—a man known for rigorous discourse—recorded in the Yiwen Ji that in the commandery there was a man named Zhang Guangding who, in wartime, often fled with his family. One year he had a daughter of four who could neither walk nor be carried on his back. He thought that if left behind she would surely starve, yet he could not bear to leave her bones exposed. At the village entrance was an old tomb with a hole in its roof; he put the girl in a container, lowered her into the tomb with a rope, left enough dry food and water for several months, and went away.

Three years later Zhang Guangding was able to return home and wished to gather the bones of the daughter he had abandoned in the tomb for proper burial. When he entered the tomb, the girl was still sitting there. Seeing her parents, she still knew them and was very happy. At first they thought she was a ghost; when they came close they found she was not dead.

Guangding pressed her on how she had obtained leniency and been allowed to return home. After going back, she wanted to recover her daughter’s abandoned bones from the tomb and give them a proper burial. When Guangding went to the tomb and looked inside, she found her daughter still sitting there. The girl recognized her parents when she saw them and was very happy; at first they feared she was a ghost, but when they came closer they realized she was not dead at all.

Her parents asked what she had lived on. She said that when the food first ran out she was extremely hungry; later she noticed something in a corner of the tomb stretching its neck and swallowing breath, so she tried doing the same and gradually stopped feeling hungry. She kept doing this day after day until now. The clothes and bedding her parents had left in the tomb were still there, unmoved, and the garments had not decayed, so she had not suffered from the cold.

Guangding then went to find what she had described and discovered it was a large turtle. Afterward the daughter came out of the tomb and ate grain; at first she felt pain in her lower abdomen and nausea with retching, and only after a long time did she grow accustomed to it. The author infers from this that the turtle possesses a method of attaining long life, and that if those who cultivate the Way imitated it, they too might live as long as a turtle; what Shiqian and Zhonggong said was not empty talk.

There are many insects and birds in the world, yet the ancients singled out the turtle and birds of this kind because they are unlike the rest. From one example, other truths may also be inferred.

Someone raised an objection: “Turtles can burrow into the earth and hibernate; cranes can soar into the sky. Yet humans cannot even hibernate for a short while or fly for a brief moment. In that case, how can we learn longevity from them?”

Baopuzi replied: “Many insects can hibernate, and many birds can fly, yet people single out the long-lived turtle and crane. Their longevity does not come from hibernating or flying. Therefore the True Person (zhenren) has people learn their daoyin methods—regulating the body and circulating qi to nurture life—thereby extending their years; and emulate their fuqi—absorbing qi through breath regulation to nurture life—for bigu (grain abstention). This is not about learning to burrow into the earth or fly into the sky. One who has attained the Dao can rise into the clouds above and dive and swim in rivers and seas below. Xiao Shi ascended together with a phoenix; Qin Gao rode a red carp into the deep abyss—both are examples. The capacities of one who has attained the Dao are far more than brief hibernation or momentary flight.”

Dragons, serpents, jiao, chi, as well as monkeys, hedgehogs, tuo, and li—many such creatures can go the entire winter without eating. When they do not eat, they are often plumper than when they feed; people simply have not grasped their methods. In certain abilities many animals surpass humans—not only turtles and cranes. Taihao modeled the spider’s web; Jintian (Shaohao) took the wild goose as a guide to correct the seasons; Di Xuan (the Yellow Emperor) waited for the phoenix’s call to set pitch; Tang Yao observed the mingjing plant to infer the days of the month. Some birds can know the past; the magpie can foretell the future; the fish lord can sense flood and drought; the mayfly can locate hidden springs underground; the white wolf foretold the rise of the Yin dynasty, and the yuannuo bird foretold the flourishing of the Zhou. That turtles and cranes excel at daoyin for nurturing life is therefore nothing strange.

Moreover, the immortality scriptures record hundreds of paths to long life. They differ in how quickly they take effect and in whether the practice is elaborate or simple—not all require emulating turtles and cranes. Those of superior root and deep reflection naturally penetrate the subtle; worldly people, with shallow vision, can hardly infer the far-reaching intent of immortals from this alone.

Someone once asked: “We do not know the methods by which people today attain longevity—so why did the ancients alone know them?” That is merely something said offhand by people of shallow insight, not the thought of someone who truly understands.

The subtle patterns observed in the heavens, the reckoning of the movements and waxing and waning of the sun, moon, and the five planets (the seven luminaries), inquiry into past conjunctions and infringements among the stars to judge future rise and decline; looking up at signs in the clouds and vapors, looking down at auspicious and inauspicious hexagrams; using the three-chess method to infer victory or defeat on campaign, and the nine talismans to seek the direction where fortune or misfortune lies; calculating to probe the nature of ghosts and spirits, and weighing many omens to decide unpredictable good or ill—all these matters have roots that can be traced and principles that can be investigated. Yet people of mediocre talent and limited vision cannot even master the profound learning involved; how much less the plain and subtle Dao? They cling only to coarse knowledge and cannot exhaust what is fine and hidden.

Even in the rough craft of making wheels, Wheelwright Pian had tricks he could not put into words; catching cicadas looks simple, yet the hunchbacked old man could do it with consummate skill. The key lies in a person’s insight and the fineness to which the art is brought. How much more so the far-reaching aim of the way of immortals: to probe its root is truly not easy. Figures such as Master Red Pine and Wang Ziqiao—even when they obtained results in their own persons—might not have understood the underlying principle; how much less ordinary people?

Since the matter of immortals can be studied, the ancients recorded it and passed it on to discerning people of later ages. If one grasps it in the heart, one can believe and cultivate accordingly; if the heart is full of doubt, that is each person’s allotted fate—one should not keep asking why the ancients alone understood and why I cannot.

I now know that becoming an immortal is possible, that I myself can cease eating grain (xiuliang) in cultivation, that the flying pearl can ascend, and that methods of refining yellow and white (gold and silver) can be sought. But if you ask me to explain the innermost principle of these things, I truly do not know either. If people count as real only what they think they understand, and declare nonexistent whatever they cannot grasp, then very little in the world would be admitted as real.

Therefore Laozi said that some things can be inferred by analogy—for example, cat’s head treats rat sore (a kind of skin ulcer), and the woodpecker’s efficacy protects the teeth; other things cannot be judged by ordinary reason—for example, crabs can alter lacquer, and hemp can spoil wine. The myriad transformations of things in the world—how could they all be traced to the end by human thought alone? If someone were gravely ill and needed a potent medicine to save him, yet insisted on first learning why Shennong and Qibo (legendary sages of medicine) originally used that herb for that disease before he would take it, that would be foolish in the extreme.

Someone said: “Whether a person lives or dies is a matter of fate; the length of life is fixed from the start—not something drugs can alter. A severed finger cannot be joined again; blood that has flowed out does no good if you drink it. All the more so if one takes things unlike the human body, such as pine and cypress, hoping thereby to lengthen a brief life—that simply does not make sense.”

Baopuzi said: “If we follow that line of reasoning, only what is of the same kind as a person could benefit a person. Yet a severed finger and spilled blood both belong to the same body—they are not a different kind. Why, then, can a severed finger not be reattached and spilled blood not be drunk with benefit? I have often seen severed fingers rejoined with snake-rejoining ointment (Shexian gao), and I have also seen fowl’s feet replaced with mulberry twigs and beans. That things of a different kind can benefit people cannot be denied.

