《抱朴子内篇》Vol. 3

Earlier, that man suddenly left, and no one knew where he had gone. Later a man named Li Kuan came to the Wu region, yet he spoke with a Shu accent. He could use talismanic incantations to bless water and apply it to treat illness, and he did cure some people. Then people near and far came to trust him in droves, calling him “Li A,” and together they also called him “Li Eight Hundred”—though in fact he was not Li Eight Hundred. From high officials down, there was hardly anyone who did not gather at his door to seek an audience. Later he grew proud and lofty; ordinary people could no longer see him. Guests could only bow in ritual at the outer gate and then leave. His conduct was just that strange.

Those who joined Li Kuan as disciples to escape corvée labor often numbered close to a thousand. Disciples who were allowed into the hall, considered more advanced in study or earlier in entry, learned nothing beyond blessed water, the Three Sections talismans, and methods such as daoyin (guiding the body through movement and breath to nurture body and mind) and moving qi (xingqi) according to the cycles of sun and moon—yet they received none of the essential secrets for cultivating the body, ingesting spirit medicines, extending life and fixing one’s allotted span, or attaining long life without death. Swallowing qi and cutting off grain (using qi circulation in place of food) could be sustained for at most about a hundred days and could not be maintained longer. From this alone one can see how shallow his arts were.

Among people I know, many had met Li Kuan. They all said he was aged and worn, coughing and hiccuping when he moved, with dim eyes and deaf ears, teeth fallen out and hair turned white; later he gradually became confused and forgetful, sometimes unable even to recognize his own descendants—no different from an ordinary person. Yet the common people, to protect Li Kuan’s reputation, still invented stories claiming he was not like that, deceiving others. Could that be true?

The Wu region once suffered a severe epidemic; more than half the people died. The dwelling where Li Kuan served the Dao was called a lu (ritual cultivation hut). He too contracted the warm epidemic and, claiming he needed to enter the lu for purification and fasting, ultimately died inside it. The disciples who attended him still said he had transformed his form and achieved immortality through corpse liberation (shijie)—that he had not truly died.

What makes the methods of immortals different from ordinary people is precisely that not aging and not dying are held precious. Now that Li Kuan both aged and truly died, it is plainly evident that he had not attained the Dao—what room is there for doubt? If one says that by immortal law he ought to undergo shijie, why did he not first remain among humans for one or two hundred years, without decline in years and never dying, and only then depart?

It is not that there is no way of immortals under heaven; it is only that Li Kuan was not one who had attained it. I discuss this matter at such length because Li Kuan’s disciples, passing his arts from hand to hand, spread throughout the Jiangnan region, often numbering in the thousands. They do not perceive that Li Kuan’s methods are shallow and unworthy of following and practice, yet they hope by them to transcend the mundane world. Therefore I wish people today to see this clearly, wake up, and no longer be deluded.

There are many things in the world that look genuine but are not. Ge Hong says that he will now relate a few old stories so that people of later times may understand this kind of situation.

Long ago, a man in Runan set rope snares in his fields to catch muntjac. One snare had actually caught a muntjac, but he did not yet know it. A traveler saw this and quietly took the animal away. Feeling that simply stealing it was not quite right, he left in the snare a piece of dried fish he was carrying, and then went on his way. When the hunter returned and found dried fish in the snare, he thought it strange and took it to be a gift from a spirit; he did not dare take it home.

When people in the village heard of this, they jointly built a hall and shrine and called it “Lord Bao” (Bao Jun). Later, more and more people came to worship; the temple was adorned lavishly, and bells and drums sounded without cease. If someone fell ill and happened to recover, they would say Lord Bao had shown his power; travelers passing by also came to offer sacrifice. This went on for seven or eight years. Then the man who had owned the dried fish passed the temple, asked what it was all about, and said, “That was only my fish—where was there any spirit?” After that, people no longer worshipped there.

There is another case. In Nandun there was a man named Zhang Zhu who, while working in an open field, noticed a plum tree (the “Li” mentioned here means the plum tree). He asked how the tree had come to be there, and the people told him the whole story from beginning to end. The owner of the dried fish then said, “That was only my fish—where was there any spirit?” And the affair was settled.

A man named Zhang Zhu from Nandun was working in his fields when he found a plum seedling growing among the crops. Unwilling to leave it there, he decided to dig it up and plant it at home. He had only dug halfway when something called him away, so he wrapped the roots in damp earth and temporarily placed them inside a hollow mulberry tree—and then forgot about them. After that, Zhang Zhu took a post far from home and was absent for a long time.

Later, people in the area noticed that a plum tree had suddenly sprouted from the mulberry and took it for a numinous tree. A man whose eyes were sore rested in its shade and prayed to it, saying, “Lord Li” (as they called the tree), “if you heal my eyes, I will offer you a sheep in thanks.” His eyes happened to improve, and he slaughtered a sheep as a sacrifice. The story grew wilder as it spread, until people claimed the tree could even restore sight to the blind. Visitors came from near and far seeking blessings; horses and carts jammed the roads, and wine and meat piled up. This went on for several years. When Zhang Zhu returned home after leaving office and saw what was happening, he said, “This is the plum seedling I left here—where is the divinity?” He cut the tree down, and people stopped coming to worship.

