《抱朴子内篇》Vol. 2

When preparing elixirs, any disturbance will prevent the medicine from taking effect. Dyed silk in bright colors may seem to lose its beauty to someone who dislikes those hues; how much more so for the great medicines used by immortals? That is why ancient Daoist masters, when compounding divine elixirs, had to enter well-known sacred mountains and would not stay in ordinary hills—the reason lies here.

According to immortality scriptures, mountains suited to quiet concentration and the making of elixir include Mount Hua, Mount Tai, Mount Huo, Mount Heng, Mount Song, Mount Shaoshi, Mount Chang, Mount Taibai, Mount Zhongnan, Mount Nü’er, Mount Difei, Mount Wangwu, Mount Baodu, Mount Anqiu, Mount Qian, Mount Qingcheng, Mount Emei, Mount Sui, Mount Yuntai, Mount Luofu, Mount Yangjia, Mount Huangjin, Mount Biezu, as well as the Greater and Lesser Tiantai, Mount Siwang, Mount Gaizhu, and Mount Kuocang. Each of these peaks has a legitimate deity; some also shelter earth immortals (xian who dwell among humans). They all grow lingzhi (the legendary fungus of immortality), which helps one escape war and calamity. When adepts compound medicine in these mountains, they do not do so merely to obtain lingzhi. When a cultivator ascends such a peak, the mountain spirit assists and blesses him, and the elixir is sure to be successfully refined.

If one cannot reach those mountains, one may also prepare elixirs on large islands in the sea. Xizhou, Danzhou, and Zhuyu east of Kuaiji, and Yangjuzhou, Taiguangzhou, and Yuzhou near Xuzhou, are second-best choices.

Today the famous mountains of the Central Plains are hard to reach; among the renowned peaks in the Jiangdong region that one can actually go to and dwell on are Mount Huo in Jin’an, Mount Chang and Mount Taibai in Dongyang, and Mount Wang, the Greater and Lesser Tiantai, Mount Gaizhu, and Mount Kuocang in Kuaiji.

In the Baopuzi, the author writes: I was fortunate to be born into a family of high officials. Though my talents were not enough to govern the state or manage affairs of government, among peers who shared similar interests and actively sought fame and office, few were necessarily more far-sighted than I; most of them simply rushed about on the official path, chasing worldly profit and hoping to rise at court.

The reason I cut off the usual visits of congratulation and condolence in my home district, and gave up the glory of this world, was that I wanted above all to go far into famous mountains and finish the books I had begun; second, I wished to refine divine elixirs and seek long life. Ordinary people thought that by leaving my native place, turning my back on an official career, and working the fields in the hills myself until my hands were rough and calloused, I had fallen into wild delusion. Yet the pursuit of the Way and worldly business cannot flourish together; if one does not set aside human affairs, how can one cultivate such an aim? Once the view is clear and the resolve firm, why worry over others’ slander or praise, or be shaken by persuasion or obstruction? I set down my intent for those who may share it in the future. If later there are people whose friendship is steadfast and whose aim matches mine, what they give up will be the same as what I have given up.

Minor divine elixir formula: Take three jin of true elixir (mineral drugs used in alchemy), and six jin of pure white honey. Expose the mixture to sun and decoct it, stirring until even; sun and decoct again until it can be rolled into pills. Each morning take ten pills, each about the size of a hemp seed. The scripture says that within less than a year white hair turns black, fallen teeth grow back, and the body becomes moist and lustrous; with continued use, even the aged may return to youth and live without dying.

Minor elixir method: Take one jin of elixir, pound and sift it fine; take three pint of rich bitter wine and two pint of lacquer, mix the three evenly, and warm gently over a low fire until pills can be formed. Take three pills each time, each about the size of a hemp seed, twice daily. The scripture says that after thirty days it cures various illnesses in the belly and drives away the Three Corpses (spirits said to dwell in the body, record faults, and hinder cultivation); after one hundred days flesh and bone grow strong; after one thousand days Siming (the god who keeps the register of life and death) strikes one’s name from the roll of the dead. Thereafter one may endure as long as Heaven and Earth and keep pace with sun and moon, change form at will, shift without fixed shape, cast no shadow even at noon, and manifest a separate radiance.

The method for refining small-grain gold for ingestion is as follows: put gold into clear wine and refine it, taking it out and putting it back in about two hundred times. Each time you take it out, the gold should boil. When you hold it in your hand, you should be able to squeeze it through your fingers like mud. If it does not boil, or if when you hold it you cannot squeeze it through your fingers, shave off some of the gold and put it back into the clear wine to refine again—the number of times is not fixed. Once refined, ingesting one pellet the size of a bullet is sufficient; you may also divide it into small pills. After thirty days of ingestion, you will no longer be affected by cold or heat, and divine beings and jade maidens will come to serve you. Silver may also be refined and ingested; the method is the same as for gold. If you ingest medicines made from these two metals and can dwell in a stone chamber on a famous mountain, after one year you can ascend and fly; if you remain in the human world and ingest them, you can still become an earthly immortal (a transcendent who still dwells among humans). Do not casually transmit this method.

Two Principles Child (Liangyizi, a figure in Daoist texts) ingested this medicine for thirty days and was no longer affected by cold or heat; divine beings and jade maidens came to serve him. Silver may also be ingested; the method is the same as for gold. If you ingest these two medicines and can dwell in a stone chamber on a famous mountain, after one year you can ascend; if you remain in the human world and ingest them, you can still become an earthly immortal. Do not casually transmit this method.

Two Principles Child’s method for refining gold for ingestion: take three jin of lard, one sheng of strong vinegar, and five liang of gold, place them in a vessel, and set it in an earthen furnace to decoct. Put the gold into the lard and take it out and put it back in one hundred times; do the same when refining with vinegar. Ingest one jin, and it is said your lifespan can match heaven and earth; ingest half a jin, and you can live two thousand years; ingest five liang, and you can live twenty-two thousand years. However much is refined, it may all be ingested. Refining should be done on a wangxiang day (an auspicious day in numerology for undertaking affairs). After ingestion, the effects are said to be miraculous. Do not transmit the method to others—otherwise the medicine will not refine successfully and will not manifest its efficacy. If you wish to leave the human world, you should ingest cinnabar.

End of Book 4 of Baopuzi Neipian (Inner Chapters of the Master Who Embraces Simplicity).

Book 4 of Baopuzi Neipian (Inner Chapters) ends here. The title of Book 5 is “Supreme Principle” (Zhili). What follows is a collation note: it records deletions, additions, and character substitutions in the base text as established in Wang Ming’s critical edition.

Baopuzi says: The Great Dao is subtle and profound, hard to discern, so many people harbor doubts. Am I cleverer than others? I merely happened to grasp certain points—as a crane senses midnight, as a swallow senses the wuxi day; such insight need not apply to everything else. Through investigation and verification I know that long life is not impossible, and that becoming an immortal does not require being born with an “immortal seed.”

The Dao’s depths cannot all be written down; what is relatively plain is not worth elaborating. In antiquity Gengsang Chu tempered body and mind, and Wenzi also practiced with hardship; after long effort they later received weighty secrets of cultivation—surely there was reason in it. Who among those with a head and breath does not love life and fear death? Yet wealth, honor, rank, and profit entice; fair skin and lovely features beguile the eyes; pleasing music disorders the ears; love, hate, gain, and harm stir the heart-mind; merit, fame, and reputation bind one’s conduct. These things arrive uninvited and take shape without study. Unless one’s allotted fate aligns with the immortal path—unless one can probe principle deeply and awaken alone, see change and penetration beyond ordinary experience, and with a clear spirit contemplate the hidden and still, while understanding how body relates to reputation and closeness to distance, and sigh that human life is as brief as a flash of lightning—how could one forsake present companionship and ease, suppress one’s inclinations, cut off immediate desires, and cultivate a distant achievement so hard to attain?

What has form arises from the formless; the body must rely on spirit (Shen) to subsist. What exists is like a dwelling for “nothing”; the body is the house of spirit. It may be compared to a dike: when the dike breaks, water cannot be retained; or to a candle: when the candle is consumed, the flame has nowhere to stay. When the body is worn, spirit disperses; when primordial qi is exhausted, life ends. When the root is dry, however lush the branches and leaves, green fades; when vital force is weak yet desires are strong, essence, qi, and spirit leave the body. The dead do not return; a decayed body cannot live again—this is what deeply grieves those who penetrate the Great Dao. To prize time as one would jade and slight mere beauty—is that not reasonable? Hence recluses who cultivate body and mind in mountains and forests often can shed worldly entanglements and grasp the intent of cultivation.

Life that has passed never returns, and a body already decayed cannot come back to life. Those who have attained the Dao feel deep sorrow at this. Is it not right to value time more than fine jade? Therefore, those who nurture life and destiny in mountain forests, and who find joy beyond the world, treat high rank as a growth on the body and see all things as light as a cicada’s wing. They do not speak grandly on purpose, nor do they lightly dismiss the world out of affectation; they see clearly and, as if forgetting the mundane, let it go.

So they leave the world and dwell in quiet places, reining in brilliance and hiding their talent. They do not let the eyes chase desire or let beauty drain the spirit. They do not let the ears follow sounds that disturb the mind, and they keep away from noisy hearing. They wash away idle thoughts in the heart and observe things with a clear mind. They hold to softness and stillness, embrace their true nature, unify the breath until it is gentle, and settle body and mind in plain simplicity. They dispel partial emotions such as joy and grief, do not keep gain, loss, honor, or shame in mind, cast off the harm of craving a lavish life, and guard their words carefully. Listening inward, they hear clearly; looking inward, they see the formless and traceless realm. In the deep workings of nature they nourish the spiritual root, clear away temptation and longing from contact with outer things, put aside petty affairs, adjust themselves with tranquil pleasure, follow the way of wuwei (non-action), and thereby preserve their innate nature.

Thus they draw in precious radiance and bathe their spirit in Taiqing—the clear, lofty purity spoken of in Daoism. Outwardly they shut out the five luminaries; inwardly they guard the nine essences. At the Mingmen (life gate), a jade key of Daoist inner refinement, they secure the lock; in the Huangting (Yellow Court), an inner cultivation zone, they condense the qi of the northern pole. In the Mingtang (Bright Hall), the inner seat of the divine in practice, they bring in the three luminaries—the sun, moon, and star light used in cultivation—and circulate primordial qi to temper the body. From the Golden Beam, an inner body locus, they gather spiritual fluid so that white qi flows long and green qi stays. They let clear, spring-like breath gather in the Dantian (energy center) and lead the sunken pearl into the Five Cities, the inner palaces of the body. The jade cauldron refines below; the spirit bird calls above. Rare blossoms put forth new shoots; the celestial deer exhales fine jade. The Crimson Palace, where mind and spirit dwell in inner work, holds layer upon layer of method; in the deep mysterious realm lie nine rays of light. Azure clouds mass thick, reaching the sky; in secluded valleys clear water merges in branching channels. The practitioner treads the directions of Qian and Dui and summons the Liuding, the six yin spirits of Daoism; they rest in the Purple Chamber and chew and absorb the golden essence, the refined “flower” of practice. Autumn fungus shines bright; red flowers pair with green stems. Precious ointment is lucid as crystal, filling down like sweet rain. It satisfies hunger and quenches thirst and keeps a hundred illnesses from arising. One roams at ease between Wu and Ji—central earth in cosmology and inner-alchemy usage—and body and mind are harmonious and calm. Binding and gathering hun and po, the soul aspects, the bones grow solid and the body light. Then the practitioner can ride wind and cloud, rise into the void, align with heaven and earth, and live long.

Dust on a roof beam must accumulate to a full foot in thickness—it cannot be expected in a mere instant. Water dripping in the mountains can pierce stone, yet that too is not the work of a single day or night. Therefore cultivators must practice through years and months before they can command wind and clouds, rise into the air, and align with heaven and earth to attain long life.

What is troubling is that those who hear of the immortal way do not believe; those who believe do not cultivate; and those who cultivate cannot persevere to the end. Those who truly attain the Dao are few, and their traces stay hidden; those who do not succeed are many, and widely known. The world does not see those hidden ones who have attained the Dao—it only sees those who have not succeeded—and so concludes that there truly is no path to becoming an immortal.

Reinforce the dikes and you reduce the loss of seeping water; keep the lamp oil plentiful and the flame will not go out. The Longquan sword, sharpened often, cuts cleanly; the axe, used every day, wears out all the sooner. Snow stored in shade, away from warm air, can last through summer; ice kept deep down does not melt in the heat. A single layer of silk over a mirror keeps the surface from scorching; partial cover of grass and leaves can also help plants survive the winter.