“If you hold that one cannot rely on other things, then when treating knife wounds one ought not pound flesh to make medicine for bone injuries; when treating loss of hair at the temples one ought not decoct animal hides or stew human hair. Water and earth are not the same kind as the myriad plants, yet the myriad plants depend on them to grow; the five grains are not of the same kind as humans, yet humans need the five grains to sustain life. Oil is not fire, and water is not fish, yet when oil is exhausted the fire goes out; when water dries up, fish die. When a tree is felled, what grows parasitically on it withers; when grass is cut, dodder (Tusizi) also fades; if river crabs do not return, the dung beetle (Jie) perishes; when a mulberry trunk is cut through, the borer dies out. From such parallel cases one can infer the principle involved.

“Place metal and wood in the nine apertures (Jiuqiao: eyes, ears, nostrils, mouth, and the lower openings) of a corpse, and the corpse may thereby avoid decay; soak skin and flesh in brine, and the flesh can be preserved dry without rotting. How much more so for things that benefit the body and augment lifespan—once taken into the body they can take effect. What is strange about that? Why could they not enable a person to live long?”

Someone objected: “Books of immortal arts seem plausible yet are not—perhaps they were simply made up by busybodies and were never passed down from the school of the Yellow Emperor and Laozi, nor reviewed by immortals such as Chisongzi and Wangziqiao.”

Bao Pu Zi replied: “If it were truly as you say, these methods ought not to work at all. We can first test the smaller techniques in them—and none fail to respond. I have often seen people use a fangzhu (vessel for drawing water) at dusk to draw water from the moon, and a yangsui (fire-mirror that concentrates sunlight) at dawn to kindle fire from the sun; some, after applying a method, hide their form as if they had vanished, and others change their appearance into someone else’s likeness; some knot a headcloth, throw it to the ground, and it turns into a rabbit and runs; some attach a needle to a red sash, and the sash wriggles like a serpent; melons and fruit ripen in an instant, and dragons and fish leap in basins and dishes. All of this matches what the art books describe.

The Book of Han records that when Luan Da first met Emperor Wu of Han, the emperor had him try “fighting chess”—the pieces struck one another on their own. The Book of Later Han also records that Wei Shang could appear when seated and vanish when he stood, and that Zhang Kai could raise clouds and summon fog. These are attested in reliable histories, not hearsay. Such arts are collected in books on immortals—so they are hardly pure invention. If the records of small techniques are borne out in practice, how can we flatly deny that the way of long life is possible?”

Someone added: “If immortals can truly be attained through cultivation, and a person can suddenly ascend into the clouds, turn away from the world and leave human society, then no one would perform the rites of sacrificing to ancestors and honoring ghosts. If the spirits of the dead are aware, would they not care at all?”

Someone asked: “If the way of immortals can truly be attained through cultivation, and once a person succeeds they soar into the sky, leave ordinary life, and no longer perform the zhengchang rites of ancestral sacrifice (the autumn and winter offerings to ancestors), would not hungry ancestors who still had awareness suffer?”

Baopu Zi replied: “It is said that keeping the body intact and not harming it is what counts as utmost filial piety. How much more so when one cultivates the immortal path, lives without aging, and endures as long as Heaven and Earth—does that not far surpass merely preserving the body and dying whole? If one can truly ascend into the void, tread on clouds and shadows, ride mist and rosy light, and inhale the refined qi of the morning glow and the essence of Heaven and Earth in their mysterious yellow; if one drinks jade nectar and golden dew, eats emerald fungus and cinnabar brilliance, dwells in halls of jade and chambers of rare beauty, and moves freely in wandering through the Great Clarity (the clear, empty immortal realm of Daoism)—then ancestors who still had awareness would also be honored through one’s achievement. Immortal cultivators may assist the Five Emperors or command the host of spirits; high rank may come without seeking it, food may be the delicacies of the immortal realm, power may extend over Luofeng (the nether region in Daoist lore), and authority may be enough to shake beams and pillars. If one can truly attain such a path and grasp its subtlety, ancestors would not go hungry.

Among those who obtain the Dao, none ranks higher than Lord Yang (Laozi). Lord Yang had a son named Zong, who served as a general in the state of Wei and was enfeoffed at Duan Gan for military merit. From this it is clear that people who study immortality today can still have sons and descendants to carry on sacrifice—how could offerings to ancestors be cut off because of that?”

Someone asked: “Those who attain the Way—having mastered methods of breath cultivation and the essentials of ingesting elixirs—can cover their ears and hear sounds a thousand li away, close their eyes and see what is to come. Some give up splendid chariots and horses to ride dragons and serpents; some leave the human world to dwell in immortal realms such as Penglai and Yingzhou; others remain in the world, living at ease and unwilling to cut off all ties with the mundane, yet still seeking the deep and abstruse. The goal they revere is the same, yet their choice to leave or stay differs—why is this?”

Baopuzi replied: “I have heard from my master that whether immortals ascend to heaven or remain among humans, the key lies in long life; where one stays follows personal inclination. When practicing methods of ingesting elixir pills and golden fluid, if one wishes for a time to remain in the world, one may take only half the dose and keep the rest; later, if one wishes to ascend, one completes what remains. Once death is ruled out, there is no need to fear sudden demise. Even if one wanders for a while in the human realm or enters famous mountains, what is there to worry about?

Peng Zu said that heaven has many honored officials and great deities; newly achieved immortals rank lower and have no few superiors to serve, so life there remains arduous. He need not hurry to ascend but may remain in the world for more than eight hundred years.

Among immortals of old, some grew wings and changed form, flying to and fro—they lost the human shape and became another kind of being, like a sparrow turning into a clam or a pheasant into a mirage-spirit; that is no longer the human way of life. What counts as living in a human manner is being able to enjoy fine flavors and light, warm clothing, following the alternation of yin and yang, holding office and receiving stipend; keen ears and eyes, sturdy joints, a moist complexion, old age without decline, extended years and long survival; coming and going at will, unharmed by cold, heat, or damp wind, undisturbed by ghosts, spirits, or strange creatures, uninjured by blades or the hundred poisons; grief and joy, slander and praise cannot weigh one down. That is what is truly valuable.

To abandon wife and children and dwell alone in mountains and marshes, cutting oneself off far from human contact, lonely as if keeping company only with grass, trees, and stones—that is not worth commending. In former times Anqi, Longmei Ning, Xiuyang, and Yin Changsheng all took half a dose of golden fluid. They remained in the world; some approached a thousand years before departing. Strictly speaking, those who seek long life simply cherish the life they wish to live now; they do not originally hurry to ascend, nor do they necessarily hold that flying upward surpasses staying in the world. If one can remain at home without dying, why rush to heaven? As for immortals no longer bearing any worldly duties after transcendence—that is merely another mode of existence. Peng Zu spoke thus to accord with ordinary human reason.”

Someone asked: “Should those who cultivate the Dao first accumulate merit and virtue?” Baopuzi replied: “Indeed they should. The middle fascicle of the Yulingjing says that accumulating merit and virtue matters most; eliminating past faults comes next.

Those who cultivate the Dao rescue people in peril so they are spared disaster; they care for the sick so they do not die in vain—these are among the greatest meritorious acts. Whoever seeks to become an immortal must take loyalty, filial piety, kindness, humility, benevolence, and trustworthiness as foundations. Without cultivating virtue and yet single-mindedly chasing techniques alone, one cannot attain long life.

When one commits grave evil, Siming (the spirit who governs human lifespan and fate) reduces one’s allotted “cycles” of life; for lesser faults, one’s “counts” of years are cut. Crimes differ in weight, and the cycles and counts deducted differ in amount. When ordinary people receive their mandate of life, each has a fixed span. Those born with a larger innate allotment find cycles and counts harder to exhaust, so they die later; those with a small allotment who also commit many faults quickly use up cycles and counts and die early.