The tomb of the Peng family in Runan stood beside a main road, with a stone figure at the entrance. An old farm woman bought a few flatbreads at the market; on her way home the heat was fierce, so she rested in the shade of the tree at the Peng tomb and for a moment set the bread on the stone figure’s head, then hurried off and forgot to take it back. Travelers who saw bread on the figure’s head found it odd and asked how it got there. Someone said the stone man was inhabited by a spirit and could cure illness, and that those who recovered brought bread as thanks. That explanation took hold. People said that for a headache you touched the stone man’s head, for a bellyache his belly, then touched the same place on your own body—and every ailment would improve. People came from a thousand li away to seek cures. At first they offered chickens and pigs; later they brought cattle and sheep, put up canopies over the figure, and music from pipes and strings never stopped. This continued for years.

When the old woman who had left the bread on the stone man’s head heard what was going on, she told everyone what had really happened. After that, no one came to worship anymore.

West of Luoyang stood an ancient tomb. After the burial chamber was breached, water pooled inside, and a good deal of lime had been piled there as well. Someone found that lime-infused water could treat sores, and the story was passed around for several years.

Later someone happened to hear of it and passed it on to others; after that, no one went to the tomb anymore to draw water.

West of Luoyang there was also another ancient tomb. When its chamber was damaged, water collected inside, along with a quantity of lime. In summer, some travelers who had developed sores, feeling hot and miserable, saw that the water in the tomb was clear and went in to bathe—and their sores happened to heal. When word spread, everyone with such ailments went to bathe; some even drank the tomb water, hoping to cure abdominal illness.

People living near the tomb built a shrine there and sold the tomb water. Buyers often made offerings in the shrine, with wine and meat laid out without interruption, and customers kept increasing. When the supply ran low, the sellers would secretly mix in water from elsewhere at night. Those who lived too far to come in person would send messages or containers with travelers to purchase it. The sellers grew very wealthy from the trade.

Later someone said there was no spirit in the shrine; the authorities forbade the practice, filled in the tomb, and the sale of water ceased entirely.

There was also the case of Governor Ma of Gu Xing. While he held office, a relative or friend came to him for help. Ma had the man stay outside his official residence and falsely claimed he was a divine immortal and Daoist who could cure illness at a single touch. Ma also sent eloquent agents everywhere to advertise that this Daoist could restore sight to the blind and make the lame walk at once.

People then flocked from all directions, crowding together like a market fair; money and cloth piled up in no time. Ma further instructed those who came for treatment: even if the illness had not improved, they must tell others they were already cured—then the sickness would surely get better. If they told others they were not yet cured, it would never improve afterward. This, he said, was the “Daoist method”; you must not fail to believe it. Later, patients asked one another; those who had been there always said they were cured, and no one dared say they were not. In less than ten days Ma had grown very rich from it.

Ordinary people are often clever in small matters and foolish in large ones: when they hear methods for extending life and never growing old, they take them all for absurd talk; yet they gladly believe in evil spirits and demons, letting others beat drums, dance, pray, and offer sacrifices. So-called divine immortals are mostly deceivers like Governor Ma. I record these few cases to warn those who have not yet woken up.

Someone asked: Some people in the world know nothing of Daoist arts and techniques, yet live in peace to a ripe old age—why is that?

Ge Hong said that among the people mentioned earlier, some had accumulated hidden merit through secret good deeds and thus received blessings; some were naturally long-lived, so they did not age easily and died relatively late; and some were simply lucky—they did not encounter disaster or harm. This is like a place a hunter has passed through: occasionally some birds and beasts still escape the net; after a great fire, sometimes grass and trees remain unburned.

If you wish to protect yourself and avoid harm, you should practice methods for guarding the body and warding off injury, and wear astronomical talismans and ritual swords (Daoist talismans and consecrated swords used for protection and repelling evil). Sacrifice and prayer cannot solve the problem; you should rely on not being harmed yourself, rather than count on ghosts and spirits not harming you.

However, Si Xuan Zhi Yi and Han Jing Huan Shen—the contemplative and inner-cultivation methods of guarding the spirit and enveloping the body in protective visualization—can drive off evil and avoid ill omens, but they cannot extend lifespan or remove bodily illness. Those who follow nature and do not employ arts (fangshu) may still not fail to live out their allotted years; yet if violent ghostly beings inflict harm, or a great epidemic spreads, there is no way to resist.

Storing armor and helmets, keeping rain capes and bamboo hats on hand, is for facing war and rainy weather. If by chance there is no fighting and the sky does not turn rainy, then whether you prepared or not seems to make no difference. But once arrows and stones fly like mist and blades cross in battle, you see how desperate the naked and unprotected person is; when torrential rain pours or snow fills the sky, you understand how hard it is for someone standing on the road. One must not, because of small things like shepherd’s purse or water caltrop—trivial and minor—doubt the vast power contained in the cycles of Heaven and Earth and Yin-Yang, and thereby mislead later students and those who have not yet penetrated the matter, declaring that the arts are utterly useless.

Volume 9 of the Baopuzi Neipian is complete.

The following collation notes record textual differences and supplementary readings between the received text and Wang Ming’s critical edition (items 1–11; items 8–10 are repeated).

Volume 10 of the Baopuzi Neipian (Ming edition)

Someone asked: Between the Confucian and Daoist traditions, which arose earlier?

Baopuzi replied: “The Dao is the root of Confucian learning, while Confucianism is the offshoot of the Dao. Schools such as yin-yang lore and numerology impose many taboos, binding people in fear and constraint; Confucian teaching is vast in scope yet rarely hits what matters most, consuming effort with little to show for it; Mohism advocates frugality but is hard to live by and cannot be applied everywhere; Legalism is severe and short on kindness, easily harming benevolence and righteousness.