Earth disperses easily, but once fired into tile it endures as if alongside heaven and earth. Oak and willow rot quickly, yet as charcoal they last a long time without decay. Pigs given rich feed often die young; good horses constantly climbing and crossing rough ground tire and die early. Cold-hardy insects, suited to their environment, live longer; southern trees in warm places grow lush branches and leaves. When hit by cold, killing qi, they wither in frost; given warm, nurturing yang, they flourish with fine shoots.

The same kind of living thing can thrive or fail in opposite ways—where is the fixed rule that autumn must gather in and winter must hide everything? Human lifespan and the hour of death are not shaped by cold as directly as plants are; yet methods to extend life and repair the body are not limited to the shallow effect of keeping warm. Why should extending life be impossible?

People cling to present custom, see narrowly, treat the path of immortality (xian) as fantasy and the teachings of Huangdi and Laozi as empty talk—a real pity. The ignorant will not even trust decoctions, acupuncture, and moxibustion; how much less the deeper arts of nurturing life? They say: “If famous healers like Yu Fu, Bian Que, He, Huan, and Cang Gong could truly cure illness, why could they not keep people from dying?” They also say: “Do the rich lack physicians? Yet they do not live long—so lifespan has its allotted span.” With such arguments they rebuke others, yet demand belief in immortals—as if asking an ox to climb a tree or a horse to catch birds: forcing what cannot be done.

Baopuzi states: minor soul-summoning elixirs such as the Summon-Soul Minor Elixir, the Three-Envoy Pills, and small cinnabar preparations like the Five Heroes and Eight Minerals—some can melt hard ice at once, some float when cast into water. They can drive off ghosts and spirits, repel tigers and leopards, disperse accumulations in the viscera, cure illnesses that have sunk deep into the marrow, raise corpses, and call back souls that have already departed. These are merely ordinary medicines, yet they can still restore the dead to life; so why should higher-grade immortal elixirs not be able to keep the living from aging and dying?

Bian Que of Yue once revived the crown prince of Guo after his breath had stopped; a shaman of the Hu regions once restored Su Wu when he had ceased breathing; Chunyu Yi could open the skull to treat brain disease; Hua Tuo could open the abdomen to wash the stomach and intestines; Wen Zhi and Yan Qi once cured patients at death’s door; Zhang Zhongjing also used needling and related methods to treat serious conditions. Such shallow skills of the medical tradition can already achieve this much—how much more, then, could the way of immortals fail to accomplish?

People die because the body is worn down. Aging is the outcome of many diseases assailing one; people are also harmed by poisons, injured by malign qi, and afflicted by wind and cold. If one now practices daoyin (guiding and pulling exercises) and circulates qi, so that refined essence flows back to nourish the brain and marrow; eats and rests in moderation; takes medicinals, practices cunsi (visualized meditation), and guards spirit and mind; reveres Heaven and keeps prohibitions, and wears talismans and seals; and stays far from everything that harms life—then one can penetrate the way of nurturing life and avoid the six kinds of harm mentioned above.

The kidney-tonifying pills, internal Five-Conduit Powder, Bone-Filling Lycium Decoction, and Astragalus Center-Fortifying Decoction that physicians use today all strengthen the body when taken. Lacquer leaf and indigo are common herbs; Fan A took them and lived to two hundred, with sharp hearing and clear sight, still able to wield the needle and treat illness. This happened in recent times and is recorded in reliable historical works.

Some say that Wu Pu studied the "Five Animals Frolic" (wuyin zhi xi)—a health-preserving daoyin practice imitating the movements of tiger, deer, bear, ape, and bird—with Hua Tuo, using it in place of ordinary guiding exercises, and still lived to over a hundred. These are only the most elementary methods in medicine and longevity arts, yet they could produce such results; how much more so for those who grasp their finer points?

Today, if you tell ordinary people that formulas such as Lizhong or Sishun can treat sudden collapse and vomiting, that kuan dong and zi wan can relieve cough and reversed qi, that jiao lu and guan zhong can kill the nine kinds of parasites, that shao yao and dang gui can ease gripping pain, that qin jiao and du huo can dispel wind from the eight directions, that chang pu and gan jiang can treat numbness and damp afflictions, that tu si zi and rou cong rong can tonify weakness, that gan sui and ting li zi can eliminate phlegm-rheum accumulation, that gua lou and huang lian can treat wasting-thirst, that qi mai and gan cao can resolve various poisons, that lu ru and yi re can protect many kinds of wounds, that ma huang and da qing can treat cold damage—they still often refuse to believe. They would rather kill animals to pray for blessings or split yarrow stalks to ask whether spirits are causing harm than trust that a good physician can cure disease. How much less would they believe that Golden Elixir can lift a person beyond the mundane world, or that numinous fungi and herbs can prolong life?

In former times Liu Hou Zhang Liang (chief strategist of early Han), devised stratagems none could match for a time; his wit and planning were far beyond those of narrow vision. Yet he still believed humans could cultivate immortality, held that his own intelligence was not inferior to others', and said he would set aside worldly affairs to wander with Chisongzi (Red Pine Master). He then practiced daoyin and fasted for a year, seeking the way of lightening the body and ascending. Later Empress Lü forced him to scheme for the crown prince; he had no choice but to advise summoning the Four White-haired Elders of Mount Shang—and events unfolded as he foresaw. The empress was grateful yet also compelled him to eat against his will, so his cultivation did not succeed.

Kong Anguo's secret record says Zhang Liang received from Master Yellow Stone not only the art of war but also the method of not dying. It also states that Zhang Liang had originally taken as teachers Mr. Julii, Mr. Qili, and others among the Four Elders of Mount Shang— all immortals—from whom he learned marvelous techniques. Although Empress Lü once forced him to take food, he soon resumed cultivating immortality, attained the Dao in secret and departed the world; people simply did not know, and therefore said he had died. According to Kong Anguo, Zhang Liang did indeed become an immortal.

There was also Han Chancellor Zhang Cang, who chanced upon a minor technique: by sucking and drinking a woman's breast milk he lived to one hundred eighty. That was probably only a shallow branch of Daoist arts; Zhang Cang practiced it and still lived to three times a normal lifespan—how could someone who fully mastered every method and cultivated secret wondrous techniques fail to achieve long life? This appears in the Book of Han and is not invented from nothing.

The Baopuzi says that although taking elixirs is fundamental to seeking longevity, if one can also practice xingqi (methods of regulating breath and circulating vital energy), results will come sooner; if one cannot obtain medicines, as long as one practices xingqi and grasps its essentials, one can still live for several hundred years.

Moreover, one should also understand fangzhong zhi shu (ancient methods of nurturing life through harmonizing yin and yang between man and woman). This is because those who do not understand the way of yin and yang often deplete the body through sexual activity, and xingqi then has difficulty taking effect.

Humans live within qi, and qi also exists within the human body. From heaven and earth to the myriad things, nothing can survive without qi. Those skilled at circulating qi can nourish the body from within and ward off evil from without; yet ordinary people use qi every day without understanding its principles.

In the Wu and Yue regions there are methods of prohibition and incantation (jinzhou zhi fa—techniques of applying spells and circulating qi), and many reported cases of efficacy are largely connected with qi. Those who understand these methods are said to be able to enter places where epidemic disease rages and share a bed with the sick without being infected; they can also lead dozens of followers so that all remain unafraid. This shows that qi can be used to avert heavenly calamities.

Sometimes evil sprites and mountain spirits harass households, throwing tiles and stones or setting fires; some show bodily forms coming and going, while others are heard only as voices and speech. Those skilled at prohibition circulate qi and apply the method, and these phenomena cease. This shows that qi can subdue ghosts and spirits.

In mountains and forests with many streams, poisonous insects, and vipers, ordinary people may be harmed even by brief passage; those skilled at prohibition are said to circulate qi to avoid danger so that companions within several tens of li are unharmed. They can also prohibit tigers, leopards, snakes, and wasps so that they crouch motionless. When qi is applied to knife wounds, bleeding stops at once; bones, sinews, and vessels can also be rejoined. If sharp blades are forbidden by qi, it is said that stepping on them causes no injury and thrusting does not pierce. If one is bitten by snakes or vipers, applying prohibition with qi brings immediate recovery.

In recent times, figures such as Zuo Ci and Zhao Ming could use qi (the inner breath employed in qigong cultivation) to make water flow upward one or two zhang; they could cook on a thatched roof without scorching it; they could drive large nails seven or eight inches into a pillar, then with a puff of qi make the nails shoot out violently.

They could also use qi to keep boiling water from harming people: they would throw a hundred or so cash coins into rolling water and have someone reach in to fetch them—the hand would not be scalded. Moreover, they could leave water in the courtyard overnight in the open air so that even in extreme cold it would not freeze; they could prevent everyone within a li from steaming food done; they could also stop dogs from barking.

Formerly, the state of Wu sent General He to suppress mountain bandits. Among the bandits were those skilled in jinzhi (techniques that restrict people or things by ritual power). Whenever battle was joined, the government troops’ swords could not be drawn, and arrows from crossbows flew back toward their shooters, so they suffered defeat again and again. General He was resourceful and said: “I have heard that metal weapons with edges can be restricted, and poisonous insects can be restricted—but things without edges and insects without poison cannot be restricted. That man can restrict our weapons; surely he cannot restrict what has no edge.”

Accordingly, General He had many hard wooden clubs made, chose five thousand strong, elite soldiers as vanguard, and led them straight at the bandits. The bandits, trusting in their jinzhi specialist, were unprepared. The government troops struck fiercely with white wooden clubs and routed the bandits. After that, that kind of restriction could no longer be deployed; bandits killed numbered in the tens of thousands.

When qi issues from the human body and is applied, it can produce effects of this sort—then what doubt can there be about using it for bigu (abstaining from grain), healing disease, and extending life? Zhongchang Gongli was a man of broad talent and insight; in Changyan he spoke of circulating qi to keep one from hunger and illness. He said: “At first I did not believe it; only when I did it myself did I fully believe it was so.”

Those who understand the way of nurturing life and possess penetrating wisdom have also written in works such as Changyan, stating that practicing qi circulation can keep one free from hunger and illness. At first I did not believe it; only after trying it myself did I become fully convinced that it is so. The method of nurturing life is originally this simple, yet I myself have still not achieved it—probably because my mind is constantly pulled by worldly affairs and I care too much about human relationships and mundane matters. When others fail, I fear they suffer from the same fault.

Long ago there was an enlightened master who knew the way to long life without death. The lord of Yan sent someone to learn from him, but before the student had finished learning, the teacher died. The lord of Yan was enraged and wanted to execute the envoy. An adviser said: “There is no worry graver than death, and no matter more urgent than preserving life. If that teacher could not even keep his own life, how could he enable our lord to live forever without dying?” The lord of Yan then did not kill the envoy. That remonstrance was very much to the point.

Suppose that teacher truly had a method for long life—like the qi-circulation practice I have heard of—then when the envoy mentioned the teacher’s death, it need not mean he did not know the way of longevity; it may simply be that he could not set aside worldly business to cultivate. Thus even knowing the method does not guarantee one can benefit from it. That does not prove the way of long life does not exist.

It is also said that in Mi County in Henan there was a man named Bi Cheng who, after many years of learning the Dao, took leave of his family and departed. At first his steps were very high; later he entered the clouds, and no one ever saw him again. This is what is called lifting the body lightly and ascending in broad daylight—the highest kind among immortals. Chen Yuanfang and Han Yuanchang were both celebrated men of Yingchuan; Yingchuan is not far from Mi County. Their belief that immortals truly exist in the world was probably because their fathers or grandfathers had personally witnessed Bi Cheng’s ascension. This is further evidence that immortals exist.

Volume 5 of the Neipian (Inner Chapters) of Baopuzi is complete.

1. The character read as zi was written in the received text as zi (a different graph); emended following Wang Ming’s critical edition.

2. The character read as zhui was written as jian in the received text; emended following Wang Ming’s critical edition.

3. The character read as qi was written as wu in the received text; emended following Wang Ming’s critical edition.

4. The character read as yan was written as xian in the received text; emended following Wang Ming’s critical edition.

5. The character read as you was written as sun in the received text; emended following Wang Ming’s critical edition.

6. The character read as ze was missing in the received text; restored following Wang Ming’s critical edition.

Taiqing Section (one of the topical divisions under which the Neipian of Baopuzi is classified)

Baopuzi Neipian, Volume 6: Weizhi Pian (Chapter on Subtle Principles).