The scripture also says: to become an earthly immortal (a perfected being who dwells in the human realm in long life), one must perform three hundred good deeds; to become a celestial immortal (one who ascends to the heavens), one must perform twelve hundred. If one has already performed eleven hundred ninety-nine good deeds but then commits a single evil act at that moment, all prior good deeds are voided and must be accumulated anew. Thus a good deed is not too small to be worth doing, nor an evil deed too small to be ignored.

Even without doing evil, if one keeps boasting of good deeds one has done, or demands repayment after giving charity, the merit of that deed is lost—yet this does not erase all merit accumulated before.

The scripture also says that until merit is fully amassed, taking immortal elixirs is of no benefit. If one does not take elixirs but keeps doing good, one may not immediately become an immortal, yet one can avoid sudden death. I also suspect that figures like Peng Zu perhaps had not yet fully completed their meritorious achievement, and therefore could not ascend to heaven.”

Volume 3 of the Inner Chapters of Master Embracing Simplicity (Baopu Zi Neipian) is complete.

Textual notes: In the base text, the phrase shou zhi (“guard it”) was duplicated after shou zhi; following Wang Ming’s critical edition, the extra occurrence was removed. The character shou (“longevity”) was missing in the base text and was restored per that edition. Where the base text read ci (“this”), it was emended to shi (“generation/world”) per that edition. The two characters bu shi (“not eating”) were missing in the base text and were restored per that edition. Zhan tian was a displaced passage in the base text, wrongly joined to the following “According to the Hanshu, Yue Daxian met Emperor Wu”; this was corrected per that edition. The two characters ji si (“sacrificial rites”) were missing in the base text and were restored per that edition.

Volume 4 of the Inner Chapters of Master Embracing Simplicity (Baopu Zi Neipian): Golden Elixir (Jindan).

Baopuzi says: I have examined and read many books on nourishing life and cultivating character, and I have also collected numerous methods for pursuing longevity. The works I have read number in the thousands of scrolls. Not one of these books fails to treat “returning elixir” (huandan) and “golden fluid” (jinye) as the most essential content. Therefore, these two methods are probably the supreme keys to the immortal way (xiandao). If one takes them yet cannot become an immortal, then from ancient times to the present there would probably have never been anyone who became an immortal.

In former times, when warfare broke out in the Central Plains, people fled in all directions. I traveled back and forth through Xuzhou, Yuzhou, Jingzhou, Xiangzhou, Jiangzhou, and Guangzhou, and saw hundreds of Daoist priests displaced by the chaos. Some of them I had long heard of; their reputations seemed to reach beyond the clouds. Yet they were largely alike—their knowledge and experience showed no clear superiority or inferiority, and they were hardly in a position to convince one another. Even when each person possessed dozens of scrolls of texts, they did not necessarily understand them all; they were merely copied and kept in collection.

At that time there were those who knew how to practice breath regulation (xingqi—adjusting breathing and circulating qi) and grain abstinence (duangu—refraining from eating the five grains), and who also knew methods for taking various herbal medicines. The recipe books they kept generally contained similar content; nearly everyone had a copy of the Daoji Jing (Scripture of the Mechanism of the Dao) and treated it as their most secret canon, saying it was written by Yin Xi. I told them that this book was in fact written by Wang Tu, military supervisor of the Wei dynasty, not by an ancient author. Wang Tu did not understand the refining of great medicines at all; he only wished to seek immortality through breath regulation and “entering the chamber” cultivation (rushi xiulian), and so he wrote the Daoji, thinking that the whole of Daoist technique was contained in it. This was an extremely misleading claim.

I asked those Daoists about divine elixir (shendan), golden fluid, and the methods in the Sanhuang Neiwen (Inner Writings of the Three Sovereigns—a Daoist scripture) for summoning celestial and earthly deities, but not one of them truly understood. They exaggerated, boasted of themselves, and deceived people by saying they had already achieved long life, even claiming they had traveled with immortals—such people made up the greater part. Those who could truly explain subtle mysteries were very few.

Some had heard of golden elixir (jindan) but did not believe anyone in the world today could refine it, saying only those who had already attained the Dao and become immortals in antiquity understood it. Some had heard of so-called “beyond-the-square” teachings (fangwai zhi shuo) but had not received their true transmission. Some obtained only scattered elixir formulas and assumed that the whole elixir art amounted to no more than that.

In former times, Zuo Yuanfang (Zuo Ci) cultivated in stillness on Mount Tianzhu, and a divine being transmitted to him the Jindan Xianjing (Scripture of the Golden Elixir Immortals). Right when the chaos of war at the end of the Han was at its height, he had no time to compound the elixir, so he crossed the Yangtze to escape the turmoil and made for famous mountains to practice this Dao. A forebear of mine on the immortal side (a “Immortal Lord” among my ancestors) in turn received these scriptures from Zuo Yuanfang.

The elixir scriptures he transmitted fill five scrolls: three scrolls of the Taiqing Danjing, one scroll of the Jiuding Danjing, and one scroll of the Jinye Danjing. My teacher Master Zheng was a disciple of that Immortal Lord forebear and also learned these scriptures from him. But his household was poor and he could not afford the medicinal ingredients needed for compounding elixir. I served him in person and for a long time swept and cleaned for him. Later he set up an altar on Miji Mountain, swore an oath with me, and transmitted the elixir scriptures, together with the oral formulas passed mouth to mouth and not written in books.

These books had never existed in Jiangdong before; Zuo Yuanfang brought them. Zuo Yuanfang passed them to my forebear, my forebear to Master Zheng, and Master Zheng to me, so other Daoist priests knew nothing of this material. Yet although I received the scriptures and the oral formulas more than twenty years ago, I was so poor I did not even have a single stone of grain and had no means at all to compound elixir—I could only sigh at length.

Some people fill chests with gold and heap money like mountains, yet do not know there is a method to keep a person from dying. Even if they hear of it, almost none will believe. It is like tasting jade nectar (the legendary drink of immortals) and then knowing how thin the flavor of ordinary herb-and-water brew is; seeing Mount Kunlun and then finding a little hillock very low. Once one has seen the way of the Golden Elixir, one no longer wishes to read those small books of petty techniques.

Yet the great medicines (the chief ingredients for compounding golden elixir) are not easy to assemble quickly, so one must for a time still rely on smaller techniques to sustain life. Taking other drugs, even in large amounts, yields only slight benefit and in the end cannot grant long life. Hence an oral formula attributed to Laozi says: “Without obtaining the Returning Elixir and the Golden Liquid, one suffers in vain.”

The five grains can at least nourish a person; when people eat them, they live. If one cuts off grain entirely, one will perish.

Even the five grains can sustain human life: when people receive the five grains they survive, and when grain is cut off they die. How much more so for supreme divine medicine—the benefit to a person is surely not ten thousand times less than that of the five grains?

Golden elixir is such that the longer it is refined by fire, the more subtle and marvelous its transformations become. Gold placed in fire, though repeatedly tempered, does not melt; buried in earth, through long ages it does not decay. Taking these two substances can refine and nourish the body, and thus can keep one from aging and dying. This is using external things to make the self firm—like adding oil to fuel a fire so it does not go out; or like smearing verdigris on the feet so that entering water one does not easily rot—borrowing the hardness of copper to protect the flesh. When golden elixir enters the body, it moistens and regulates ying and wei (in Chinese medicine, the nutritive qi and defensive qi that circulate within and nourish the body); its action is not merely like verdigris applied to the surface of the skin.

In the world, many do not believe in the ultimate Dao (the highest principle of cultivation)—mostly dull and ignorant folk. Yet even when someone occasionally loves learning and seeks the Dao, if they have not seen this method and have not met an enlightened master, they have no way to know that such marvels exist in the world.