“Only the teaching of the Daoist tradition can unify one’s spirit and align action with formless patterns. It takes what is best in Confucian and Mohist thought, gathers the essentials of names and penal standards, adapts as times change, and responds as things shift. Its aim is plain and easy to grasp; what it asks people to do is little, yet the results are great. It works to preserve the simple root of the great Dao and to hold fast to the source of what is true and right.

“Ban Gu held that Sima Qian was wrong to place Huang-Lao learning before the Six Classics in the Records of the Grand Historian. Yet Sima Qian’s learning was broad; he could investigate what is hidden and subtle, distinguish good from bad in things, and verify the crooked and straight in the ancients. His judgments take the way of nature as their foundation, and his praise and blame both follow ultimate principle: he does not flatter or beautify in empty words, nor does he cover up faults; he does not echo the crowd to please the age. Liu Xiang was a man of wide and penetrating learning in his time and called the Records a faithful record—so Ban Gu’s verdict cannot lightly be taken as the final word. Ban Gu was indeed a thorough Confucian, but he had not deeply grasped the import of the Dao; clinging to the learning he knew well, he could hardly judge fairly.

“Is the Dao merely a craft of nurturing life? The Book of Changes says: To establish Heaven’s way lies in yin and yang; to establish Earth’s way lies in softness and firmness; to establish the human way lies in benevolence and righteousness. It also says: The Changes embodies the sage’s four ways; if the person is not fit, the way will not act of itself. When the realm is well governed and at peace, it is called ‘having the Dao’; when the state is in turmoil and the ruler loses the way, it is called ‘lacking the Dao.’ The ancients also said that those who sit and discourse on the Dao are called the Three Ducal Ministers—which again shows that the way of ordering the state is no idle talk.”

Some people sit and discuss the Way and are called "Three Dukes" (the highest offices of antiquity). In well-governed states, the poor and lowly feel ashamed of such a title. What people call the Dao extends from heaven and earth, yin and yang, down to the myriad things—nothing is not derived from the Dao. Yet the Yellow Emperor and Laozi grasped the root; Confucianism and Mohism tended the branches.

Those now acclaimed as "persons of the Way" are mostly well versed in past and present, able to observe heaven, earth, and the myriad things, to penetrate the subtlest changes, and to understand the patterns of a state's rise and fall and the keys to success and failure in governance—without doubt in their minds and able to answer whatever is asked. Must such people necessarily practice methods of longevity and look up to immortals like Chisongzi and Wangziqiao?

Narrow-minded scholars judge on guesswork alone. When they hear of someone dwelling in the mountains and forests, carrying on Laozi's teaching, they slander and mock: "That is mere side-path, not worth mentioning." Alas, this is like someone shut in a small room who lights the room only with fireflies and never sees the brilliance of daylight; or like someone who keeps company with small fish and shrimp in shallow water and does not know how vast the four seas are. They value the depth of rivers and streams yet do not know that rivers and streams rise from Kunlun; they cherish the harvest of millet and panicled millet yet do not perceive that crops grow because the soil is fertile.

Some today know only to exalt Confucian learning and do not know that the root on which Confucianism was established is the Dao. The so-called Dao can refine and shape the teachings of the hundred schools, form heaven and earth, give birth to the myriad things, and also establish human order.

The shallow and near-sighted are many in the world; those of deep and far-reaching insight are few. The few cannot overcome the many—this has long been so. Thus Sima Qian, though his writings were vast, won little praise; Ban Gu, though less talented in prose than Sima Qian, was seldom blamed. Things often seem precious because they are rare and cheap because they are common—is it not the same in human affairs? Wild fields are full of common greens, yet lingzhi is hard to find; brambles cover the open land, yet the tall xun tree appears only now and then; sand and gravel are countless, yet pearls and fine jade are scarce; wild geese and hawks fly in flocks, yet the luan and phoenix are seldom seen; poisonous snakes and lizards fill the marshes, yet the dragon appears but rarely. That Ban Gu had many supporters was only to be expected.

The Dao can be used to cultivate the self and also to govern the state.

Venomous snakes and lizards fill the marshes and meadows, yet the coiled dragon of legend is rarely seen; ordinary creatures gathering in flocks and bands has always been the way of things.

The Dao, turned inward, can cultivate the self; turned outward, it can govern the realm. It keeps the seven luminaries (sun, moon, and the five planetary stars) in proper motion and Yin and Yang in harmony; the four seasons neither miss their rhythm nor bring wind and rain as calamities that harm the ten thousand things. The jade candle (the image of Yin and Yang in accord and the four seasons in order) shows signs of great peace, and clear sweet dew (chenli) reveals the deep auspicious virtue of moral transformation. Violent winds, rainbows, and other portents of disaster no longer appear; the shangyang bird that foretells rain folds its wings; sunlight shines bright; auspicious grain ripens in abundance; pestilence does not spread; chaos does not arise; city walls and moats need not be built, and weapons of war need not be used.

Without deliberation, affairs are handled well; without covenants, people keep faith with one another; without alliances, relations hold firm; without scheming, things get done. Without rewards, people are still encouraged; without punishments, order remains strict; without seeking, one obtains; without prohibitions, things cease of themselves. Those in high place are not felt as a burden; those who go ahead are not felt as a source of calamity. Before orders are issued, the prevailing tone has already changed; before policies are enforced, customs have already improved. This is roughly how the world is governed through the Dao.

Thus when the Dao flourishes, the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors (the legendary sage rulers of antiquity) could govern with robes hanging loose and hands folded, and still have more than enough capacity to rule. When the Dao declines, the lords of a decadent age rush about with governance and still fall short. Precisely because governance has surplus, Wuwei (non-action) prevails and teaching becomes good; precisely because governance falls short, punishments grow harsh and wickedness increases. The people below resent, and the spirits above grow angry.