4. The character read as yan was written as xian in the received text; emended following Wang Ming’s critical edition.

5. The character read as you was written as sun in the received text; emended following Wang Ming’s critical edition.

6. The character read as ze was missing in the received text; restored following Wang Ming’s critical edition.

Taiqing Section

Baopuzi Neipian, Volume 6: Weizhi Pian.

Baopuzi Neipian, Volume 6

Weizhi Pian

The Baopuzi says: I have heard that people who share the same aspirations and are of one mind can trust one another even without many words; those whose paths diverge and who stand apart will meet with suspicion even when they offer loyal counsel.

Principles that lie right before one’s eyes are often still not seen clearly; in everyday life, in matters as small as choosing what to gain or give up—where weight and lightness are as obvious as gold beside a feather, and black and white as plain as ink beside powder—many who are confused still cannot tell them apart. How much more so when one tries to speak of things beyond ordinary worldly reason, or to explain doctrines of utmost subtlety and depth? People have long laughed and refused to believe—not only today.

Whatever the reach of a person’s understanding, even what lies in the darkest night, or things as fine as a hair or a needle’s point, does not seem hard to perceive. Where understanding cannot reach, even with sun and moon high and shining, even with Mount Song and Mount Tai towering into the clouds, one still cannot see clearly.

Profound sages such as the Yellow Emperor and Laozi saw far and held unique insight. They opened hidden scriptures in famous mountains, received immortality classics from divine beings, shed worldly entanglements, and ascended to lofty realms beyond the distant heights. Their firmness surpassed gold and stone; their lifespan was such that even tortoises and cranes could not compare. Mindful of later generations who aspired to cultivate the Way, and pitying those who believed in the immortal path yet had no scriptures to guide them, they left methods of cultivation and wrote the principles out plainly and clearly: with slight practice one gains modest results; with deep practice one obtains greater confirmation.

Yet people of shallow insight cling only to their narrow views. They willingly drown in bitterness and do not know the sweetness of honey; accustomed to thin fermented drink, they cannot taste the richness of fine wine. They know they should cherish life yet do not know methods of nurturing life; they fear death yet do not believe in methods of long life without death. They know that overeating invites illness, yet cannot restrain their mouths and eat less of rich, sweet food; they know that indulging desires harms the body, yet do not know how to let go of what they cling to. Even if I say that the path of immortals can be cultivated, how could I make them believe?

Someone objected: “The master has not penetrated the principles of things, nor does he have an extraordinary appearance or bones that mark a medium; his lifespan is not like that of Anqisheng or Peng Zu. His eyes have never seen an immortal, his ears have never heard any strange tale—on what basis does he assert that long life can be attained and that nurturing one’s nature truly works? To say this comes from inner grasp of the profound and from a unique way of seeing—I cannot believe it. A person who lacks even a garment to cover his body and has not stored grain for the night, yet discourses loftily on Tao Zhugong’s art of trade and compares himself to Yidun’s strategy for wealth, is bound to be mocked. One who suffers from a chronic illness yet claims mastery of the medicine of Bian Que and He; who loses battle after battle yet calls himself well versed in the military arts of Sun Wu and Wu Qi—people do not believe him because he has no real results.”

I replied: “When a small minnow swims in a narrow ditch, it thinks there is no vast sea under heaven. When a tiny insect turns about inside a fruit pit, it thinks the whole world extends no farther than that pit. Even if you tell them of boundless expanse and describe how vast the cosmos is, they will treat it as empty talk and refuse to believe.

“Suppose my eyes had square pupils and my ears reached the crown of my head, and I could drive a flying dragon and ride auspicious clouds, chase lightning and reach the realm where sun and moon are reflected—you how could you still question me? Even if you saw me, you would call me a celestial spirit, an earth deity, or some other kind of being. How could you imagine that this was the level my cultivation had reached? I only wish to guide kindred spirits by what I have realized ahead of others—I am not trying to force all of you to believe.

“If every household had immortals and they were everywhere, shoulder to shoulder, then even someone as blinded as you would not doubt. But those who complete the immortal path ascend into the blue sky and roam the heavens; unless one has spirit communication, ordinary people cannot see or hear them. You are sure to say that this is because you yourself have no such sight or hearing.

“People trust their own judgments and rely on their limited experience; whatever lies beyond what they understand, even when it is not wrong, seems strange because they are unfamiliar with it. Some put the truth right to their ears and point it before their eyes, yet in the end they still cannot understand. This has been so for a long time—it is not only true today.”

Someone asked: “Having heard you explain these fine principles many times, I am already convinced that immortals truly exist in the world; I only worry that I lack the ability to attain that state. Is there a more concise essential method that one can practice on one’s own?”

Baopuzi said: “Whoever studies the Dao must advance step by step from what is shallow to what is deep, from what is easy to what is hard. With a sincere aim and firm will, nothing is impossible to accomplish; if the mind harbors doubt, results are hard to obtain—and this applies not to one matter alone. If the roots have not yet sunk deep into the soil, one cannot expect branches and leaves to tower into the clouds; if the source of water is not yet broad and deep, one cannot expect a river to rush ten thousand li—none of this is possible. Therefore, without accumulating good deeds and hidden merit (yinde), one is not enough to move the spirits; without wholehearted, single-minded sincerity, one cannot build a deep bond with teachers and companions; without merit, one cannot speak of passing severe trials. Before the right opportunity has arrived, to seek a brief essential method is likewise impossible.

The Nine Elixirs (jiudan) and the Golden Fluid (jinye) are the weightiest methods in the quest for immortality, but they cost enormously and involve heavy labors—they cannot be completed at once. Nourishing and guarding essence (jing) and qi (vital energy) is what matters most in the present. At the same time, one may take relatively simple medicinals to extend life and learn convenient techniques to ward off evil; only then can one gradually enter the subtle depths of cultivation.”

Someone asked: “The arts (fangshu) are many in kind and truly hard to learn in full. If for the time being one does not refine the Golden Elixir, and cultivates all the other methods instead, which is best?”

Baopuzi says: If one has not yet grasped the most fundamental and important principles of nurturing life and cultivating the Way, then various secondary methods should still be broadly understood, because the art of longevity requires many approaches to work together.

Using a large matter as analogy: just as a ruler governs a state and cannot do without civil administration, military preparedness, ritual, and law; using a small matter: just as a craftsman builds a cart, the shaft, wheels, axle, and the linchpin that holds the axle cannot be defective. The arts of nurturing life are the same: inwardly one nurtures body and spirit to extend life and treat illness; outwardly one repels evil and avoids calamity and harm.

This is like playing zither and se—you cannot produce the five tones from a single string alone; or like wearing armor—you cannot ward off a blade with one small plate. The five tones require many sounds in concert; armor must cover the places most likely to be struck. Whoever nurtures life should listen and observe widely, grasp essentials, and choose well; to cultivate only one method exclusively may leave one without reliable support.

Some busybodies each lean on their own specialty. Those who know the arts of Xuansu (bedroom cultivation for longevity) say only bedroom arts can grant long life; those who understand tunna (breath regulation) say only circulating qi can extend years; those who know flexing and stretching say only daoyin (guiding and pulling the body to cultivate qi) keeps one from aging; those familiar with herbs and formulas say only taking medicine can grant long life. Failure in cultivation often comes from this one-sided partiality.

People of shallow insight, having chanced upon one method, think it is enough; those who do not understand the real principle, even when they obtain a good method, keep hunting for new techniques, wasting time and effort with no settled practice when they actually apply it. Both tendencies are mistaken.

Some may be dull by nature and know only shallow matters, yet insist on entering famous mountains and treading dangerous paths, repeatedly stung by poisonous insects. Too ashamed to turn back, they keep searching and may even meet tigers and wolves. Such endless expenditure of time and effort without a fixed course is likewise mistaken.

Some people are dull by nature and shallow in understanding, yet they insist on entering famous mountains to cultivate, risking poisonous insects and beasts and getting hurt again and again. Too ashamed to turn back, they stay in the mountains; some are eaten by tigers and wolves, some killed by wangliang (mountain spirits); some go hungry because they cannot practice bigu (the method of not eating grain); when cold, they do not know how to keep warm, and die in the valleys—is that not foolish?

Devotion to learning is no substitute for choosing a good teacher first. If the teacher’s experience is limited and he will not teach all he knows, he may tell people: “Cultivating the Dao is not about learning much.” He may think he already holds the crucial Golden Elixir (the method of refining essence and qi to seek longevity) and that everything else need not be studied. Yet those who truly understand the Golden Elixir are few—can one refuse to practice the lesser arts that bring real benefit while waiting for a great Dao one may never attain?

It is like running a household. Someone who says you need use nothing else does so because he holds gold, silver, pearls, and jade enough for generations. Without these, how can you not plant grain widely and store plenty of fruit and vegetables?

Therefore, abstaining from grain and avoiding weapons, driving off demons, resisting the hundred poisons, treating all kinds of illness, and when entering the mountains avoiding fierce beasts, when crossing water escaping harm from dragons, when plague comes not needing to fear, when in sudden danger being able to become invisible—these are small matters, yet one must know them; how much more the Daoist arts more important than these—how can one fail to learn them?

Someone asked: “May I ask: for those who wish to cultivate the path of longevity, what taboos are there?”

Ge Hong’s Baopuzi says that among taboos, the most important is simply not to harm or deplete yourself. According to works such as the Yineijie, the Chisongzi jing, and the Hetu jiming fu, spirits in heaven and earth are charged with recording faults; they reduce allotted lifespan according to the weight of a person’s offenses. When lifespan is cut, one becomes poor, drained, and ill, and often meets with worry and trouble; when it is used up, one dies. There are hundreds of things that can trigger such reductions—too many to list one by one.

These books also say that within the human body there are the “Three Corpses” (sānshī)—in Daoist terms, three kinds of spirits lodged in the body that record and report wrongdoing. Though the Three Corpses have no physical form, they belong to the same category as hun and po, ghosts, and strange spirits. They wish people to die early so they themselves can become ghosts and roam freely, enjoying offerings of wine and food. Therefore on every gengshen day the Three Corpses ascend to heaven and report a person’s faults to Siming, the god who governs lifespan. On the night of the last day of each month, the Kitchen God also ascends to heaven and reports one’s sins.

Major transgressions are said to reduce one’s lifespan by one ji (a ji being three hundred days), and minor ones by one suan (a suan being three days, though some hold that one suan is a single day). I cannot be sure whether these claims are literally true. Still, the Dao of Heaven is deep, and matters of spirits and ghosts are hard to understand. Zhao Jianzi and Duke Mu of Qin both personally received from the Lord on High the jince (the edict granted by the Sovereign of Heaven)—taken as clear proof that the Mandate of Heaven is real.

Mountains, rivers, plants, trees, wells, stoves, ponds, and the like all have vital essence (Jing); the human body too has hun and po (aspects of the soul). Heaven and Earth, being the greatest of all things, should by the same reasoning also possess spirit (Shen). Where there is spirit, reward for good and punishment for evil ought to follow. Yet Heaven and Earth are vast, and their law is broad and loose; they do not necessarily answer at once, as if a trigger had been pulled.

Daoist precepts agree that to seek long life and immortality one must accumulate merit and perform worthy deeds: cherish all things with compassion, treat others as oneself, and extend kindness even to insects; rejoice in others’ good fortune and share their hardship; help in urgent need and rescue those in trouble; do not kill with one’s own hands or talk others into wrongdoing; when others gain, feel as if one had gained, and when they lose, as if one had lost; do not set oneself above others, boast, envy those who excel, flatter, or harm anyone in secret. Only then does one truly have De (Virtue), can one bear Heaven’s blessings, is what one does more likely to succeed, and is there hope of attaining immortality and long life.

If someone despises good conduct yet delights in killing; speaks agreeably while intending otherwise; contradicts themselves and strays from the right Way; mistreats those below and deceives those above; betrays those they serve and shows no gratitude for kindness received; twists the law and takes bribes, shows favoritism and bends what is straight, enriching themselves at others’ and the public’s expense; punishes the innocent, ruins households, seizes property, takes lives, and grabs others’ posts; pushes aside the worthy and kills those who have surrendered; slanders immortals and sages and harms Daoist priests; shoots birds, cuts open pregnant beasts, and destroys eggs; in spring and summer burns fields or hunts recklessly; reviles spirits and gods, incites others to evil, and hides others’ good deeds; puts others in danger to secure their own safety; steals credit, spoils others’ good works, takes what others treasure, and tears kin apart; humiliates others to win; when borrowing takes too much and when repaying gives too little; opens dikes or starts fires without right; uses occult arts to harm people and bullies the weak and helpless; swaps bad goods for good, extorts and plunders to grow rich; is unjust and unfair; indulges lust and acts perversely; bullies orphans and wrongs widows; keeps lost things and profits from others’ charity; deceives, misleads, and lies; loves to expose secrets and harp on others’ faults; forcibly invokes Heaven and Earth and uses curses to win arguments; fails to return what was borrowed or lent and never limits desire; hates the loyal and trustworthy, disobeys superiors, and disrespects teachers; mocks those who do good, destroys crops and tools, and drives others into poverty; feeds others impure food and drink; cheats with short scales, small measures, narrow cloth, and short rulers, mixes fakes into genuine goods for unjust gain, and tempts others to take what is not theirs; steps over a well or treads on a stove; sings on the last day of the lunar month and weeps on the first.