I will now briefly excerpt the main principles of Golden Elixir cultivation and speak them to later seekers who share this path and delight in the Way. You should strive diligently in your search; do not cling to shallow, near-at-hand methods and imagine they suffice to transcend the world of dust. If in the end you never encounter the Way of the Golden Elixir, you can only cease pursuing boundless hope.

When you reflect on the realm spoken of in the Way of the Golden Elixir, you will see: it is like leaving foul ground and drifting upon the vast sea; like turning your back on fireflies and facing the sun and moon; like hearing thunder and then realizing how faint is the sound of a cloth-covered drum; like seeing a great whale and then knowing how tiny are creatures no bigger than insects.

If someone’s vision is narrow and their mind free of prior bias, yet they hope to attain immortality by crude drugs alone, that is like driving a lame donkey to chase the wind, or poling a small boat across a great river. Lesser elixirs with smaller effects are many in kind; their refining methods differ in depth, so their potency differs too. Though each has its strengths and weaknesses, the gap between them is vast—like wine from a single fermentation compared with spirit mellowed through nine brewings.

Yet even the lower, lesser pills far surpass the finest herbal medicines. Herbs, when burned, turn to ash; cinnabar (zhusha, a key mineral in ancient alchemy), when burned, becomes mercury, and through repeated transformations can become cinnabar again. Compared with ordinary plants, the difference is truly great. For this reason the Golden Elixir can grant long life; immortals have seen through this principle. How far they stand from ordinary people!

The world’s vision is small and its doubts many. Some do not know that mercury comes from cinnabar; even when told, they will not believe it. They say cinnabar was red all along—how could it turn into white mercury? They say cinnabar is merely stone; when other stones are burned they all turn to ash—why should cinnabar be an exception? When they cannot be persuaded of something so plain and near at hand, it is only natural that they hear the grand teaching of the immortal Way and laugh in disbelief.

In antiquity, the Zhenren (accomplished Daoists) took pity on later generations who might still receive instruction, and so they left behind methods of cultivation, explaining them again and again in detail, in the hope that people could escape the disaster of death. Their words could hardly have been more earnest. Yet people in the world still refuse to believe, and take them for empty talk. If it were truly empty talk, how could the nine-turn, nine-transformation elixir method and the daily measures of the drugs it requires all match what is recorded in alchemical texts? That the Zhenren could know such things cannot be fathomed by ordinary, shallow thinking.

In my youth I loved fangshu (Daoist cultivation and longevity arts). I traveled on foot with my baggage, seeking teachers everywhere, unafraid of hard and distant roads. Whenever I heard something out of the ordinary I was delighted; even when others mocked me, I did not brood over it. How could I know that people of later ages would not be like those of today? So I set this down for perceptive readers. Am I merely chasing the strange and puffing up empty words, wanting the book to circulate so that ordinary people will believe me? Great yang qi cannot make what is withered flourish again; the highest wisdom cannot turn the stubborn and foolish. What is written is meant for those who can understand; the matter itself is what the perceptive value.

When a farmer gets a red bow, he uses it only to scare birds; when someone on the southern frontier gets imperial ceremonial robes, he uses them only to carry firewood. With those who do not understand, how can one force understanding? Some in this world eat their fill and sit idle all day, yet will not diligently study Confucian or Mohist learning, nor earnestly cultivate virtue, and only amuse themselves as the years pass. What they chase is fame or profit: some hunt on horseback across the open country, some drown themselves in feasting; some are lost in beauty and music, some in fine clothes; some draw the bow and wear out body and sinew, some gamble and neglect what matters. When they hear talk of the Supreme Dao (zhidao), they are as if drunk; when they see writings on the Way, they sleep even in broad daylight.

They do not nurture the body, yet constantly drive themselves toward death; they will not ask how to preserve life, but instead wear themselves down, torment themselves, and waste away until their vital energy is spent.

Those who possess the Way often treasure what they have mastered and do not rely on others—how then would they force themselves to preach to people?

People commonly say: if long life could truly be attained, the wealthy and noble of antiquity ought long ago to have achieved it; yet no one has done so today, so clearly there is no path to immortality in the world. They do not understand that the rich and exalted of old, like prominent figures today, neither believed in nor sought long life; they treated only what they wanted in the moment as most urgent—how then could they have obtained immortality?

Even if one has not yet resolved to commit fully, as long as one believes that lifespan can be extended and that becoming an immortal may be possible, what harm is there in trying? Even if the attempt yields only modest results and one lives two or three hundred years, is that not still better than dying young like ordinary people?

Affairs in the world are many and varied, and the arts of the Way (daoshu) are harder to fathom than most—how can one judge by ordinary people's views that there is absolutely no path to long life in the world? If one declares it nonexistent merely because the masses do not believe, how many truly wise people are there in the world? Today there are those who grasp the meaning of the Dao and still cultivate and seek long life—are they necessarily extremely foolish, inferior to everyone else?

Some also worry that pursuing long life without success will make them laughed at as ignorant and deluded. Yet if one is convinced that immortality is impossible, and it turns out that an undying path does exist in the world and is obtained by someone who then laughs at you in turn—is that not the same? Even the sun and moon cannot shine everywhere; how can human judgment alone serve as an absolutely reliable standard?

The Baopuzi states that, according to the Scripture of the Nine Vessel Divine Elixir of the Yellow Emperor, the Yellow Emperor ascended to immortality after ingesting the divine elixir. The scripture also says that although one may extend life through breath regulation, daoyin (guiding and pulling exercises), and taking herbal drugs, one still cannot ultimately escape death. Ingesting the divine elixir, however, can make human life endless, coextensive with heaven and earth, riding clouds and dragons, coming and going within the Great Clarity (Ta Qing)—the celestial realm spoken of in Daoism.

The Yellow Emperor transmitted this method to Xuanzi and admonished him: “This Dao method is of utmost importance and must be passed only to persons of virtue and talent. If someone is not the right recipient, do not reveal this Dao to him even in exchange for an entire jade mountain.” The recipient of the transmission was to cast a golden human figure and a golden fish into east-flowing water as a pledge, and swear an oath sealed with blood. Without the root bone for attaining immortality, one also cannot see this Dao method.

Refining the divine elixir should be done on a famous mountain in a place where human tracks are rare; companions should not exceed three persons. Before beginning, one must observe a hundred days of fasting and purification, bathe with the five aromatics, and strictly maintain purity—avoiding defilement and contact with laypeople; one must also keep unbelievers from knowing of the matter, lest they slander the divine medicine and cause the elixir to fail to form. When the divine elixir is successfully refined, it is said that the whole household can attain immortality, not the alchemist alone.

People in the world do not refine the divine elixir yet trust in herbal drugs. Herbs, when buried, rot; when boiled, they break down; when burned, they char and wither—they cannot even long preserve themselves, so how could they grant human beings long life?

The Nine Elixirs are a crucial gate to seeking longevity and are not what ordinary people should see or hear. The masses mostly know only how to grasp after wealth and rank—are they not like walking corpses? When refining elixir, one should also perform sacrifices; the methods of sacrifice are recorded separately in a scroll of diagrams and instructions.

The first elixir is called “Danhua” (Cinnabar Flower). One should first prepare “Xuanhuang” (the material used in elixir refining). Using realgar water, alum water (another text reads “mercury water”), along with halite from the frontier, brine salt, alum, oyster shell, red ochre, talc, and lead white—each in amounts of several tens of jin—one makes “Liuyi mud” (a sealing mud used in elixir refining). The detailed method is recorded in a separate scroll.