Then floods overflow; sometimes the sun blazes for long stretches and the land bakes dry; sometimes valleys and landforms shift; sometimes thunder rolls in winter and snow falls in summer; sometimes battlefields run red with blood and corpses pile like hills; sometimes tens of thousands of surrendered soldiers are slaughtered in pits; people even break bones for food and exchange children to eat. The higher the walls, the cleverer the siege engines; the deeper the moats, the more refined the scaling ladders. The stricter the laws, the more thieves multiply; the more frequent the treaties, the worse the rebellions. It is like wind and waves rising and fish and turtles in the deep waters stirring together; the tighter the nets are woven, the more birds in the marshes panic; the more wolves and jackals, the more game in the forest flees; the fiercer the hearth fire, the more easily the small fish in the pot are boiled tender.

Ruler and minister exchanged places; father and son turned blades on each other. Only then were loyalty and righteousness honored in states on the brink of ruin, and the name of the filial son praised in households already fallen. When pestilence rises, shamans and healers gain importance; when morality collapses, Confucian and Mohist teachings seem indispensable.

From this it can be established which came first, Confucianism or Daoism.

Someone asked: “In antiquity, true persons such as Chisongzi, Wang Qiao, Qin Gao, Laozi, Peng Zu, and Wucheng and Yuhua all held office in the world and did not hurry to leave the dust of the world and withdraw into seclusion. Yet from the middle antiquity onward, those who cultivated the Way have without exception drifted away from the world and hidden themselves in deep mountains and remote places—why is this?”

The reply: “The Way of the true person is to be at ease in the world and at ease in withdrawal; to be at ease in action and at ease in non-action (Wuwei). In antiquity, the Way was not yet hidden from the world, so the true person could be at ease in the world. From the middle antiquity onward, the Way was no longer manifest in the world, so the true person could only be at ease in withdrawal. This is not that the true person changed his mind, but that the times changed.”

Someone asked again: “Then why did Laozi leave the Zhou and go west?”

The reply: “When the Zhou was about to decline, Laozi knew it and left. This was not that Laozi could not be at ease in the world, but that the world could no longer accommodate Laozi. If the world could have accommodated Laozi, Laozi would have remained in the world like the other true persons of antiquity.”

Someone asked again: “Then why did Zhuangzi refuse the offer of the prime ministership of Chu?”

The reply: “Zhuangzi knew that the prime ministership of Chu could not preserve his body and life, so he refused. This was not that Zhuangzi could not be at ease in action, but that that office could not accommodate Zhuangzi’s body and life. If the office could have preserved Zhuangzi’s body and life, Zhuangzi would have accepted it like the other true persons of antiquity who held office.”

Thus the true person’s being at ease in the world or in withdrawal, in action or in non-action, all depends on whether the times and circumstances can accommodate him—not on any fixed preference of his own.

Baopuzi replied: In remote antiquity the customs of the people were simple and honest, and craftiness and hypocrisy had not yet arisen. Those who trusted in the Great Dao applied themselves diligently to cultivation; those who did not believe simply kept silent and let the matter rest. They did not put slander into words, nor did they harbor thoughts of injuring others in their hearts. For this reason, realized persons (zhenren, those who had attained the Dao) could live at ease among the crowd, without feeling compelled to hurry away from the dusty world and ascend as immortals.

In later ages customs grew shallow, ornament and falsehood deepened, the teaching of quiet simplicity and detachment declined, and perverse worldly people multiplied. They neither believed in the Dao nor refrained from mockery and abuse, calling genuine Daoist arts delusion and treating talk of immortals and transcendents as absurd—some saying it misled the common people, others that it disturbed society. Persons of cultivation therefore felt ashamed to remain in such an environment.

The ancients who understood affairs were skilled at guarding against trouble before it arose; as soon as they sensed that conditions were wrong, they withdrew in good time—not waiting for dawn, nor delaying a single day. Confucius, hearing that Zhao Jianzi had killed the worthy man Ming Di, turned his carriage around and left; Mu Sheng, when King Yuan of Chu no longer set out sweet wine for him (a sign of honor and welcome), departed at once; Hua Yuan, seeing his own side weak in numbers, also withdrew. How much more so for the wise, whose aims and work differ from the vulgar world—what is there worth clinging to, that they must stay?

When a pool dries up and fishermen cast their nets, dragons will not linger; when a nest is overturned and the eggs taken, the phoenix will not alight. Where the house is noisy with dispute, soaring gulls will not descend; when spring grasses are cut down, lingzhi fungus and the auspicious plant mingjia will not grow. When the world hates the right path, contempt and insult follow close behind. How can persons of the Dao fail to spread their wings above wind and cloud, then vanish from sight and hide in remote stillness?

Mountains and forests are not the Dao in themselves, yet those who cultivate the Dao often enter them because they wish to leave the world’s filth and draw near to purity. Those who enter the nine-chambered rooms (used for quiet cultivation) to fix their thoughts and, through visualization of the True One (Zhenyi, the primordial deity contemplated in Daoist mental cultivation), summon the spirits, dislike clamor and will not mix with defilement. Those who compound the great medicine of the Golden Elixir (jindan) or refine the flying essences of the eight minerals (bas shi feijing, mineral substances used in external alchemy) are especially wary of foolish chatterers and the prying eyes of worldly people; otherwise divine response will not descend and the immortal medicine will not be achieved. These taboos are no small matter.