Each such act counts as one offense. Siming, the spirit who governs lifespan and destiny, shortens one’s allotted years of life (suanji) according to how serious the deed is; when that allotment is used up, the person dies.

When evil thoughts arise in the heart, even if no wicked act is committed, one's lifespan is still reduced; if one actually harms others, a full period of twelve years is deducted from one's allotted span. If one dies before that allotment is used up, the calamity may extend to one's descendants.

Those who seize others' property by force sometimes see the retribution fall on wives, children, and kin—loss, even death—though the reckoning need not come at once. If the offense is not yet grave enough to bring disaster on the family, one may still later meet flood, fire, or robbery, or exhaust through searching for lost goods, purchases, lawsuits, illness, medicine, and sacrificial expenses the very value of what was wrongly taken.

Hence the Daoists say: one who kills the innocent will in the end perish by blade and weapon. To grab ill-gotten wealth without heed for others' resentment is like eating meat soaked in poison to still hunger or drinking poisoned wine to quench thirst: though the belly is filled for a moment, one will ultimately die because of it.

One who has done evil in the past but later repents and reforms may make amends with corresponding good deeds: if one wrongly took a life, one should strive to save those at the point of death; if one took others' property without right, one should give to the destitute; if one framed others with false charges, one should recommend and support the worthy. The remedial good must exceed the former evil by twofold; then there is a chance of receiving good fortune and turning calamity into blessing. If one truly never again commits evil, one may extend life and more easily progress on the path of cultivation.

Though Heaven is far above, it hears what is hidden among people; nothing in the ten thousand things lies outside Heaven's regard. As long as one keeps doing good, a favorable response is sure to come. Lord Yang practiced charity and giving until old age and later received gold sent down from Heaven; Cai Shun moved the spirits through supreme filial piety; Guo Ju killed his own child to support his mother and in turn received a heavy reward such as an iron tally.

Good deeds are hard to accomplish, while wrongdoing is easy to fall into. Fools then point to what happened to people like Xiang Tuo and Bo Niu and conclude that Heaven and Earth cannot tell good from evil. They do not realize that those with a fine reputation may not truly possess De (virtue), and those who win praise may not for that reason wipe away wrongs committed in secret. If one judges only by whether plants such as water chestnuts live or die, and on that basis doubts the great pattern by which Yin and Yang operate, one still has not seen what lies far beneath the surface. Therefore, those of the highest caliber, through caution and diligence, can barely escape harm; ordinary people often cannot get what they hope for.

Someone asked: “My moral cultivation is not yet complete, and I am not yet able to retire to a famous mountain. The age is not like antiquity, and robbers are many. How can one avoid daily misfortune and guard against sudden disaster?”

Baopuzi replied: “On a zhi day (in traditional day-selection), take soil from the upper position of the sixth gua day (liù guǐ), mix it with hundred-leaf xuncao (aromatic grass with many leaves), and smear it on the door and gate over an area one foot square—then robbers will not come. One may also take soil from the south gate of the market, together with suipo soil and yuejian soil (earth taken from directions fixed by the year and month in calendrical arts), knead them into the shape of a human figure, and place it in the Vermilion Bird position (an auspicious direction in numerology); that too can suppress robbers. In urgent danger, enter a shengdi (a place of life—a ritually or geomantically auspicious refuge) and stay there, and you will not suffer calamity. The realm has its shengdi; a province has its shengdi; a commandery, a county, a township, a li, a household, and even a single room each have their shengdi.”

Someone asked: “If even one room has a shengdi, is that not too cramped?”

Baopuzi replied: “The scriptures say that when peril reaches its extreme, one hides beneath the chariot crossbar (che shi). From this one knows that within a single carriage there are both shengdi and sidi (places of death)—how much more so for one room?”

Someone asked: “I have heard privately that to seek the path of longevity one must know two mountains. I do not know where these two mountains are. Please tell me and clear up my doubt.”

Baopuzi said: “These two mountains do exist. They are not Mount Hua or Mount Huo, nor Mount Song or Mount Tai. The first is called the Mountain of Grand Origin (Taiyuan). It is hard to know yet not hard to attain. It is neither in heaven nor on earth; it neither sinks nor floats. The terrain is perilous and remote, the peaks winding and rugged. Harmonious qi pervades the place, and the intent of spirits moves freely to and fro. Jade wells are deep, and spring water pours in without cease. There are one hundred and twenty divine officers, each office linked to the next. Li and Kan (Fire and Water in the Eight Trigrams) hold their positions; mysterious fungus (xuanzhi) grows in countless numbers, and crimson trees stand alone. Every treasure there is extraordinary; gold and jade rise high, and sweet springs gush from the mountain’s corners. Those who seek longevity drink from these clear springs. If you can cultivate this Way, you may stand beside Chisongzi and Wangziqiao. This is the first mountain.

“The second is called the Mountain of Long Valley (Changgu). It is deep, lofty, and steep; subtle qi drifts there, and jade liquid (yuye)—the sweet fluid spoken of in immortality lore—spreads like mist. The Golden Pool and Purple Chamber lie within its bounds. Foolish people go there at random and all perish on the return; those who possess the Way ascend this mountain yet their bodies do not decay. They gather and eat huangjing (polygonatum, a staple herb in Daoist nourishing practice) to seek flight and transcendence. This is the second mountain. Both mountains were places the sages of old kept secret. You must reflect on this carefully.”

Someone asked: “I wish to hear how perfected persons (zhenren) guard the body and refine the physical form.”

Baopuzi said: “Your question goes deep. Below the initial azure qi, moon and sun each contribute half; they rise together and merge into one. It emerges from the Jade Pool and enters the Golden Chamber, size like a pellet, color yellow as an orange; within it is savor, sweet as honey. If you obtain it, you must guard it with care and not lose it. Once it slips away it cannot be recovered, and the body will decline.

“The pure white qi (jingqi in inner refinement) is fine and deep; it ascends to the Hidden Pass (youguan), passes three bends, and the middle elixir (zhongdan) shines bright as a lamp, nothing to compare with it. Establish it at the Gate of Life (mingmen), and the form will not decay. This principle is profound and subtle, hard to pursue to the end. It is a secret formula handed down by the masters before us; one who understands it need not fear myriad ghosts or every kind of weapon.”

Someone asked: "I have heard that by mastering the arts of the bedchamber (fangzhong techniques—Daoist methods of sexual union and cultivation for health and longevity), one can attain immortality through this practice alone; and that it can also dispel calamities and sins, turn misfortune into blessing, advance one's official career step by step, and double one's profits in trade—is this true?"

Baopuzi replied: "These are absurd and exaggerated claims found in books of sorcery, added by busybodies who delight in embellishment."

Ge Hong held that most claims about bedchamber arts (fangzhong shu) came from shamanistic books—exaggerated, far-fetched, and overstated. Some were embellished by enthusiasts until they drifted from the truth; others were deliberately invented by deceitful people to mislead the world, hide their real motives, recruit disciples, and profit.

The art of harmonizing Yin and Yang (the method of nourishing life through regulated sexual union) could at best treat minor ailments; at a lower level it could only reduce bodily depletion. Its effects had definite limits—how could it make someone an immortal or ward off disaster and bring blessings? Prolonged abstinence from sexual union might cause illness, yet indulgence without restraint also shortened life. Those who understood bedchamber arts could nourish the body so it was not excessively drained, keep a fair complexion into old age, and live out their allotted span. Phrases such as “reining in the coursing horse to replenish the brain,” “returning the yin elixir to redden the intestines,” “gathering jade fluid from the golden pool,” and “attaining three-five at the flowery beam” are specialized terms in bedchamber texts for the regimens they describe.

When ordinary people heard that the Yellow Emperor had twelve hundred women, they assumed he achieved long life through bedchamber arts alone, unaware that legend says the Yellow Emperor refined the nine elixirs below Mount Jing and above Lake Ding, then ascended heaven mounted on a dragon. That the Yellow Emperor had many consorts does not mean longevity came from bedchamber practice.

Even with a thousand drugs and every kind of sacrificial offering, without knowing bedchamber nurturing, benefit was not assured. Therefore the ancients, fearing unrestrained desire, spoke of bedchamber arts in glowing terms—such talk cannot be believed wholesale. The Xuansu (ancient bedchamber classic) compared the method to water and fire: both can harm and both can nourish; the crux is knowing how to use them. In general, with the essentials mastered, involving more partners need not be harmful; without the method, union with even one or two people could quickly damage the body.

Peng Zu’s bedchamber method was the most concise. Other texts were often cumbersome and hard to follow, and their practical benefit might fall short of what the books claimed—few could actually practice them. Though the related formulas run to thousands of words, those who did not grasp the essentials could take a hundred medicines and still fail to achieve long life.

Someone asked: The gods of heaven are supreme; one would expect them to grant life and longevity equally to all people. Why then can ordinary people like Qiao Song—the legendary immortal who never died—enjoy a deathless span, while great sages such as the Duke of Zhou and Confucius receive no blessing of eternal youth?

Baopuzi replied: The length of life in fact depends on the conditions each person receives at birth. When people receive qi and form a fetus, each corresponds to a different star. The Dao of heaven is wuwei (non-action): it lets the ten thousand things follow their nature, shows no closeness or distance to anyone, and favors no one. Those whose fate aligns with a “star of life” are bound to love the way of immortals; those who love that way, when they seek cultivation, often succeed. Those whose fate aligns with a “star of death” usually do not believe in immortals and do not practice the related arts. What people love and whether they are willing to do good depend on the nature they inherit; these endowments are hard to shift or add to or subtract from—they are not something the Dao of heaven can change at will.

This is like metal smelted in a furnace or pottery fired in a kiln: the furnace and kiln do shape the material, but whether copper and iron turn out sharp or dull, or pots straight or crooked, depends on the material and the conditions at firing—not entirely on the kiln alone.

Someone objected: A skilled craftsman makes objects, and the finished work is wholly determined by his skill; the Dao and the gods can do all things—how could they fail to shape human endowment, and instead say each person’s fate meets different circumstances that heaven cannot arrange? This argument leaves me puzzled; I cannot yet agree with it.

Ge Hong replied: Before heaven and earth were divided from primordial chaos, clear qi and turbid qi later separated. Some clear qi rose and moved; some turbid qi sank and settled. Even heaven and earth themselves do not know why any of this happened.

The ten thousand things receive qi and come to life in the same way—entirely of themselves. Heaven and earth and the ten thousand things are each a kind of existence; they differ only in whether they appear earlier or later, and in whether their forms are large or small. Because heaven and earth are vast, the ten thousand things seem small; and because the ten thousand things are small, heaven and earth seem vast.

The belly and back wrap the five viscera, yet the five viscera were not made by belly and back; skin wraps blood and breath, yet blood and breath were not produced by skin. Heaven and earth contain the ten thousand things, yet the ten thousand things were not created by heaven and earth. It is like grass and trees relying on mountains and forests to sprout and grow while the mountains and forests do nothing on purpose; fish and turtles rely on waters and marshes to multiply while the waters and marshes do not act with intent.

Ordinary people see heaven and earth as vast and the ten thousand things as small, and say heaven and earth are the parents of the ten thousand things and the ten thousand things are the offspring of heaven and earth. But lice live on my body—did I create them? Lice cannot live apart from me, yet I am not their parent and they are not my descendants. Tiny gnats are born in fermented vinegar; lingzhi fungi grow on wood and stone; dung beetles arise in muddy filth; green vines cling to pine branches—none of these were deliberately made by what they depend on. The ten thousand things fill heaven and earth—would they be any different from these cases?

Heaven has sun and moon, cold and heat; people have sight and breath. Inferring what is near from what is far, and from this extending to that: people still cannot explain why their own bodies age or grow young, ache or itch—so heaven and earth cannot explain why they themselves undergo waxing and waning, calamity or good fortune.