The first elixir is called Danhua (Elixir Flower). First prepare xuanhuang (a preparatory alchemical substance), then take realgar water, alum water (one version reads “mercury” instead), halite, brine salt, alum, oyster shell, red halloysite, talc, and lead white, each in amounts of several dozen jin, and make them into “liuyi mud” (a furnace-sealing material used in elixir refining). Fire it for thirty-six days and the elixir is complete; take it for seven days and one becomes an immortal. Use xuangao (black paste) to form the elixir into pills and place them in fierce fire; in a short time they turn into gold. Alternatively, take two hundred forty zhu of elixir and refine it together with one hundred jin of mercury; this too can yield gold. If gold is produced, the medicine has succeeded; if not, reseal the medicine and continue firing for the same number of days as before—nothing fails to transmute in the end.

The second elixir is called Shendan (Spirit Elixir), also known as Shenfu (Spirit Talisman). Take it for one hundred days and one becomes an immortal. Use it to pass through fire and water: smear the elixir on the feet and one may walk on water. Take three daogui (an ancient measure for elixir pills; one daogui is one full scoop of the measuring utensil), and the three corpses and nine worms (spirits and “worms” within the body said in Daoism to hinder cultivation) disperse; all illnesses are cured.

The third elixir is also called Shendan. Take one daogui for one hundred days and one becomes an immortal. Give it to the six domestic animals and they too gain long life without death; it also wards off harm from weapons. After one hundred days of ingestion, immortals, jade maidens (yünu, female immortal attendants), and the spirits of mountains and rivers come to serve and manifest in human form.

The fourth elixir is called Huandan (Returned Elixir). Take one daogui for one hundred days and one becomes an immortal. Vermilion birds and phoenixes wheel and fly overhead; jade maidens arrive at one’s side. Place one daogui of elixir in water, and the spirits of mountains and rivers come to serve, manifesting in human form.

Elsewhere the fourth elixir is likewise called Huandan. Take one daogui for one hundred days and one becomes an immortal. Vermilion birds and phoenixes wheel and fly overhead; jade maidens arrive at one’s side. Take one daogui of elixir and refine it with one jin of mercury; gold forms at once. Smear the elixir on coins or goods when using them, and that same day the money or goods return. Write the elixir on an ordinary person’s eyes and all ghosts flee.

The fifth elixir is called Eridan (Elixir for Ingestion). Take it for thirty days and one becomes an immortal; ghosts and spirits come to serve, and jade maidens appear before one.

The sixth elixir is called Liandan (Refined Elixir). Take it for ten days and one becomes an immortal. Refine it further with mercury and one can also obtain gold.

The seventh elixir is called the Rou Elixir (Soft/Flexibility Elixir). After taking about one daoge (a very small measure), one can become an immortal in a hundred days. It is said that if taken mixed with quepen juice, even a ninety-year-old can still father children; if the Rou Elixir is smelted together with jingong (the “Metal Lord,” a substance or reagent used in elixir work), it can be made into gold.

The eighth elixir is called the Fu Elixir (Subdued Elixir). After taking it, one becomes an immortal the same day. Carry a piece the size of a jujube pit on your person, and it is said that all ghosts will keep away; write with it on doors and gates, and various evil spirits and strange beings will not dare approach—you can also ward off thieves, tigers, and wolves.

The ninth elixir is called the Han Elixir (Cold Elixir). After taking about one daoge, one can become an immortal in a hundred days. It is said that immortal boys and girls will come to serve you, and the taker can fly lightly without wings.

Of these nine elixirs, if you successfully refine even one and take it, you can become an immortal—you need not refine all nine; which one you refine depends on each person’s preference. After taking the Nine Elixirs, if you wish to ascend and leave the world you may do so; if you wish to remain in the human realm for a time, that too is at your will. It is also said that you can come and go freely everywhere without being harmed.

The Baopuzi says: There is also the Taiqing divine elixir; the method of refining it comes from the Primordial Lord (Yuansjun). Yuansjun was Laozi’s teacher. The Guantian jing of Taiqing has nine chapters in all; it is said that the upper three cannot be transmitted; the middle three have no suitable person in the world to receive them and should be sunk beneath the Three Springs; the lower three are the elixir scriptures, in upper, middle, and lower volumes.

Yuansjun is a great immortal who can harmonize yin and yang, command ghosts and spirits and wind and rain, ride nine dragons and twelve white tigers, and all the immortals under heaven are subordinate to him. Yet he still said that he too had reached this state only through learning the Way and ingesting elixir—not from birth. How much more so for ordinary people.

The elixir scripture says: Those of the highest rank, upon obtaining the Way, are promoted to celestial office; those of the middle rank, upon obtaining the Way, dwell on Kunlun; those of the lowest rank, upon obtaining the Way, live long in the human world. Foolish people do not believe this and take it for empty talk. From morning to night they do only what harms life, seeking longevity not at all—how can Heaven force them to live on? Ordinary people know only to pursue fine food, splendid dress, sound and color, and wealth and honor, indulging their desires until they soon die. Do not speak of divine elixir to such people, lest they mock the Great Way and slander the true Dao.

If one transmits the elixir scripture without choosing the right person, one will bring misfortune upon oneself. When you meet someone who truly believes in this Way, you may wait until the medicine is refined and give him some—but do not lightly transmit the method of refining. One who understands this—what need has he to depend on kings and lords?

When the divine elixir is refined, it not only can prolong human life; it can also be used to refine gold. When the gold is refined, take out one hundred jin and first perform a solemn sacrifice. Sacrifice has its own separate volume of methods, different from the Nine Vessels sacrifice; the gold offered should be marked separately and entered one by one in a register.

Offerings to the celestial deities require twenty jin; to the sun and moon, five jin each; to the Northern Dipper (Beidou), eight jin; to Taiyi (the Great Unity), eight jin; to the well spirit, five jin; to the stove god, five jin; to the River Lord (Hebo), twelve jin; to the earth god, five jin; and to the spirits of doors, gates, alleys, and lanes, together with Lord Qing, five jin in all—eighty-eight jin altogether. The remaining twelve jin should be placed in a fine leather bag. On an auspicious day, at a busy market when trade is flourishing, drop it silently in several places, then walk straight away without looking back. In total more than one hundred jin must be used in this way before the gold may be used freely. If one uses gold without first offering it to the spirits in this manner, disaster and punishment will surely follow.

It is also said that the path to long life does not lie in sacrifice and attendance upon ghosts and spirits, nor in daoyin (guiding and pulling) or bending and stretching the body. The key to becoming an immortal lies in the divine elixir (shendan)—the elixir used in cultivation. To know this principle is not easy; to put it into practice is even harder. If you can refine the divine elixir, you may endure in the world for a long time. In recent times, at the end of the Han, Lord Yin of Xinye abandoned this Taqing elixir yet still attained immortality. He had originally been a Confucian scholar, outstanding in talent and skilled in poetry; he also wrote eulogies and prefaces for elixir scriptures. He recorded his first steps in the Way and his course of study under a master, and listed more than forty immortals he knew of, describing them clearly.

To refine this Taqing elixir, achieving it in the nine cauldrons (the vessels used in alchemy) is not easy; nevertheless, it is a method by which one may ascend in broad daylight. In refining, one must first prepare the Flowery Pool (Huachi), Red Basin (Chixuan), Gen Snow (Genxue), Mysterious White (Xuanbai), Flying Talisman (Feifu), and Three-Five Divine Water (Sanwu Shenshui)—only then may one begin to kindle the fire and refine the elixir.

With the elixir of the first turn (zhuan), after ingesting it one may become an immortal in three years.

With the second turn, in two years.

With the third turn, in one year.

With the fourth turn, in half a year.

With the fifth turn, in one hundred days.