Those who cultivate in hiding while still living in the human world may be slandered by persons of shallow understanding, or even condemned by officials; they may also be entangled by visits from kin and friends, or drawn into weddings, funerals, and ceremonies of congratulation and condolence. Rather than this, it is better to withdraw entirely into seclusion and be free of such vexations. Those who walk alone beyond the common track and find ease among the peaks of Mount Song surely have their reasons for acting so.

Some say: “Superior persons may attain the Dao in a military camp, middling persons in a city, and inferior persons only in mountains and forests.” This refers to people whose immortal medicine is already complete but who have not yet ascended: even in an army, blades cannot harm them; even in a city, human misfortune cannot touch them. Inferior cultivators have not reached this level, so they can only remain in the mountains. One must not infer from this that superior persons, when they first begin cultivation, ought to practice and attain the Dao in camps or cities. If that were so, the Yellow Emperor and Laozi could have stayed forever among human beings with no need to leave.

Those who truly understand virtue would not imagine that someone just beginning to learn the Way could achieve anything only by staying in military camps or bustling cities. If that were so, the teachings of the Yellow Emperor and Laozi could never have been handed down to the present day.

Someone asked: “You have already said that the Dao is the root and Confucianism is the branch. What exactly are the differences between the Daoist and Confucian paths?”

Baopuzi replied: What Confucianism devotes itself to is ritual and norm—etiquette of rank and deference, bowing and rising, elaborate and exhaustive ceremony; it also includes strategy for advance and retreat, the ethos of slighting oneself and honoring righteousness, music in joy and grief, and methods for ordering the world and transforming custom. Daoism, by contrast, teaches letting go of attachment to outer things and washing away a heart bent on clever scheming; forgetting wealth and ease, not relying on praise or punishment, not fretting in hardship nor preening in success, not grieving when slandered nor rejoicing when praised.

Confucian sacrifice seeks blessing; Daoism practices the correct Way to dispel what is heterodox and harmful. Confucianism values power and profit; Daoism treasures being without desire. Confucianism hurries after fame and gain; Daoism holds to the One—the fundamental body of the Way—and devotes itself to cultivating the person. Confucianism stresses studying documents, institutions, and affairs; Daoism practices precepts that release desire and restrain body and mind.

The root of the Dao is wuwei (non-action), yet it is adept at self-cultivation and thereby completing its work; dwelling in the world, adept at choosing what others do not contend over; handling affairs, adept at removing trouble before calamity arises; giving to the ten thousand things, adept at relieving need without claiming merit; in movement, adept at reading the people’s condition to apply one’s heart; in stillness, adept at guarding caution without gloom or vexation. For this reason Daoism is regarded as the sovereign of the schools and the source of benevolence and righteousness. The contrast between Ru and Dao is roughly so; from beginning to end, from high to low, this fundamental difference has not shifted.

Some say: “Confucians take the Duke of Zhou and Confucius as their masters, and the texts they rely on are the Six Classics. The Six Classics are the root of governing the world and upholding the right Way, and the standard for establishing oneself and acting in the world. Confucian teaching runs deep and its achievements are precious; what it treats as great matters is weighty, and its words are fine—it is a system that state and family ought not lightly change. Those who cultivate the Way, by contrast, do not practice ritual teaching, disregard human relations and moral norms, keep company with foxes and badgers, and live in wild grass and marshes; they companion apes and monkeys and dwell among forests and hills. They stand apart in lofty isolation, drift without fixed home, and neighbor with grass, trees, rocks, and mountains. That is like heading east yet losing the road, forgetting how sweet mallow greens taste.”

Baopuzi replied: “Piling up ornate phrasing and chasing polished, pretty words is not what a plain, upright person values; opening the eyes of the benighted and lifting confusion is what I have always been glad to do. I truly do not wish to argue with you again over which principles are better or worse, nor to match wits in verbal fencing over gain and loss. You say that those who cultivate the Way neighbor with grass, trees, rocks, and mountains—as if lost on the road and forgetting the sweetness of mallow—”

Baopuzi replied: Polishing rhetoric and chasing ornament are not what a plain, straightforward person values; dispelling obscurity and lifting confusion are what I have always been willing to do. I truly do not wish to argue further with you over right and wrong in the principles of the ten thousand things, nor to score points in verbal fencing. Yet when one sees a child about to fall into a well, is that not the compassion a humane person would feel? When one sees a blind person about to walk into a pillar, should one not warn them out of universal care for all alike? So I will set out my view once more, only roughly sketching one side of the matter.

Those who take the Dao as the frame for all things, treasure De, and seek long life are the Yellow Emperor and Laozi. The Yellow Emperor governed the realm until the age was at peace, then ascended and became an immortal; one cannot say he fell short of Yao and Shun. Laozi mastered ritual teaching and could preserve life for long ages; one cannot say he was inferior to the Duke of Zhou or Confucius. Confucius once sighed that he wished he could compare himself to Laozi, and never spoke to belittle him. Yet later mediocre people who do not understand the gateway of Daoist learning, while studying Confucianism and Mohism, slander the Daoist school—as if being descendants yet reviling their own ancestors. Not knowing where their own thought comes from is going much too far.

A dwarf’s arms cannot shake Mount Song or Mount Hua; the legs of Jiao Yao (the legendary tiny people) cannot measure the great sea. One often sees shallow, hidebound Confucian scholars who bury themselves in what they already know and do not grasp vast principle; stubborn and dull, they still dress up harsh words and falsely accuse and cross-examine Daoism. When they touch the Dao’s surface skin, it is like catching a glimpse of a fine horse flashing past; once they reach deep spiritual doctrine, they sink in it and lose themselves. It is like the quail flapping short wings, trying to ride the waves of Lord Yang Hou’s billows; or like a fly, with a feeble body, trying to climb heights even apes struggle to scale—only to tire out at once.