People cannot keep their ears and eyes sharp forever, nor can they ensure that the flow of qi and blood within the body always runs smoothly. Likewise, Heaven and Earth cannot keep the sun and moon from ever suffering solar or lunar eclipses, or keep the four seasons from ever falling out of order. From this it follows that whether a person dies young or lives long is truly not something Heaven and Earth arrange; whether one can attain immortality is likewise not something decided by Heaven and Earth.

The father who begot me and the mother who carried me in the womb still could not guarantee that my body would be perfectly proportioned, my face handsome, my temperament even, or my intelligence outstanding, nor could they be sure to give me ample vital strength or extend my lifespan. I might be short in stature and ugly in appearance, weak and prone to illness, or dark-skinned, deaf and blind, dull and stubborn, or missing limbs and unable to move freely. What people receive is not necessarily what they want, and what they want is not necessarily what they can obtain. Parents are as close to us as anyone, yet even they cannot fully control these matters—how much less could the vast Heaven and Earth?

Once I have this body of mine, I still cannot keep it forever strong and free from aging, always healthy and free from disease, nor can I ensure that joy and anger are always measured and that plans and reflections never lead to regret. It was my parents who endowed me with breath and formed this body, yet the one who truly receives and possesses this body is myself. Nothing is closer to me or more able to govern me than my parents and my own person; if even these two cannot arbitrarily add to or subtract from my allotment of fortune, how could Heaven and Earth decide such things?

If all beings were fashioned by Heaven and Earth, then they ought all to be good and free of defect, every undertaking ought to succeed and never fail, and every living thing ought to get what it wishes. In that case, Xiang Yu and Yang Xiong would not have known the grief of unfinished achievement. You say that Heaven could not grant Confucius and Mencius the blessing of transcending the mundane world and living forever without death; this only shows further that what people receive follows its own natural course and is not allotted by Heaven and Earth.

The virtue possessed by sages has already reached the utmost of virtue. If Heaven could bestow the highest virtue upon sages, yet still leave their learning incomplete, their achievements unestablished, their position unable to dominate as king or hegemon, and their lifespan short of a hundred years, that would precisely show that Heaven did not deliberately arrange these outcomes. When sages die, it is not that Heaven has killed them; likewise, when sages are born, it is not that Heaven has specially created them.

Virtuous people do not necessarily live long, and foolish people do not necessarily die young; doing good does not necessarily bring immediate reward, and doing evil does not necessarily bring immediate punishment. Human lifespan has no fixed term, and death follows no fixed order. People of high virtue and outstanding wisdom sometimes die in their prime; if Heaven did not deliberately cut them short, then the birth of sages was not necessarily Heaven’s special design either.

The virtuous do not necessarily live long, nor do the foolish necessarily die young; doing good does not necessarily bring fortune at once, nor does doing evil necessarily bring disaster right away. Life has no fixed span, and death does not follow a fixed sequence. Some who are morally upright and intellectually gifted never fulfill their talent in their lifetime; Dou Gong, an ordinary man of antiquity, lived to nearly two hundred. Boniu, a disciple of Confucius, was afflicted with illness; Zixia, another disciple, went blind in old age. Yet Robber Zhi, notorious for great wickedness, lived until his hair turned white, and Zhuang Qiao, extremely cruel, also reached old age. From this it is clear that the Way of Heaven is Wuwei (non-action): it does not arrange lifespan and fortune according to human good and evil.

Some say: “Confucius said that from ancient times everyone must die; Laozi said that immortals can be sought through cultivation. The sage’s words are trustworthy and can be verified by facts; what Daoists say is absurd, hard to believe, and hard to put into practice.”

Baopu Zi (Ge Hong’s sobriquet) replied: “Confucius is the sage of the Ru (Confucian) tradition; Laozi is a sage who attained the Dao. Ru teaching stays close to daily life and is easy to understand, so many believe it; the meaning of the Dao is profound and hard to grasp, so few fully penetrate it. What Daoists teach is equally trustworthy and grounded—it is only that it is abstruse and difficult to practice.”

Ge Hong said: Confucius was the sage of the Confucian tradition, while Laozi was a sage who had attained the Dao.

Confucian teachings stay close to everyday life and are easy to understand, so many people follow them; the intent of the Daoist tradition runs deep and is hard to grasp, so relatively few truly penetrate it.

The Dao is the source of all things; Confucianism is one branch along which the simple, primordial Great Dao has been handed down. Before the Three Sovereigns, the world was chiefly governed through the Dao; since the age of kings and emperors, Confucian instruction has gradually flourished. Everyone knows that in antiquity customs were thick and sincere, while in later ages manners grew ever more thin and scattered—so why honor Confucius alone and slight Laozi? It is like admiring only blossoms on the treetops without knowing the roots they grow from; like cherishing luminous pearls and the He-Shi jade while slighting the deep pool and Mount Jing that bore them, not seeing that bright pearls come from deep pools and the He jade from Mount Jing.

Cultivating one’s nature and refining the person is only one extension of Daoist teaching; rites and music are merely peripheral topics in Confucian learning. We honor Confucianism because it can transform custom and educate society—not merely because it teaches bowing and ritual advance and retreat. We honor the Daoist path because it can make teaching take effect without relying on words—not merely because it discusses nourishing life.

If there were a real ranking of higher and lower between Ru and Dao, Confucius would not have been upheld alone as the authority, nor would Laozi’s teaching have been adopted in isolation. Confucius once respectfully sought instruction from Laozi, and even said he would liken himself to figures such as Laozi and Pengzu. He also said that while he understood birds and fish, he did not understand the dragon—and compared Laozi to a dragon. That was Confucius’s heartfelt esteem for Laozi, not empty praise. This resembles what Yan Hui said about Confucius’s own Way: gaze up at it and it seems ahead; pursue it and it suddenly seems behind; the more you probe it the more solid it feels, the more you look up to it the more lofty it seems.

Someone asked: Confucius met Laozi in person—why did he not follow him to learn Dao techniques?

Ge Hong held that this shows all the more clearly that each person has an innate endowment and a disposition not easily changed. Confucius knew that what Laozi taught was subtle and extraordinary, yet he could not enter the realm of quietude and emptiness or probe the source of the Great Dao; what he asked Laozi about was only affairs of the human world—how could he have sought methods of becoming an immortal? Inferring Confucius’s intent, he gave his whole heart to teaching and transforming people and did not take fangshu (methods of cultivation) to heart.

Though Confucius was thoroughly versed in worldly affairs, he was not the sort who could be still and silent and hold to Wuwei (non-action). Therefore Laozi admonished him: “A skilled merchant hides his goods so that he seems to have nothing; a person of deep De (Virtue/Power) looks outwardly like a fool. You should discard arrogant airs and excessive desires, and also restrain a stiff bearing and overambitious aims—these do you no good.” Ge Hong took this to mean that Confucius had still not shed worldly feeling and was not one who cultivates immortality.

Confucius rushed about without rest, his mind fixed on setting the age right; he looked up and grieved that the world lacked worthy men, looked down and lamented that he could not fulfill his aims. He feared his talent would go unrecognized and even declared he would gladly serve another as whip-driver. How could such a person abandon the work of governing the world and turn instead to nurturing life—a path he regarded as remote and hard to practice?

Someone asked: Between the Confucian enterprise and the Daoist enterprise, which is harder and which is easier?

Baopuzi replied: “The Confucian path has ease within difficulty; the Daoist path has ease within hardship.

“To set aside social visiting, release wife and children and household, resign fame and salary, not let scenes of splendor disturb the eyes, not let pleasing sounds tug at the ears; to dwell in quiet and stillness, withdraw and keep to oneself, and cultivate virtue alone. To be slandered without grief, praised without joy; to see wealth and honor without coveting, and in poverty and low station feel no shame—these are what are hard to achieve in Daoist practice.

“Yet one who cultivates the Dao need not on going out remember obligations of congratulation or condolence, nor on returning home bear duties of social calls; need not weary the spirit studying Confucian classics, need not calculate calendars or ponder astronomical and numerological arts, nor be burdened by literary craft and skill. Distractions dwindle, and the body’s peace and mind’s ease naturally grow; wuwei (non-action) and freedom from worry, without toil or fear. This is the easy side of the Daoist way—what is meant by ‘ease within hardship.’

“What Confucians cultivate mostly follows existing institutions and precedents; advance and retreat, movement and rest, all have norms; speech and silence must watch the moment. There are many models to emulate, and in reading one can rely on commentaries to resolve doubts. This is the easy side of Confucianism.

“But to probe the profound and pursue distant principles, to unify and penetrate ancient texts, to be versed in the Hetu, Luoshu, and writings of many schools; to accumulate virtue in daily life and serve the ruler with loyalty and integrity; and also to look up at the heavens and down at wind and clouds, applying the mind to infer their patterns—to not know one thing may block action; one inexact word may blur praise and blame. Every gesture may become a model for the world, every utterance may spread through the realm. These are where the Confucian path is hard—what is meant by ‘difficulty within ease.’

“Weighing the two paths carefully, Confucian learning has many hard points, while Daoist cultivation is simple and comparatively easy. I fear the Confucian pursuit is too arduous and intend to leave it for the easier Daoist way. Mockers are everywhere; I have yet to meet anyone who understands my intent. If kindred spirits appear later, I do not think they will be very few.”

Some have said: “The renowned masters and learned Confucian scholars I have met are indeed everywhere; yet I have not found anyone with whom I can truly talk in full accord. Kindred spirits may appear in time, so I do not think such people are especially rare.”

Others have said: “The renowned masters and learned Confucian scholars I have met—many of them exhaust principle, probe human nature, and investigate what is subtle and the issues of being (you) and non-being (wu). Yet none of them say that human life can be lengthened, or that the way of immortals (xiandao) can be attained. Your wisdom is not brighter than the sun and moon, nor are your thoughts beyond the common run; yet you now set yourself up as one who holds the way of long life—I truly find it hard to believe.”

Baopozi said: I am only a person of ordinary endowment and limited ability, with shallow learning and narrow experience—how could I dare to think that I have outstanding, original insights and surpass others in every respect? I merely sought hidden principles in what is plain to see, and started from what is easy in order to reach what is harder to understand; I looked at small confirmations and inferred larger results, and when I saw what had already happened, I could also grasp what I had not yet tested for myself.

Some people in the world do not believe that immortals exist between heaven and earth, and they are unwilling to investigate seriously. They often rely on the sort of cleverness used in everyday affairs and on the ability to handle practical business, and after reading books on governing the world and supporting moral teaching, they use those standards to measure the simpler, more obvious parts of human affairs and to sort out ordinary, trivial doubts. Then they feel that in matters where everyone else hesitates, they alone can decide; that before any sign has appeared, they can already foresee it—as if they had exhausted the principles of all things and nothing deep or obscure lay beyond their insight. On that basis they declare that there are no immortals, that immortals simply cannot exist, and they hold to that belief without wavering.

I have often seen mediocre scholars, idle and unproductive, who like someone waiting by a tree stump for a rabbit to run into it, stubbornly refuse to believe what goes beyond common experience. The trouble is that though they have some intelligence, their outlook is narrow and their thinking cramped; they are held back by scraps of shallow opinion. They are not so dull that they cannot tell beans from wheat, yet they will not admit that there are things they cannot see through.

If you look through a tube, your field of view is naturally narrow; if you then confine your intelligence to what falls within that range, it is like lowering a one-zhang rope into a well a hundred ren deep, failing to notice that the rope is too short, and then saying there is no water in the well. Ordinary people sometimes hear a violent wind or a roaring fire and mistake it for winter thunder; they see clouds drifting west and think the moon is moving east. When someone tells them how things really are, they still cannot understand or believe—this is exactly what comes of trusting one’s own judgment too much.

Those who listen to sounds mostly trust their ears; those who look at shapes mostly trust their eyes. Yet what is heard or seen is not always true, which shows that ears and eyes cannot be fully relied on either. How much more so for what the mind reasons about—without form and without sound, harder to discern than what is seen or heard—yet there are those who, on the strength of their own ideas alone, decide that the most distant and abstruse matters in the world cannot possibly exist, and that immortals are mere invention. Is that not to deceive oneself?

Ge Hong (styled Baopuzi) said: Beauty and ugliness each have their standards, yet tastes differ, so some people simply cannot abide one another. Refined music and Zheng sound—the kind of music ancients often judged as overly sensual—each have their own character, but people do not all love the same sounds, so some refuse even to listen to what others enjoy. Truth and falsehood each have their reality, yet people choose in opposite ways, so some cannot truly talk things through together.