With the sixth turn, in forty days.

With the seventh turn, in thirty days.

An Eight-turn Elixir, if taken for ten days, enables one to become an immortal.

A Nine-turn Elixir, if taken for three days, enables one to become an immortal.

If a Nine-turn Elixir is placed in a divine cauldron (used for refining elixirs) and heated after the summer solstice, once the cauldron is hot, place one jin of zhu’er (a substance used in elixir compounding) beneath the cauldron lid. One must keep watch beside it until sunlight strikes the cauldron. Before long, the contents in the cauldron will surge up together and emit a bright radiance. If one ingests this elixir, one can become an immortal in three days.

If a Nine-turn Elixir is placed in a divine cauldron and heated after the summer solstice, once the cauldron is hot, place one jin of zhu’er beneath the cauldron lid. Keep watch until sunlight shines upon it. After a while, the contents in the cauldron will surge up together, light will flash, and five-colored divine light will appear—and it will transform into huandan (the refined returning elixir). Take one daogui-measure (an ancient implement for measuring drugs, also indicating a small amount) and ingest it, and one can ascend to heaven in broad daylight.

There is another method for refining a Nine-turn Elixir: seal the elixir in an earthen crucible (a pottery vessel used for refining) and heat it with chaff fire—first using a gentle fire (wenhuo), then a strong fire (wuhuo). From the first turn through the ninth turn, the time required differs at each stage, and one can judge accordingly. When the number of turns is few, the refining takes longer and the medicinal potency has not yet fully formed, so after ingestion it takes a longer time to take effect and immortality comes slowly; when the number of turns is many, the medicinal potency is fully achieved, the time after ingestion is short, and immortality comes quickly.

There is also a Nine-light Elixir; its refining method differs from that of the Nine-turn Elixir, but is broadly similar. When refining, the various medicinals should be combined and refined with fire…

There is also a “Nine Radiance Elixir” (jiuguang dan), whose method differs from that of the “Nine Revolutions Elixir” but is broadly similar. In refining, the various ingredients are combined and calcined with fire until the five minerals undergo transformation. The “Five Stones” (wushi) are cinnabar, realgar, alum, azurite, and lodestone. Each mineral, after five rounds of refinement, yields five colors; together the five minerals produce twenty-five colors in all. One liang of each is taken and placed in separate vessels.

It is said that if one wishes to revive someone dead for less than three days, one may take one knife-tip measure (dao gui) of Green Elixir, dissolve it in water, and bathe the corpse; then place another knife-tip measure in the mouth, and the person will immediately return to life. If one wishes to summon the “traveling kitchen” (xingchu)—the legendary power that brings food at a call—one may dissolve Black Elixir in water and smear it on the left hand; whatever one asks for aloud will arrive of itself, and even all things under heaven can be drawn forth.

If one wishes to hide the body from sight, know future events, and prolong life without aging, it is said that taking one knife-tip measure of Yellow Elixir grants long life without death. After ingestion one may sit and see events a thousand li away, foreknow fortune and misfortune as if they were before one’s eyes, and also know a person’s ordained lot—rise and fall, longevity or early death, wealth and poverty. These methods are recorded in the middle scroll of the Scripture of Great Clarity (Taiqing jing).

Ge Hong says that next there is also one scroll of the Scripture of the Five Numina Elixir (Wuling dan jing), which records five refining methods. Refining requires cinnabar, realgar, orpiment, sulfur, azurite, alum, lodestone, halite, “Taiyi surplus grain,” and other ingredients, as well as “Six-One mud” (liuyi ni)—the material used to seal the elixir furnace—and the establishment of a spirit chamber and performance of sacrificial rites (jijiao). Refinement takes thirty-six days to complete. One must also use “Five Emperors talismans” (wudi fu), written in five colors. It is said these elixirs can also keep a person from dying, though their efficacy is inferior to that of the Taiqing jing and the Nine Cauldron elixirs.

There was also a Minshan (Mount Min) elixir-refining method. The Daoist Zhang Gai obtained this recipe while devotedly cultivating in a stone chamber on Minshan. The procedure was to smelt brass and cast it into a fangzhu (an ancient vessel used to catch moon dew), collect water from the moonlight in it, then cover it with mercury and draw in ri jing huo (a fire method that refines the elixir with sunlight). Long-term ingestion was said to grant longevity without death. One could also place this elixir in a male-yellow copper fire-starter (a copper implement containing realgar), cover it with mercury, and expose it to the sun for twenty days before further processing. It was taken with jing hua shui (well water drawn at first light), in an amount the size of a small bean; after a hundred days of use, the blind were said to regain sight, all illnesses to heal on their own, white hair to turn black, and lost teeth to grow back.

There was also the elixir method of Wuchengzi: put Bashan mercury in an eight-inch copper tray, fill an earthen stove with charcoal, lean three supports at an angle, surround the tray with branches for protection, and keep it in a mud-like state by pouring over it water mixed with sulfur. After a hundred days of such preparation, ingestion was said to grant longevity without death.

There was also the elixir method of Xianmenzi: mix one jin of the elixir with wine, add three sheng of wine and blend, and expose to the sun for forty days. After one day’s ingestion, the san chong (worms ancient belief held lived in the body and caused disease) and various illnesses were said to be expelled; after three years, one could attain the way of immortals, and two yu nü (jade maidens) would come to serve—one could send them out to fetch food and drink. This elixir could also be used to suppress the hundred ghosts, avoid harm to the dwelling from the dead of the four directions, and ward off trouble from breaking ground or construction; hanging the elixir facing the relevant direction was said to remove calamity.

There was also the Licheng Dan (Immediate Completion Elixir), likewise divided into nine sections in the form of the nine tripods, though its efficacy was inferior to the Nine Tripods. Its main use—in another version as well—was to suppress the hundred ghosts, avoid harm to the dwelling from the dead of the four directions, and ward off trouble from breaking ground or construction; hanging the elixir facing the relevant direction was said to bring freedom from harm.

There is also a type of elixir called the “instant-form elixir” (licheng dan), likewise in nine varieties. In appearance it resembles the Nine Cauldrons, but its efficacy falls short of theirs. Its main method of preparation is this: take orpiment and realgar and calcine them until the copper within melts, then cast the material into vessels. Place these vessels over intensely strong, bitter wine and fumigate them for three years. After a hundred days, a red, milky substance grows on the vessels, a few fen in length; sometimes a five-colored langgan (a gem-like mineral famed in legend) also appears. Remove it, bury it for a time, and then ingest it—this too can extend life.

It may also be blended with a drug known as tusi (described as resembling a rabbit when it first emerges from the ground). When tusi first appears, its root looks like a rabbit; dig it up and take its blood, mix it with this elixir, and upon swallowing one can change at once—whatever transformation one wishes will follow one’s intent.

The elixir may also be mixed with zhu cao (Red Plant, a herb of immortality in lore). A single dose lets one ride the void, walk on clouds, and travel in the sky. Zhu cao looks like a small jujube, stands three or four chi tall, with red leaves and branches and stems like coral; it loves to grow beneath rocks on famous mountains. Cut it open and sap flows out like blood. Throw jade and the eight minerals together with gold and silver into this sap, and they immediately congeal into mud-like pills; left long enough they turn back to liquid. When gold is added, the product is called “golden nectar” (jin jiang); when jade is added, it is called “jade libation” (yu li). Taking these likewise grants long life.

There is also a method for obtaining the “submerged elixir” (fu dan). In the world there are rivers called “cinnabar water” (dan shui)—for example the dan shui region of Nanyang—whose waters contain dan fish (cinnabar fish). On the ten nights before the summer solstice, if you keep watch, the dan fish surely float to the water’s edge and give off a red glow bright as fire. They can be taken with a net, but even if many are caught, do not take them all. Smear the blood of the dan fish on your feet and you can walk on the water’s surface and dwell for a long time in deep water.