They crampedly cling to narrow views; their ears hear nothing far, their eyes see nothing distant, yet they want to stand on tiptoe and wrap up sun, moon, and stars, or puff out their bellies and liken themselves to thunder’s might—is that not deeply benighted? Only from the high observatory of the celestial armillary (Xuanji) does one know how low a well’s mouth is; only when the bright sun hangs in the sky does one see how small a tiny bird is.

I was not born understanding these principles, nor did I believe them from youth. At first I was as confused as anyone; only after I came to see the vastness and depth of the mysterious Dao did I regret not having freed myself from doubt sooner. When I studied the Five Classics, I learned how narrow a well-bottom can be; when I looked up at the sunlight in the sky, I realized how shallow my former views had been, and understood that even what the wren holds dear counts for little by comparison.

The Five Classics have commentaries and explanations written in plain language, yet beginners may still fail to grasp them. How much more so the scriptures of immortals recorded on golden slips and jade tablets—where the most essential points are often left unwritten. To transmit such teachings, one must ascend the altar and seal the covenant with blood before the oral formulas are passed on. If the recipient is not the right person, neither fief nor city, nor heaps of gold and jade, will make the formulas easy to reveal. The aim of the Dao runs deep; even with the book in hand, without a master’s direct transmission you remain as one who looks up and cannot see the zenith of heaven, or looks down and cannot find the soles of your feet—how then could you fully understand?

Those who attain the Dao and become immortals—some ascend to Taiqing (the high heaven of Daoism), some soar in the purple clouds of Zixiao, some journey to Xuanzhou (a fabled immortal realm), some dwell in numinous places, listening to the music of Juntian (heavenly harmony) and partaking of food made from the nine kinds of lingzhi. When they travel abroad, they may walk with Song Xian beyond daojing (where reflected sunlight hangs inverted); when they return, they feast with Changyang in jade chambers. Would such beings willingly keep company with foxes and badgers, or herd with apes and monkeys? To treat what you do not know as if you knew it is precisely what is meant by “acting without knowing.”

What is called the Dao is to wander at ease between rainbow and cloud, to soar upon the cinnabar empyrean, to roam the six directions of heaven and earth, and to go wherever the heart wishes. Even to drift alone is not truly sorrow. Domestic animals may crowd together and wear splendid markings, yet for joy how could they compare with the lone noble unicorn roaming free, or the auspicious Jiguang (a legendary blessed beast) that leaves its mate and thereby gains greater fortune?

The tenth volume of the Baopuzi Neipian (Inner Chapters) ends here.

The eleventh volume is titled Xianyao (Immortal Medicines).

The Shennong Sijing (Four Classics of Shennong) states that superior medicinals can keep the body safe and extend life, even raise one to the rank of celestial being, moving freely between Heaven and Earth, commanding various spirits; feathers grow on the body, and desired food and drink arrive at once. The text also says the Five Lingzhi (five kinds of ganoderma-class immortal drugs), as well as cinnabar, jade splinters, azurite, realgar, orpiment, mica, and Taiyi yuyuliang, may each be taken alone; after taking them one can fly and attain long life.

It further says that middling medicinals can nourish body and mind, and inferior ones can treat illness; these drugs also keep poisonous insects from attacking, fierce beasts from harming, and malign qi from entering, while all kinds of evil spirits are driven away. The Xiaojing Yuanshenqi also says that Sichuan pepper and ginger can ward off damp qi, calamus aids clarity of mind, juzi (sesame) can extend years, and weixi (a Daoist object said to avert arms) can avoid military disaster. These are all weighty words of the ancient sages and true records of the methods; the writing is plain and evident, yet people still refuse to believe— truly lamentable.

Among immortal drugs, cinnabar ranks first, followed by gold, silver, various lingzhi, the Five Jades, mica, luminous pearls, realgar, Taiyi yuyuliang, yellow essence from stone, stone cassia, quartz, stone brain, sulfur, stone, azurite; further back come pine and cypress resin, fuling (poria), rehmannia root, ophiopogon, wood juzi, Paris polyphylla, coptis, pyrrosia leaf, paper mulberry fruit, and xiangchai. Xiangchai is also called chunlu, or Immortal’s Staff, Queen Mother of the West’s Staff, tianjing, que lao, digu, or gouqi. Tianmen dong (asparagus) also has the aliases dimendong, yanmendong, dianji, yinyangshi, guansong, and others. That which grows on high ground, with short roots, sweet taste and fragrant qi, is also called digu or gouqi.

Asparagus root (tianmendong) is also known as dimendong, yanmendong, dianji, yinyangshi, or guansong. Plants growing on high ground have short roots, a sweet taste, and a fragrant aroma, and are considered superior in quality. Those growing in low, waterside places have finer, slightly yellow leaves, long roots, a bitter taste, and an unpleasant smell; they are inferior but can still be taken internally. However, they tend to make one pass gas, and their tonifying effect comes on more slowly.

After a hundred days of use, it is said to strengthen the body, with effects said to come faster than atractylodes (zhu) or Solomon’s seal (huangjing). When entering the mountains, you can steam it; if you boil and eat it, eating enough can support grain abstinence (bigu). When conditions allow, it may be taken directly, made into powder, or juiced and fermented into wine; taking it together with powdered preparations is said to work even better.