Some take the ugly for beautiful, turbidity for clarity, and loss for gain. Such views stand plainly opposed and are easy to tell apart, yet they never converge. How much more is this true of the affairs of immortals—matters subtle and profound: to expect everyone to believe is simply impossible. If all could grasp these points at once, what would make the person of penetrating insight so rare?

To wait until worldly people stop speaking falsely is like waiting for the Yellow River to run clear—who knows how long that would take? I cannot keep silent because I hope that those who can look upward toward the Dao and yet come down close to ordinary life may find guidance and real benefit. As for those who cling to their errors and will not change, the ancients long ago knew there was nothing to be done.

The Baopuzi says: The deepest principles have never been easy for people to grasp; that the affairs of immortals go unbelieved is nothing new—how could it be a problem of today alone? Those of the highest caliber are born able to comprehend the natural Way; those next in rank understand only after someone explains. As for those who burst out laughing as soon as they hear, they are everywhere.

When I speak of these matters, I fear I will invite much regret after failure, or fall into the fault of ill-chosen words. When a person has no peers to support him, those who would injure him appear. The fullest yang qi cannot make a withered tree flourish again; spirits cannot alter the nature of one sunk in vicious habits; Zigong (Confucius’s disciple, renowned for eloquence) could not please those who care only for stipends and horses; Duke Gugong (ancestor of the Zhou house) could not make the Rong and Di abandon their greed for land. There truly are times when the Way cannot be put into practice, and times when fine words cannot be carried out.

In antiquity, ceremonial zhangfu caps did not sell in the lands of Man and Yue; red ritual shoes did not fit barefoot Yi people—how could one force them to accept? Some see jade and call it stone—not because jade is not precious, but because only Bian He (who recognized the He-Shi bi) can know it for what it is. Some see a dragon and call it a snake—not because the dragon is not numinous, but because only Cai Mo (the Jin minister versed in dragons) can tell what it is.

The Dao is prized because nothing can be added to increase it and nothing taken away to diminish it. De is prized because one is not angered by slander and not gladdened by praise. They are firmly convinced that there are no immortals under heaven, while I alone hold that immortals truly exist, and I dispute with them. The longer the dispute, the more stubborn their conviction becomes; that only adds to the turmoil and does not make them understand. Perhaps one should indeed act in the spirit of the “connected rings”—and leave it at that.

Volume 7 of the Inner Chapters of the Baopu Zi ends here.

Volume 8 is titled “Explaining Difficulties” (Shi Zhi), meaning to resolve doubts and clear confusion.

Someone asked: “In human life there are many things to manage, and seeking immortality is extremely difficult. If one does not give up other affairs, it is hard to do both. Reading, writing, handling joy and sorrow, and the duties between ruler and minister—how can all of these be set aside?”

Baopu Zi replied: “The essentials of cultivation are not complicated, and what needs to be done is not numerous. What one fears is only that people lack firm resolve and sincere faith…”

Baopuzi replied: The essential teaching is not intricate, and what must be done is not many. The real concern is only that a person has not settled his resolve and that his faith is not firm—why worry that worldly affairs will obstruct cultivation of the Dao? Those with real capacity can manage both; where is the great difficulty? Within, they store the methods of nurturing life; without, they live in harmony with the world. They cultivate themselves so body and mind stay long at peace; they order the state so the realm is tranquil. With the Six Classics they instruct ordinary scholars; with technical methods they transmit to those of shared aspiration who can understand. If for a time they wish to remain among people, they assist the current order; if they wish to ascend, they rise into the sky—such persons are cultivators of the highest rank. Those who feel their talent and strength are not enough to manage both may set aside worldly affairs and devote themselves solely to cultivating virtue and De—they belong to the next rank.

In antiquity the Yellow Emperor bore the heavy burden of governing all under Heaven, yet that did not prevent him from later ascending at Dinghu. Peng Zu had ability and lived eight hundred years, then went west toward the region of the shifting sands. Laozi (styled Boyang) once served as archivist beneath the pillar; Ningfengzi was director of pottery; Fang Hui was ward officer; Lü Wang was grand tutor; Qiu Sheng served in the Yin court; Ma Dan held office in the state of Jin. Fan Li, after helping Yue dominate, drifted away in a small boat; Qin Gao served under Duke Kang of Song; Chang Sheng lowered his ambition to the role of whip-bearer; Duke Zhuang hid his talent and took a minor post. Most of the ancients could still set the age right after attaining the Dao; they cultivated in hidden ways while at court because they had surplus strength to do both.

Must one necessarily enter the mountains and forests and utterly ignore the people’s affairs before completion is possible? Of course there are also those who love quiet and silence by nature and dislike clamor; who take free ease as joy and regard high office as sorrow. They wear rough clothes, eat plants and grains, and hold a hoe—content with a simple life, keeping their place until life ends; they do not scheme for a shabby survival, nor fear an early death. They decline offers of a thousand in gold and do not set store by the dignity of minister or prime minister. Even without cultivating the Dao such people would live this way; how much less, once they know the way of immortals, would they wish to be driven by worldly affairs. Each person follows his own bent—it cannot be treated as one rule for all.

Ge Hong said that when people say a single helpful word is worth a thousand pieces of gold, they usually mean advice about the gains and losses of military and state affairs, or about the right and wrong of personal conduct. To speak the secrets of long life to others and to pass on the arts of immortality to them is something no ordinary “good word” can match—how could it be worth only a thousand gold?

Suppose someone is gravely ill and near death, and another person heals him and restores him to health: everyone would call that deep kindness and a great benefit. Yet according to what the Scriptures of Immortality (xianjing)—texts on cultivation for transcendence—teach, refining the “Nine Elixirs” (jiudan, the nine kinds of elixir spoken of in Daoism) and applying methods involving water, metal, and jade could keep all people under heaven from dying. Such a boon would far exceed the merit of saving a single life. The virtue of the Yellow Emperor and Laozi is boundless, yet no one truly recognizes it; instead their teachings are dismissed as wild talk—a fact that truly moves one to sigh.

Baopuzi states that those who seek the way of immortals must grasp the essentials. What matters most is cherishing essence and qi, practicing breath circulation (xingqi—regulating breath and moving qi), and taking one principal elixir pill; many pills are not required. Yet each of these three areas has shallow and deep levels; without a clear teacher’s guidance and diligent practice, it is hard to master them fully in a short time.

There are several methods of breath circulation; bedchamber arts (ancient methods of sexual union and health cultivation) number over a hundred, and medicinal formulas run to about a thousand. When a master first teaches, he always starts from what is easy; only when the student is resolute and does not slack off, and has practiced diligently, will the master reveal the crucial points.

Breath circulation is said to cure various illnesses, ward off epidemics, subdue snakes and tigers, stop bleeding from wounds, stay underwater or walk on water, resist hunger and thirst, and extend life. The most important secret is “fetal respiration” (taixi)—breathing as a fetus in the womb. Once fetal respiration is mastered, one can breathe without using nose or mouth, as if still in the womb; that counts as having attained the Dao.

When first learning breath circulation, inhale through the nose and hold the breath, then silently count to one hundred twenty in the mind before exhaling through the mouth. On inhaling and exhaling, one should not hear the breath enter or leave; the inhaled breath should be more and the exhaled less. Place a goose feather at the nose and mouth—if it does not move when you exhale, that meets the requirement. As practice becomes skilled, gradually increase the silent count; with long practice one can count to one thousand. Reaching one thousand is said to make the aged grow young again, as if becoming younger day by day.

Breath circulation should be done when “flourishing qi” (shengqi) is strong, and avoided when “declining qi” (siqi) is weak. Scriptures say immortals take the “six qi”—this refers to cultivating breath according to such timing.

The day and night are divided into twelve double-hours (shichen). The six from midnight to noon belong to “sheng qi” (generating, life-giving qi); the six from noon to midnight belong to “si qi” (declining, waning qi). Circulating qi during the period of si qi brings no benefit.

Daoists skilled in the use of qi are said to be able to blow breath toward water and make it flow backward for several steps; blow toward fire and extinguish it; blow toward tigers and wolves and make them crouch motionless; blow toward snakes and vipers and make them coil without slithering away. If someone is wounded by blade or spear, blowing on the wound stops the bleeding. It is said that if someone is poisoned by venomous insects, even without seeing the person, one can blow on one’s own hand from afar while intoning prayers: men blow on the left hand, women on the right. Even if that person is a hundred li away, recovery may come at once.

If one is struck by malign qi or suddenly falls ill, swallowing the “three-nine qi” (a specific method of ingesting breath—the exact procedure is not given here) may suffice. Yet most people’s temperament is impatient; few can settle the mind and practice this method steadily. The main point in circulating qi is not to eat too much, and to avoid raw vegetables and rich, fatty foods—otherwise the qi becomes too strong and hard to gather back in. One must also restrain anger: too much rage disrupts the qi so it cannot fill the body, and may even provoke coughing; for these reasons, those who truly manage it are not many.

My great-grandfather the Immortal Lord, whenever he was deeply drunk or on scorching summer days, would go under deep water and emerge only after about a day—because he could hold his breath and use fetal breathing (taixi, sustaining life through inner breath as a fetus in the womb).

The arts of the bedchamber (fangzhong shu, Daoist regimens linking sexual union with nurturing life) exist in more than ten lineages. Some aim to repair bodily harm, some to treat various illnesses, some teach gathering yin to bolster yang, others speak of extending years and prolonging life. Their crux is entirely the one matter of “returning essence to nourish the brain” (huanjing bunao, reabsorbing seminal essence to sustain the brain). This method was transmitted mouth to ear by perfected ones (zhenren); it was not originally written down. Even if one takes precious elixirs, without knowing this secret one cannot achieve long life.

One also cannot cut off yin-yang union entirely; if yin and yang qi do not interchange, blockage and stagnation result.

One cannot completely cut off the union of yin and yang between man and woman. If yin and yang remain unjoined for too long, Qi may stagnate and illness may arise. For this reason, those who live long in seclusion, brooding in resentment without a partner, often fall ill and do not live long. Yet to indulge without restraint also shortens life. Only by knowing moderation and restraint can one avoid harming the body.

Without cultivation methods passed down in oral formulas, almost no one can explore this path alone without injuring themselves. What figures such as Xuansu, Zidu, Rongcheng Gong, and Peng Zu transmitted was, for the most part, only a rough outline of such methods; the truly crucial secrets were not written on paper. Those who aspire to long life should diligently seek out and practice these methods. I received transmission from my master Master Zheng, and therefore record this for those who will follow this Way in the future—it is not idle speculation. Still, I have not yet fully mastered its essentials.

Some cultivators wish to devote themselves solely to the arts of sexual union in pursuit of immortality, yet neglect the great medicine of the golden elixir (jindan)—a deeply foolish course.

Baopuzi said: Of the scriptures in the Daoist canon that truly stem from the line of the Yellow Emperor and Laozi, there are probably only a few; most were gradually expanded by later enthusiasts from their own experience, until the volumes piled up like mountains. The ancients were plain-spoken and often not skilled at exhaustive exposition; when they discussed the principles of things they were seldom complete, and the evidence they cited was often unclear, with key points omitted so that readers could hardly understand. Even when understood, the text might still fail to unfold subtle doctrine, rouse the curious, encourage the resolute, or instruct beginners in the path of the mysterious Way and the real pattern of fortune and misfortune. One might recite them ten thousand times and still gain little.

Even when one wishes to read widely, one should carefully choose the better works and study them with single-minded attention. As for trivial scriptures, they are not worth the effort of investigation. Later generations with shallow learning sometimes cannot tell who the author was…

The depth of learning varies greatly. Even if one copies these works called “Daoist” until boxes and baskets overflow, and exhausts one’s mind studying them, it is like reaching into a swallow’s nest hoping to find a phoenix egg, or groping at the bottom of a well hoping to catch an eel. However much effort one spends, what one obtains is not what one truly seeks, and it may not be usable in actual cultivation; such wasted days only bring fatigue and hardship, with no real benefit.

People like this cannot manage the affairs of the present age when they step forward, nor achieve lasting service to a ruler when they withdraw; then others point at them and say, “He cultivates the Way so diligently, yet still cannot transcend the mundane world—clearly there is no method of eternal life in this world.” They do not understand that these people seek immortality the way one stands by a river envying fish but without a net; failing to catch fish does not mean there are no fish in the river.

The Five Thousand Characters (the Daodejing), though it comes from Laozi, only discusses principles in general terms and is comparatively brief. It does not explain the matter of cultivation from beginning to end, nor does it leave concrete methods one can follow and verify. Merely memorizing this classic in secret without obtaining the essential methods of cultivating the Way is ultimately wasted effort—and how much more so for those who have not even thoroughly read the text?