There was also the elixir method of Chisongzi: take the sweat of the thousand-year lei plant (some texts read “juice” instead of “sweat”), together with alum-peach juice, and use them to steep the elixir pill. Place the pill in a watertight vessel, seal the mouth with refined honey, and bury it three feet underground for one hundred days. Then squeeze the juice from the red fruit of the ning tree, mix it with the pill, and ingest the mixture; the face, eyes, and temple hair will all turn red, and one may attain long life. Long ago among the Zhonghuang immortals there was one named Chixuzi—is it not said that he took this very pill?

There was also the elixir method of Master Shi: take a nestling bird before its feathers have grown, and feed it true elixir mixed with beef. When the bird has grown and all its feathers have turned red, kill it, dry it in shade for one hundred days, pound flesh and feathers together, and take one daoge (an ancient small measure). It is said that after one hundred days of such use one may enjoy five hundred years of life.

There was also the elixir method of Kang Fengzi: use eggs of sheep, crow, and crane together with sparrow blood, combine with Shaoshi tianxiong juice, mix with the elixir, put the mixture into a swan-goose egg, seal it, and place it in mica water. After one hundred days it becomes red water. One ge is said to add ten years of life; one sheng is said to grant a thousand years.

There was also the elixir method of Cui Wenzi: put the elixir inside a wild duck, steam it in the belly, and eat it; it is said to extend life and, with long use, to prevent death.

There was also the elixir method of Liu Yuan: put cinnabar into dark-water liquid; after one hundred days it turns purple and will not stain the hand when held. Mix with mica water, seal in a tube, and drop it into a well; after one hundred days it becomes red water. One ge is said to yield a hundred years; long use is said to bring long life.

There was also the elixir method of Yue Zichang: put azurite, lead red, mercury, and cinnabar into a copper tube, seal with dry tile and smooth white talc, and steam in white sand for eighty days. At dose, take an amount the size of a small bean; it is said that in three years one becomes an immortal. Another version says “one year to become an immortal.”

Li Wen’s Elixir Method: Wrap the elixir in white silk, boil it with bamboo sap to make what is called “Red Spring.” Then let the medicine float on hot water and steam it; finally mix it with Xuan water (an alchemical water used in elixir-making) and take it. One version says that after three years of taking it one becomes an immortal; another says one year suffices.

Another Li Wen Elixir Method: Again wrap the elixir in white silk, boil with bamboo sap to make Red Spring, steam it floating on hot water, and mix with Xuan water. Take one he (a traditional volume measure) each time; after one year of use one becomes an immortal.

Yinzi’s Elixir Method: Mix the elixir with mica water, seal it, and place it in the Golden Flower Pool (a pool used in elixir work). After one year remove it; each time take one daogui (an ancient tiny measure). It is said that after consuming one jin of the elixir one may extend life by five hundred years.

Taiyi’s Soul-Summoning Elixir Method: The five minerals used, and the Liuyi mud (mud for sealing the furnace in elixir-making) used to seal the elixir, follow the same approach as the Nine Elixirs. This elixir is especially good for treating people dead no more than three days. Place one pill in the patient’s mouth and also give one sulfur pill to swallow with water. Once the medicine reaches the throat, the person revives. It is said that patients all report seeing messengers bearing tally-staves come to summon them.

Cainü’s Elixir Method: Mix the elixir with rabbit blood and honey and steam for one hundred days. Each time take one pill the size of a paulownia seed, three times daily, for one hundred days. The text then adds that if it is taken with a sulfur pill in water, once it reaches the throat the person revives; patients say they see messengers with tally-staves come to summon them.

Another Cainü Elixir Method: The preparation is the same—rabbit blood, elixir, and honey mixed and steamed one hundred days. Each time one pill the size of a paulownia seed, three times daily; after one hundred days it is said that two divine maidens come to serve and may be commanded.

Jiqiuzi’s Elixir Method: Mix with clear wine, sesame oil, Baihua li (sweet wine fermented from a hundred flowers), and dragon fat, seal with Liuyi mud, and warm slowly over chaff fire. Ready in ten days; each time one pill the size of a small bean. After the full dose it is said one may live five hundred years longer.

Moz’s Elixir Method: Put mercury and Wushi liquid in a bronze vessel, heat and refine over fire, and stir with an iron ladle. After ten days it is re-formed as elixir. Each time take one daogui; it is said to remove all illnesses, and long use prevents death.

Zhangzihe’s Elixir Method: Mix lead, mercury, and zengqing water (a medicinal liquid prepared with azurite), seal, and steam inside red millet for eighty days. Form pills with jujube paste; each pill the size of a soybean. Take for one hundred days continuously; it is said one may extend life five hundred years.

Qili Elixir Method: First take dust from five kinds of jade stones, mix it with cinnabar and mercury, put the mixture in a large bronze vessel, and boil it for one hundred days until a five-colored elixir is formed. Swallowing it is said to grant long life without death. Separately, take one hundred jin of lead, add one hundred daogui (knife-spatula measures) of medicinals, and smelt them together to make silver. Then blend with realgar water and heat; after one hundred days gold can be refined. If the gold is too hard, boil it in lard; if too soft, boil it in white plum.

Yuzhu Elixir Method: Harmonize the elixir with Huachi (Flower Pool), cover it with azurite and powdered sulfur, place the vessel in sand and steam it for fifty days. After one hundred days of taking the elixir, spirit maidens such as the Jade Maiden, Liu Jia, and Liu Ding are said to come and serve; one can send them on errands and learn what is happening under heaven.

Zhouhou Elixir Method: Harmonize the elixir with Jinhua (Golden Flower), seal it with dry tile, and steam for eighty days. When it is taken out, take a piece the size of a small bean, put it on a dish, and harmonize it facing the sun—the elixir’s light rises and joins the sunlight. One dose is said to grant long life; thrown into “red-yang” copper and heated, it can be refined into gold. In another method, the elixir is harmonized with oil juice; after one hundred days of ingestion, one attains long life.

Li Gong Elixir Method: Take one sheng each of true elixir and the water of the five stones, blend them into mud, and heat in a cauldron for thirty-six days. After removal, blend again with liquid mineral sulfur and take it for ten years; one is then said to endure as long as heaven and earth.

Liu Sheng Elixir Method: Harmonize the elixir with juice of white chrysanthemum, juice of dichu (earth hibiscus), and juice of chun (ailanthus), steam for thirty days, then grind and mix for ingestion. After one year, it is said one may live to five hundred years. The old who take it grow young again, their faces so youthful they can hardly be recognized; the young who take it keep their youth.

There was also Wang Jun’s method for preparing the elixir: one placed basha mineral and mercury inside chicken eggs, sealed them with lacquer, and had a hen incubate three of these eggs. On the wangxiang day—a date regarded as auspicious for ingesting such medicines—one took this elixir to slow the decline of aging; children, however, must not take it, or their bodies would cease to grow. If it was given to newly hatched chicks or newborn puppies, they too would grow no further; trials on other birds and beasts yielded the same outcome.

Chen Sheng had another method: he mixed the elixir with white honey and kept it in a copper vessel, after which it could be ingested. Once taken, the body would no longer increase in size. Fed to newborn chicks or puppies, they likewise would not grow; the same held when the preparation was tested on other birds and animals.

Yet another of Chen Sheng’s methods was to blend the elixir with white honey, seal it in a copper container, and sink it in a well; after a full year it was retrieved. Ingestion was said to keep one from feeling hunger for a year; consuming a full jin of it was said to grant a lifespan of one hundred years.