People in the Chu region call asparagus root “baibu,” but there is another plant that is true baibu (Stemona root): its root has many rhizomes and looks similar, though the young shoots differ slightly. True baibu shoots resemble boji; it is only used to treat cough and kill lice, not for internal cultivation—do not confuse the two. Some also call huangjing “baiji,” but it is not the baiji (Bletilla) that can be made into a paste. Many herbs share names with other plants; you must distinguish them carefully.

Huangjing is also called tutu, jiuqiong, or chuizhu. For internal use, the flower is said to surpass the fruit, and the fruit surpasses the root—but flowers are hard to gather in quantity. Ten hu of fresh flowers, dried, yield only about five or six dou. Take three he per day; without many hands to harvest, it is hard to stock enough. Only after about ten years of taking huangjing might one see clear benefit.

Both huangjing and atractylodes can help one abstain from grain, though less effectively than atractylodes alone. Muer (tree-derived famine food) can make one stout and strong, suited to carrying loads and walking dangerous paths; but it is not as sweet and palatable as huangjing. In lean years it can serve the old and young as a substitute for grain, and people often mistake it for rice cake.

The so-called "Five Types of Lingzhi" are divided into stone lingzhi, wood lingzhi, grass lingzhi, flesh lingzhi, and fungal lingzhi, with each category containing over a hundred varieties.

Among stone lingzhi, there is one called "Stone Elephant Lingzhi," which grows on rocky piles along the shores of famous mountains and islands in the sea. It attaches to large stones, taking the shape of an animal with head, tail, and four legs, appearing very much like a living creature. It typically grows in steep and perilous locations, sometimes hanging upside down. It comes in different colors: red like coral, white like sliced fat, black like lacquer, green like kingfisher feathers, yellow like purple gold—all crystal clear and transparent, like solid ice. On dark nights, its glow can be seen from three hundred paces away. Large specimens weigh over ten jin, while small ones weigh three or four jin. Only those who have long observed fasting, whose minds are sincere and focused, and who wear the Five Talismans of Laozi's Mountain Scripture can see this type of lingzhi.

Whenever one sees a lingzhi, one should first place the Mountain-Opening Obstacle-Removal Talisman (said to make mountain obstacles retreat) upon it, and it will no longer hide or transform and disappear. Then one selects an auspicious day, sets up a zhaijiao (purification ritual), and offers wine and dried meat in prayer before going to collect it. When picking, one must face the direction of the sun, perform Yu's Steps (a Daoist ritual walking pattern), and proceed while holding one's breath.

If one obtains Stone Elephant Lingzhi, pound it thirty-six thousand times, then take one square-inch spoonful (an ancient small measuring spoon) three times daily. After consuming one jin, it is said one can live a thousand years; after ten jin, ten thousand years. It can also be shared with others. Another type is Jade Fat Lingzhi, which grows in jade mountains, often on cliff edges. When jade essence flows out and congeals into lingzhi after more than ten thousand years, it takes the shape of birds and beasts in indeterminate colors, mostly resembling dark mountain jade or bluish-black water jade, crystal clear like glass. After obtaining it, grind it into powder and mix with the juice of the Heartless Herb; it will soon transform into water. Drinking one sheng (about one liter) is said to grant a thousand years of life.

"Seven Brightness Lingzhi" and "Nine Light Lingzhi" are also stone lingzhi, growing on rocks of high mountains near water. Grind them into powder and mix with Heartless Herb juice; they will soon transform into water. Drinking one sheng is said to grant a thousand years of life.

Seven-Luminous Fungus and Nine-Luminous Fungus are both stone formations. They grow on rock cliffs of lofty mountains near water, shaped like plates or bowls, with a diameter of no more than about a foot. Stem-like veins link them, rising three or four inches above the surface. Those with seven openings are called “Seven-Luminous”; those with nine are called “Nine-Luminous.” Light shines from the openings like stars; within well over a hundred paces one can see them even at night. The light from each opening stays separate—it can spread outward but cannot be drawn together into one beam.

As a rule, one waits until the autumn equinox to watch for them and gather them. Pound the material fine and take one spoonful measured with the ancient square-cun medicine spoon. After ingesting it, the body suddenly grows warm and the flavor is sweet. After consuming one full jin, a person may live a thousand years and the body itself will glow; even in pitch darkness it shines like moonlight, enough to see by at night.

Stone Honey Fungus grows in the stone caverns of Mount Shaoshi. Inside the cavern is a deep gorge that cannot be crossed; if you drop a stone in, half a day later you can still hear it strike bottom. About a dozen zhang from the mouth of the cave stands a stone cassia pillar, capped by a rock like an open umbrella, roughly one zhang high and one zhang across. From afar, Stone Honey Fungus appears to fall from above the cavern into that umbrella-shaped rock. A long time passes before a single drop falls—as if rain has stopped but water still leaks from the eaves, one drop only after an interval. The fungus keeps dripping in, yet the umbrella-shaped stone never overflows.

Above the cave mouth, tadpole-script characters are carved: “Whoever takes one dou of Stone Honey Fungus may live ten thousand years.” Daoist practitioners have often tried to find this place but could not reach it. They could only tie bowls and similar vessels to the ends of strong bamboo or wood and stretch them out to catch the drops—yet no one ever succeeded. Judging from the inscription on the cave, people in earlier ages must indeed have obtained Stone Honey Fungus.

Stone Cassia Fungus grows in stone hollows on famous mountains. It looks like a cassia tree but is truly stone—about a foot tall and a foot thick, bright and luminous, with a pungent taste and branch-like extensions. Pound and take one jin, and one may live a thousand years.

Yellow Substance Within Stone occurs in many regions, especially around Mount Qinshui. It lies hidden inside large boulders; rocks that hold it are often damp and never dry. When you break the stone open, you must peel away layer upon layer—dozens of strata—before you can find it.