As for Wenzi, Zhuangzi, Keeper of the Pass Yin Xi, and others—their writings do honor Huang-Lao learning and take the way of mystery and emptiness as their standard, unfolding the broad meaning, yet they never set forth the secret of attaining immortality. Some of their statements even treat life and death as no different, calling life servitude and death rest—far removed from the way of immortals and not worth becoming absorbed in. Still, their fables and analogies have something to offer; they can meet minor needs and fill temporary gaps. The pity is that later generations of eloquent, crafty, flatterers with corrupt conduct took the learning of Laozi and Zhuangzi as a place to hide.

Someone asked: “When a sage ruler governs the realm, he treats the capable alone as precious talent. Those who study immortality refuse office and public service; if everyone cultivated the Way, who would assist in governing?”

Baopuzi replied: “Those who leave a sage ruler and dwell hidden in mountains and forests—that is why Chaofu and Xu You were called lofty and pure. Yet if one meets an enlightened ruler and still refuses to serve, that is indeed regrettable.”

Someone asked again: “When a sage ruler governs the realm, he treats the capable alone as precious talent. Those who study immortality refuse office and public service; if everyone cultivated the Way, who would assist in governing?”

Baopuzi says: Those who turn away from a sage ruler and hide in the mountains—Chao Fu and Xu You were therefore called lofty recluses; those who still withdraw from the world even when they meet an enlightened ruler—Zhuang Bo was therefore held in esteem. When the Yellow Emperor governed the realm, he could be said to have reached the highest Dao, yet Guangchengzi (the legendary hermit) would not assist him; when Tang Yao possessed the realm, it could be called an age of great peace, yet Wo Quan (a legendary immortal) also did not come forth to help. This did not harm their virtue and transformation, nor did it leave the realm short of capable people.

After Shang Tang (Tian Yi) replaced the Xia, Wuguang shouldered a stone and drowned himself in the river; after King Wu of Zhou (Ji Wu) destroyed Shang, Bo Yi and Shu Qi refused to eat Zhou grain and withdrew to Mount Shouyang. When Duke Huan of Qi rose to power, Shaoji still slept soundly on a high pillow in a humble lane; when Marquis Wen of Wei flourished, Duan Ganmu let his hair hang loose and hid himself in Xihe. The Four Hoary Ones of Mount Shang lived in seclusion in Shangluo, yet this did not prevent the Han from having abundant talent; Zhou Dang stood alone in the hills like a qilin, yet this did not harm Emperor Guangwu’s policy of lenient punishments and suspended penalties.

Such recluses were not shaken in mind by honor and high rank, nor did they change their aims because of extreme wealth. They washed hat and robe at the Canglang waters, refusing submission and refusing humiliation; they took fragrant groves as pavilions and lofty ridges as great halls, with orchids for a bed and green leaves for curtains; they wore coarse cloth instead of splendid robes and took wild greens and coarse grain as fine food. What they did not farm themselves they did not use to fill their bellies; what their wives did not weave themselves they did not use to cover their bodies. Over a thousand years, such people appear now and then—and all the more so when they cast off kin, ignored household, treated glory and wealth like discarded footprints, cut off the heart’s chase after desire, and climbed alone to high mountains, keeping company in famous peaks with only shadow and echo; inwardly viewing the formless realm, returning the ear to utmost silence. How many such people can there be in the realm? Yet you worry that the ruler has no ministers at his side—you fret excessively.

Some say: Those who seek immortality care only for self-cultivation and forget that human relations in the realm are out of order; they turn from the ruler of the world and seem unwilling to serve as subjects. I fear that in the end they will not succeed in long life and immortality, and will instead meet punishment and guilt.

Baopuzi replied: Recluses such as the Northern Man and the dwellers of the Stone Gate hold that those who seek immortality care only about keeping themselves pure and untainted, yet forget that social order falls into disorder; they turn away from the ruler of the world and appear unwilling to fulfill their duties as subjects. I worry that even if such people fail to achieve long life, they will still invite blame.

Baopuzi replied again: The Northern Man, the Stone Gate dweller, Shan Juan, and Zizhou were all persons of great talent, yet they chose to withdraw from the world, live freely and at ease, and guard their original authenticity. Their coming forward or stepping back did not diminish the world in the least, nor did changes in how the state was governed lack anything because of them. Moreover, those who seek immortality may not possess the talent to govern a state, nor may they be suited to serve at court; gaining them would add little to the realm, and letting them go would cause not the slightest loss.

Today the realm is unified under one rule; people from distant regions also come to hold office. There are many men of talent, yet not enough posts to employ them. Some scholars can only wait in line for appointment, with no vacancies in the ranks; those long in office sigh at slow promotion, and men of high merit must also wait for their chance. The court is rich in talent and rarely so flourishing— it truly does not lack any one person.

In the past, Prince Jin (Zhou Lingwang’s heir, Wang Zijin) resigned from serving his father and gave up the dignity of heir apparent, yet Zhou Lingwang did not for that reason condemn him as unfilial. Yin Sheng left office and abandoned the duty of guarding the ruler and repelling external threats, yet the Zhou did not for that reason judge him disloyal. Why? Because the ruler trusted that they did not despise the age or slight their lord— only that their inclinations differed from others; a person’s resolve, at times, truly cannot be changed.

A ruler who possesses the Dao is tolerant toward others, understands that hearts differ, and knows that each person has his own choices about advance and retreat; they do not force or forbid, but instead fulfill people’s aspirations. Thus the ruler harbors no suspicion or resentment in his heart, those who withdraw can find true peace, the good name of both sides can long endure, and even those who crave fame and profit will feel ashamed when they hear of it.

I have heard that when the warm southern wind rises, fur coats and braziers can be put away; when the age is at peace, extraordinary men withdraw from the world. After turmoil is settled, armies lay down their weapons, beacon fires go out, bows and arrows are stored away, and fine horses used in war will lose their use. Zhang Liang (Han founding strategist) left rank and returned among the people; Han Xin (Han founding general) doffed his armor and took up fishing. How much more so for those who seek immortality— perhaps one in ten thousand— why must the state keep them and not let them go?

The essentials of seeking immortality and cultivation lie in reducing thought and desire; what is pursued is preserving oneself and extending life. This is not the ugly business of scrambling for power and profit, nor does it harm the order of the world— where is the fault in it? Moreover, Mount Hua and Mount Huo stand lofty and vast, and the great sea stretches boundless: their height does not depend on flying dust to increase it, nor their depth on water pooled on the ground; a pinch of earth cannot make the mountains short, nor a ladle of water make the sea shallow. An age may have only a few immortals— how could that obstruct the lives of the multitude?

Some ask: If the path to becoming an immortal can truly be pursued, why is it not recorded in the Five Classics? Why did the Duke of Zhou and Confucius not advocate it? Why could sages not rise above the mundane world and live forever without dying? Why could even those of the highest wisdom not endure long? If the Duke of Zhou and Confucius did not know the path to immortality, they could not count as sages; if they knew it yet did not cultivate it, that would show the path to immortality does not exist. Others say: Even if the path to immortality can indeed be sought, the fact that the Duke of Zhou and Confucius did not promote it would not thereby diminish its vast significance; in any given age there are only a few immortals—how could that interfere with the multitude of worldly affairs that keep people busy?

Baopuzi replied: “When people are born, each corresponds to a different star lodge (xingxiu); I have already explained this in detail elsewhere. You are like someone who wears a basin on the head and looks up at the sky—you cannot see the light of the sun, moon, and five planets. Or like someone who merely peeks at a great river from the bank—how could you know what strange sights lie in the deep water?

“There is vastly more that the Five Classics do not record, and vastly more that the Duke of Zhou and Confucius never discussed. For now I will sketch for you an extremely small part of it. Even if you laugh without stopping and your stubborn mind cannot open for a time, you may still hear the general outline first.

“Heaven and earth are the greatest among the ten thousand things. The nine sages jointly compiled the Book of Changes (Yijing), enough to encompass the transformations of Yin and Yang—it seems nothing need be added. Yet ask those who understand the Yijing: What is the measure of the celestial body’s motion? How wide are the four seas? How far apart are heaven and earth from the cosmos, and how many li do those distances total? Where does the upper part of heaven end, and what does the lower part rest upon? When the celestial body turns, who pushes and pulls it? Do the sun and moon move fast or slow, and along what paths do they run? How do the lengths of day and night change? How do the seven stars of the Northern Dipper take turns holding the central position? When the five planets (wuxing)—Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water—move, when do they advance and when lag? How are we to explain halos and streamers around the sun and moon, solar and lunar eclipses, mutual encroachments among star lodges, the appearance of comets and broom stars, and portents such as strange weather and changes in the length of shadows?

“The celestial pivot at the pole seems unmoving, yet Jupiter alone moves eastward; Xihe sends out heat beyond heaven, while Wangshu (the moon) shines in the night sky with clear cold. Gazing at the River of Stars (Yinhe, the Milky Way), one can grasp how water’s nature is moist and flows downward. The tides of rivers and seas come and go, and their magnitude also varies. The five tones and six pitch standards can be used to discern joy and anger; shifting clouds and changing weather are likewise taken to hold omens of fortune and disaster. Chan, Qiang, You, Shi, Xunshi, Jiangyi, Sizhen, Wucan, Tiangou, Guixie, and the like are all abnormal celestial signs spoken of in ancient star divination—some taken to mean success in war, others to foretell defeat. Clearly, those who study the Yijing cannot necessarily explain these phenomena.

“Ask in turn those who study the Spring and Autumn Annals, the four categories of texts, and the classics of Poetry, Documents, Rites, and so on—they too cannot answer, and will only say such matters are not found in the orthodox records.”

People often say that these matters are not recorded in the orthodox classics, and that only the Qiyao Ji (records of the seven luminaries—sun, moon, and five planets) by Wu Xian, Gan Gong, Shi Shen, Hai Zhong, Xi Meng, and others describe them in relatively full detail. I would ask them: “Are the books of these six houses works of classical teaching?” They would answer: “No.” I would ask again: “Were Gan Gong, Shi Shen, and the like sages?” They would also answer: “No.”

Yet from the moment a person is born, they carry heaven on their head and stand upon the earth. If one searches for these things only in the Five Classics, one will not find them; if one looks in the writings of the Duke of Zhou and Confucius, there is nothing there either. Can one for that reason treat them all as empty fabrications? Heaven and earth are so vast that what the eye can see is still not wholly understood—how much more so for what is profound beyond profundity, refined to the utmost point?

I ask the people of the world again: Is it absolutely impossible in your view that there are those who ride upon clouds and whose realm has the seal as its birthplace; those whose liver and heart do not decay; those who dwell in nests upon trees or in caves in the earth; those with a single eye or three heads; those with the body of a horse and hooves of a dog; those with long arms and crossed thighs; the land of Huangchi where there are no men; those whose chest is pierced through and whose mouth is at the side; the story of Lord Lin using stone to launch a boat and crossing water in an earthen boat, and of Sha Yi touching wood and giving birth to a swarm of dragons; Nüwa emerging from the earth and Du Yu descending from heaven; bricks and tiles that fly and dogs that speak; mountains and hills that shift and altars of the soil-god that move; hosts of three armies all transforming in a single night; gentlemen turning into cranes and small men into sand?

Leaning on withered trees while bound in shackles; parasites shedding their shells and crawling in the flesh; two-headed serpents bent like bows; wood without ash and fire without heat; birds of Chang and Shu, beasts without eyes; heads without bodies and bodies without heads; Jingwei filling the sea; yielding to one another in turn; fire-washing cloth; knives that could slice jade; Yanmei spewing flame; grinding mud to strain out water; withered gu transforming their forms; mountain kui with heels facing forward; Shi Xiu with nine heads; Bifang with human faces; Shao Qian commanding Bo Shuai, Sheng Qing ordering Su Shuang; the Western Qiang rising by tiger-water, withered gu changing shape, mountain kui with reversed heels, Shi Xiu’s nine heads, Bifang’s human visage; Shao Qian driving Bo Shuai, Sheng Qing employing Su Shuang. The Western Qiang grew strong through tiger scenes; the Xianbei through riding turtles; Lin Yi took kingship through divine registers; Yong and Shu took emperors from floating corpses. The supervising spirit Ying descended, and insects flew up with him; the wide-eyed ones witnessed the changes of affairs in the Jing Mountains; the Five Stalwarts dragged the great serpent and shook towering ridges; Nei Shen spread wings within the three seas.