There was also Han Zhong’s method for the “final elixir”: the preparation was mixed with lacquer and honey, decocted, and then taken. It was credited with prolonging life and delaying aging, keeping the eyes clear for long years, and even—when one stood in sunlight—leaving no shadow. Beyond these, there were dozens of other elixir methods that cannot all be described here.

Ge Hong said that the efficacy of the Golden Elixir of Taiyi (Jinye Taiyi)—one type of golden-elixir immortal medicine—is that after taking it one can become an immortal, no less than the Nine Elixirs (jiu dan, nine refined immortal pills). In refining it, one must take one jin of gold by the ancient scale and combine it with Xuanming Longgao, Taiyi Xunshou Zhongshi, bingshi, Ziyou Nü, Xuanshui Ye, Jinhuashi, and cinnabar; seal and refine until the medicine turns to liquid. The True Scripture (Zhenjing) says that once the golden elixir enters the mouth, the person’s body will take on a golden hue.

It is said that Laozi once transmitted this method to the Primordial Lady (Yuanjun, a female immortal in Daoist legend). Yuanjun said: “This Dao method is extremely precious; it appears only once in a hundred generations and should be stored in a stone chamber.” When refining the medicine, one must keep ritual purification (zhai) for a hundred days, have no contact with lay people, and build a separate quiet refining chamber beside a famous mountain and on the bank of east-flowing water. When the medicine is complete, taking one liang is enough to become an immortal.

If one does not wish to leave the human world for the time being and only wants to become an earthly immortal (dishen xian, an immortal who remains in the world and does not die), a hundred days of purification is sufficient. If one wishes to ascend to heaven, one must first abstain from grain for a year and then take this medicine. Taking half a liang grants long life without death; all disasters and poisons cannot harm one, and one may marry, have children, hold office, and do as one wishes without restriction. If one later still wishes to ascend, one purifies again and takes another one liang, and one becomes a flying immortal (feixian).

Refine the Weixi Jusheng Method using Golden Liquid (Jinye). Mix the Golden Liquid with mercury and simmer for thirty days; take it out and place it in an earthenware vessel (ou) made of yellow earth, seal it with liuyi mud (a sealing clay used in elixir furnaces), then heat it with a fierce fire for sixty hours—it will all turn into elixir. Take a portion the size of a small bean; upon ingesting it, one becomes an immortal. Take one daoge (an ancient tiny measure) of elixir powder and add it to one jin of mercury, and the mercury can be refined into silver.

Take one jin of this elixir, place it over fire and fan the heat, and it will turn into a red molten metal called “elixir gold” (danjin). Coat swords and blades with elixir gold, and the weapons are said to be protected from harm by blades from afar; make plates and bowls from elixir gold and eat and drink from them—it is said one can attain long life. Use it to catch the essences of the sun and moon, by a method like the fangzhu (an ancient vessel for collecting dew), and drinking that dew is said to prevent death.

Mix Golden Liquid with yellow earth, put the mixture in a vessel sealed with liuyi mud, and heat with a fierce fire; in the end it all becomes gold, which can be put to use. When such elixir gold is made into plates and bowls and one eats and drinks from them, it is said one can attain long life; use it to catch the essences of the sun and moon, as with the fangzhu collecting water, and drinking it is said to prevent death. Heat it again with fire and it will all turn back into elixir. Take a portion the size of a small bean and one can enter famous mountains and great rivers and become a disxian (an immortal who dwells in the mountains and rivers of the human realm).

Take one daoge of elixir powder and add it to mercury, and the mercury at once turns to silver; then mix one liang of that silver with one jin of lead, and the lead too all turns to silver. The Scripture of Golden Liquid (Jinye Jing) says: “Cast eight liang of gold into water flowing eastward; only after drinking blood and swearing an oath may the oral formula be transmitted.” If one does not follow this method but merely steals the recipe to refine, success will not come in the end. When someone has utmost sincerity and faith, the medicine may be entrusted to them; but the elixir text must not be transmitted lightly, or both parties will suffer calamity. The celestial gods observe human conduct very closely—only people do not realize it.

Baopuzi says that the nine elixirs are indeed a superior method for refining immortal medicine, but their preparation requires many auxiliary ingredients. When transport and trade are open everywhere, those items can be assembled; when the nine regions are cut off from one another, the materials are hard to obtain. Moreover, the fire must burn continuously for dozens of days and nights, with constant attention to the heat so it never strays. That is exhausting and difficult, so refining golden liquid is more convenient.

To refine golden liquid, only gold is hard to get. What antiquity called one jin of gold equals about two jin on today’s scales; it usually costs more than three hundred thousand cash. The other auxiliary drugs are comparatively easy to prepare. No fire is needed: the materials are placed in the huachi—the vessel used for elixir work—and after the prescribed number of days the product is ready. The whole expense is about four hundred thousand cash for one dose, enough for eight people to take and become immortals. If slightly too little material is used in refining, however, the potency is insufficient for the ingredients to transform one another—like trying to brew a few sheng of rice wine when the quantity is too small to ferment.

Baopuzi also says that next comes the method of ingesting gold. It falls short of golden liquid yet far surpasses other drugs. Some refine gold with lard and wine, some treat it with ailanthus bark, some dissolve it with jing wine and lodestone; some methods roll gold into thin sheets, others make it liquid at once for drinking. Some methods carry taboos, so they are inferior to golden liquid. Others mix realgar and orpiment and ingest them, spreading the mixture thin as leather; these belong to the cultivation paths of earthly immortals—those who have not fully left the mundane world. Silver and large pearls from mussels can likewise be refined into liquid for ingestion. All such methods must be taken continuously over long periods, so they still do not match golden liquid.

Baopuzi says that refining golden elixir liquid and the nine elixirs (types of immortal medicines including golden elixir liquid and the nine elixir preparations) costs money and requires entering famous mountains and cutting off ties with the secular world, so few people can undertake it. Moreover, even among millions, not everyone can obtain these scriptures. Therefore, among so-called Daoist books, almost none discuss golden elixirs.

The first taboo is: do not let unbelieving laypeople slander, mock, or criticize elixir refining; otherwise the medicine will certainly fail to form. Master Zheng explained that refining such great medicines requires performing sacrifices. During sacrifice, deities such as the Great One Primordial Lord (Taiyi Yuanjun), Lord Lao (Laojun), and the Dark Lady (Xuanü) come to observe. If the alchemist does not withdraw to a quiet, secluded place and allows ignorant laypeople to pass by and see the process, the spirits will blame him for not keeping the scripture’s precepts and for inviting the slander of evil people, and will no longer protect him. Then perverse qi can take advantage and enter, and the elixir cannot be completed.

Therefore one must enter a famous mountain, keep purification fast for a hundred days, eat neither the five pungent foods (onions, garlic, and other strong aromatics) nor raw fish, and avoid meeting laypeople; only then can one refine the great medicine. After the elixir is completed one may end the fast—it is not only at the start of refining that fasting is required.

Master Zheng said that Left Lord told him: ordinary small mountains cannot be used to refine golden elixir liquid and divine elixirs. Small mountains usually have no proper deity in charge; they are mostly tree-and-stone spirits, thousand-year-old entities, and ghosts that receive human offerings. These are all perverse qi; they do not intend to benefit people but only bring harm, and they also test those who cultivate the Way. A Daoist must use ritual techniques to protect himself and accompanying disciples; even so, these evil things may sometimes still ruin the elixir.

Today’s physicians, whenever they compound fine medicines or ointments, likewise do not want chickens, dogs, children, or women to see. If touched by such things…