Golden slips and jade characters were unearthed beside Yu’s Well; the upright mechanism and balancing tools were cut from patterned stone. Such strange events number in the thousands—none recorded in the Five Classics, none discussed by the Duke of Zhou or Confucius. Can we therefore say they never existed at all?

As for southerners who could enter pillars and show an ear from inside the wood; Lie Yukou who could rest his elbow on water and draw a bow to shoot; the Bo clan who could climb ten thousand fathoms and stand on tiptoe to gaze afar; Lü Liang who could walk the depths of an abyss while singing; Duke Song who could disguise things with leaves so that true and false could not be told; Gongshu Ban who could make a wooden cock fly lightly; Li Zhu who could see the finest detail from a hundred paces; Gui Huo who could exert strength to bear ten thousand jun; men of Yue who could revive the dying with a needle; Shu Hai who could stride thousands of li in a single step; a man of Ying who could smear white ash on the tip of his nose so another could swing an axe to shave it without harm; Zhong Du who could bare his body in bitter cold—these are things neither the Duke of Zhou nor Confucius could do. Can we therefore say they did not exist?

If sages truly have things they cannot do, then failing to become an immortal is hardly surprising. Not attaining immortality does not keep someone from being a sage. That sages sometimes lack skill in certain matters is nothing to fault them for.

Sages may go along with the shifts of staying or leaving and trust what is natural; they have a body yet do not fix their hearts on self-interest; they live in the world yet do not scramble for a livelihood. Life and death are Heaven’s arrangement; how long one lives is a matter of fate. So it is not strange that they do not pursue the methods of immortality.

The Baopuzi states: The Dao embraces Heaven and Earth; in itself it originally has no name. If you call it empty and insubstantial, sound and shadow still count as something that exists; if you call it truly existent, the myriad things all seem negligible, as if they were not there. Li Shou, famed for reckoning, could not count how much of it there is; Li Zhu, famed for keen sight, could not make out its form. Wu Zha and Jin Ye strained their hearing to the utmost yet could not hear its voice in depths of darkness; the swiftest runners of antiquity could not, beyond the cosmos, pursue the traces of its manifestation.

Seen from nearby, the Dao pervades every finest hair and still has surplus; seen from afar, it fills the entire grand vacuity yet still cannot be exhausted. It is the sound upon which sounds rely, the echo upon which echoes rely, the form upon which forms rely, the shadow upon which shadows rely. What is square, obtaining the Dao, stays stable; what is round, obtaining the Dao, turns and moves; what should descend, obtaining the Dao, goes downward; what should rise, obtaining the Dao, goes upward.

To force the name “Dao” upon it is already to miss its true essence. How much more so when one further slices it into thousands and kinds, divides it into tens of thousands of parts, and attaches to it endless names—then one drifts ever farther from the Dao.

People in the world do not understand the Way of the Great Beginning—the root of all things—yet they exert themselves only on branches and side issues. If one can be quiet and at peace, unstained and unmoved by external things, nourish the inner self through lack of desire, and settle the spirit through purity and simplicity; sweep away seductive desires and gather the mind back to the right path; cease chasing unattainable wants, cast off what harms one’s nature, soften extreme joy and anger, and cut off the first shoots of love and hate—then without praying for good fortune, fortune will come; without performing disaster-averting rites, calamity will recede. Why? Because the root of fate lies in oneself, not in external things; the Dao too dwells in oneself—there is no need to seek it elsewhere.

Alas, ordinary people cannot hold to their true nature and have no rule by which to restrain themselves and check desire. Pulled by cravings, they give free rein and rush after them; once lost, they cannot turn back. Feelings are stirred by things and scatter outward; wit, once it meets affairs, spreads in every direction. When one is tempted by desire, the natural order is obscured; when one is confused by what one sees and hears, inner unity is altered. When the heart is ruled by luxury and pleasure, the spirit too grows turbid in turmoil and confusion—then come the disasters of collapse and ruin and misfortunes from which one cannot recover.

At that point, people only slaughter fat beasts, offer fine wine, beat drums and bells, sing and dance, kneel and kowtow, sit empty-handed waiting and praying, beg the spirits for blessing and hope their wishes will surely be granted—until death without understanding the principle. Is this not lamentable?

If the spirit is already trapped in vexation, the qi that sustains health is worn down by toil, body and essence are tormented, natural harmony is damaged, and work and rest lose their measure—then, when illness has gone deep and is hard to cure, they kowtow begging to preserve life and sacrifice and pray for recovery; or they catch wind and damp and thank the spirits for sin; or they eat and drink without measure yet blame ghosts and demons for the harm. Such a small body—they have brought these illnesses on themselves; how can Heaven, earth, and the spirits heal them? Slaughter whole herds of beasts—what can that repair?

Good fortune is not obtained by reverent, humble prayer; calamity is not removed by village sacrifices.

If human lifespan could be extended through repeated prayer and illness could be dispelled through lavish sacrifices, then the rich would surely live long lives and the powerful would never fall ill.

The divine do not accept offerings made to the wrong recipient, and ghosts and spirits do not partake of sacrifices that violate ritual propriety. In a humble lane, no one can make a splendid carriage halt; at a commoner’s gate, no team of six horses will be startled into stopping. Among human beings, the gap between high and low is already so wide; how much more so the gods, who are remote, pure, and of a different order from us, and whose loftiness reaches the utmost. From this it follows that rank wine and meat and the bowing and kowtowing of ordinary people are not enough to move the divine or bring them down among us.

Disloyalty and lack of filial piety are the gravest of wrongs. Even if one offered a thousand in gold and heaped sacrifices, one could not, before a ruler, buy a good name or win honor in the state by bribery—and still less could long life be purchased with reputation, or serious illness erased by sacrifice. Ghosts and spirits differ from humans, yet they only support the upright; to expect them to favor you in secret and shield you unjustly has no basis in reason.

Even a flawed ruler and a minister who can endure humiliation may still reward the good without taking bribes and punish the wicked without favoritism, acting always by law and showing no partiality. Ghosts and spirits are far more exalted than they, and will not be swayed by clever words or accept bribes of wealth. On this point there is no doubt.

King Ling of Chu personally acted as shaman and ritual specialist, offering many sacrificial animals at the rites, yet he could not stop Wu from sending troops against him. In the Han, Prince Jing of Guangling honored Li Xu and emptied his treasury, but still could not save himself from execution for rebellion. Emperor Wu of Han trusted in ghosts and spirits above all; his sacrifices were complete in ritual and lavish in display, yet he still could not keep the five blessings from leaving him, and in the end he died. Sun Quan revered Hua Xiang and enfeoffed him as a king, but that could not keep him from the end of his allotted span.

This was not because the offerings were insufficient or the jade and silk too scant, nor because sincerity or reverence were lacking. Sacrifice piled up like mountains yet brought no benefit at all—is it not because they placed their hope of blessing on distant ghosts and spirits, while neglecting the methods right before their eyes that can truly extend life?

The Fifth Duke exterminated heretical and false ways; afterward he lived long and rose to high rank. The magistrate of Lujiang in Song abolished mountain sacrifices, and fortune and rank lasted long. Wen Weng tore down shrines to water spirits; he himself was safe and the people were at peace. Emperor Wu of Wei forbade sacrifices outside ritual norms, and auspicious blessings arrived. These events of the past are worth remembering by later generations as a lesson.

When virtue is pure, Heaven responds of itself; when the heart is free of worry, one lives long; when one cherishes essence and does not squander it lightly, one is not easily cut short; when one is constantly beset by worry and hardship, one ages quickly. This is the natural order—what can external offerings do? If one nurtures the body wrongly and drains it without restraint, all kinds of illness will seize the opportunity; when blood and qi are exhausted and one does not know it, even heaping up rich offerings of oxen and sheep cannot save one.

What the world calls Daoist arts are mostly false and deceitful; the longer it goes on, the deeper the delusion. They cannot cure illness or awaken people from superstition; they do not seek medicine or acupuncture but endlessly perform prayers and sacrifices, never ceasing divination. Petty men among wu and zhu (those who lead sacrifice and prayer) randomly claim ghosts and spirits are at fault. When illness turns critical, the family will try anything they hear—whatever rite is suggested, they do it—and the cost cannot be counted.

Wealthy households exhaust their savings; the poor borrow at usury, sell fields and houses until they have nothing left, even pawning the tools used for divination. If the sick person happens to recover, they say the spirits have blessed them; if they die, they say the spirits would not forgive. Even those who survive by luck have already lost everything and later perish from cold and hunger. Some then turn to robbery or theft and may die by blade or arrow or suffer shameful punishment—all from this root.

Some pour the household’s wealth into sacrifice; grain and cloth fall into the hands of greedy, corrupt wizards. When death comes, they cannot afford a coffin or shroud; the body rots and worms breed—a grief hard to bear. Ignorant common people, deluded, reach this extreme.

Sacrifices outside ritual and demonic affairs are clearly forbidden by rites and law, yet ordinary people find it hard to wake up. Therefore only when rulers enforce the law more strictly—executing regardless of the severity of the offense—and when anyone who keeps gathering wu and zhu is punished severely and executed in public, will the wind of wu and sacrifice cease before long. This is no small kindness; it cuts off the root of hunger and cold for the people and keeps banditry from arising.

In former times there were people such as Zhang Jiao, Liu Gen, Wang Xin, and Li Shen. Some claimed they could live a thousand years; by petty tricks they said they could ascend to heaven while seated, rise instantly from the dead, or change their bodily form. With such devices they deluded the common people and gathered the foolish. They did not aim at prolonging life or dispelling illness as their proper work; instead they recruited wicked factions and colluded in rebellion. Some escaped the punishment they deserved; some harmed good and innocent people; some deceived and enticed the populace to grab wealth. The money they amassed piled like hills; their riches surpassed kings and dukes. They lived in extravagant indulgence—fine clothes and rare food, many wives and concubines at home, the sound of pipes and strings unceasing—and they kept assassins and men willing to die for them to do their bidding. Their intimidating power weighed down upon rulers; their authority towered over officials; fugitives also gathered under them for refuge. These calamities all arose because the authorities did not investigate and govern them. To trace the origin of the harm is truly cause for sighing.

We ordinary people may see the rights and wrongs in this, yet we are not in office and can do nothing. The magistrates who govern the people suspect these men of spiritual powers and fear that forbidding them will bring supernatural reprisals. Even when they harbor doubts inwardly, they cannot see the facts clearly—and besides, this is not the most pressing duty of their tenure. Moreover, their foolish wives and children believe firmly, and the petty attendants around them all say one must not act rashly; opponents are many, and in the first place there is no one who will truly remonstrate. The fearful speak with one voice, so the magistrate grows ever more uncertain until in the end no one dares to deal with the matter. This is truly infuriating.

I have myself seen several people I know well who utterly disbelieved in spirits, never prayed or offered sacrifice all their lives, yet lived long, held eminent rank, had flourishing descendants, and were both rich and honored. I too do not engage in such practices; I only sacrifice to ancestors at the four seasons. I have once traveled ten thousand li by land and water; along the road there were perhaps more than a hundred Daoist abbeys and temples, yet on the round trip I entered not one—and my carriage and horses did not overturn, nor did I meet storms when crossing water. When epidemics broke out repeatedly, I always recovered by medicine; many times I went in and out where arrows and stones flew, yet fortunately was not wounded. Therefore I understand all the more clearly that ghosts and spirits cannot sway such fortune and misfortune.

Besides, the various heterodox and delusive Daoist lineages number more than a hundred; most of them kill living beings and offer the flesh and blood of livestock to the gods. Only the Li-family Dao does not kill animals—it is somewhat better. Yet though they do not slaughter livestock, when they hold fushi (food offerings for rites of blessing or sacrifice) they show no restraint: they must buy ingredients in abundance and cannot avoid purchasing choice, fresh delicacies; sometimes dozens of men work the kitchen, and the expense is great. Thus they still cannot be called truly plain and frugal; they too should be listed among what ought to be prohibited.

Someone once asked when the Daoist arts of the Li lineage began. I replied: In the time of the Great August Emperor, there was a man in Shu named Li A who lived in a cave and did not eat. He appeared among people generation after generation, and they called him the “Lord of Eight Hundred Years.”

People often came to Li A with questions, but he would not answer in words; they judged fortune or misfortune only from his expression. If he looked pleased, matters went well; if his face showed sorrow, things turned unlucky. If he smiled, it foretold a great joy; if he sighed softly, it foretold deep trouble. Such signs never failed to come true. Later, one day Li A suddenly departed, and no one knew where he had gone.