Inside large rocks there is a reddish-yellow substance, thick and moist like paste, resembling an egg still in its shell. Once it is found, it should be taken at once; if it is not taken, it will congeal and harden into ordinary stone and will no longer be fit to consume. By the correct method, one swallows it before it sets; after it has set, it must be treated as unusable. From a single large stone, the yield may be as much as one sheng or as little as a few he, and may be taken all at once. Even when each find is small, doses may be taken in succession; when the total amount consumed reaches three sheng, one is said to gain a thousand years of life. Those who wish to take more need only fear how hard it is to obtain the substance.

Shinaozhi (stone-brain fungus, an elixir-class fungus born in stone) grows in talc. Its form is likewise like an egg in stone, but not every block of talc holds one. Only after breaking apart on the order of a thousand pieces of talc might one specimen appear. At the moment the stone is split, it flashes with the five colors within the rock and moves of its own accord; one sheng is said to grant a thousand years of life.

Shiliuhuangzhi (stone sulfur-yellow fungus) occurs in all Five Sacred Mountains and is especially abundant at Jishan. Local tradition says Xu You consumed it there and achieved long life, so he no longer let rank and riches bind his mind and refused the throne when Yao offered it to him. Shiliudan is the red quintessence of stone, broadly of the stone-sulfur kind. Such substances seep and overflow along cliffs and shores; when soft and moist they may be formed into pills and taken, and when already hard they may be ground to powder and taken. There are said to be one hundred and twenty kinds of such stone fungi; accounts appear in the Ta Yi yuce and the Chang Yu neiji, which cannot all be listed here.

As for muzhi (the kind of ganoderma immortality medicine spoken of in antiquity), it is said that the resinous sap of pine and cypress seeps into the earth and, after a thousand years, turns into fuling (Poria); after another ten thousand years, a small tree grows above the fuling, shaped like a lotus, called “Muweixi Zhi” (Wood Wei-Xi Lingzhi). It is said to glow at night, feels very smooth to the touch, and cannot be burned by fire. Worn on the person, it is said to ward off harm from weapons.

The scripture also says one may shut up a person wearing Muweixi Zhi together with twelve chickens, stand twelve paces away, and shoot twelve arrows. The other chickens will all be wounded, but the person wearing Muweixi Zhi will not be injured. When gathering it, one must pick it from the Shengmen (Gate of Life) and dry it in the shade on a Liujia (Six Jia) day for one hundred days. Ground into powder, take one fangcun bi (the small spoon used in antiquity to measure powdered medicine) each time, three times daily; when one whole fungus has been consumed, it is said one may live three thousand years.

In a thousand-year-old kuo tree (a kind of tree described in antiquity), the root may grow into a shape like a seated person, about seven inches tall. When carved open, a blood-like fluid flows from within. Applied to the soles of the feet, it is said one may walk on water without sinking; applied to the nose before entering water, the water parts and one may remain at the bottom in deep water; applied over the whole body, one may become invisible, and may become visible again by wiping it off.

This fluid can also treat illness. For internal abdominal disorders, scrape off a little and swallow it; for external swelling and pain, scrape a little and apply it to the affected place—it is said a single application can bring recovery. For example, if the left foot is afflicted, apply the fluid to the left foot. One may also scrape it off, mix it with jusheng (sesame), and make it into a candle; at night, shine it over the ground—if gold, jade, or buried treasure lies below, the candlelight turns greenish and droops downward, and digging will recover it. Ground kuo wood into powder and consume ten jin in all—it is said one may live one thousand years.

Moreover, in a three-thousand-year-old pine, within the bark there may be a lump of pine resin shaped like a dragon, called “Feijie Zhi” (Flying-Node Lingzhi). A large one may weigh ten jin. Ground into powder and taken, when ten jin in all have been consumed, it is said one may live five hundred years.

These lingzhi can also be dug up with an iron spade. Grind them into powder and take them; after consuming ten jin, one may live a thousand years.

There is also the “Feijie zhi” (Flying-Joint Spirit Fungus), said to grow on three-thousand-year-old pines. It hides beneath the bark in a shape like a dragon; large specimens can weigh ten jin. Taken as powder, ten jin in all grants five hundred years of life.

There is also the “Fantao zhi”: its trunk rises like a dragon in flight, its flowers and leaves like crimson silk, its fruit like a kingfisher, and the tree stands no more than five chi tall. It grows on the north face of famous mountains, beside east-flowing springs. One must wait until the Start of Summer to gather it. Take the whole plant at once and one may live five thousand years.

The “Cancheng zhi” is red and gives off light; when its branches and leaves are struck, they ring like metal and stone. Break them and join them again, and they return to their original form.

The “Muqu zhi” grows parasitically on large trees, shaped like a lotus, with nine stems per cluster, tasting sweet with a hint of pungency. The “Jianmu zhi” bears fruit at Duguang; its bark resembles a coiled serpent, its fruit a phoenix. Anyone who can take these three kinds of lingzhi may ascend as an immortal in broad daylight.

The three lingzhi “Huangluzi,” “Xunmu hua,” and “Xuanye hua” grow at Mount Tai, Yaoxiang, and Fenggao, with a sweet, slightly pungent taste. Gather and take any of them and one may live a thousand years.

The “Huangyao tanhuan zhi” grows at the root of a thousand-year-old yellow cork tree, as large as a vessel of three hu. It stands one or two zhang from the trunk, linked to the tree by fine roots that look like silk threads. Grind what is gathered into powder and take it; after one full dose one becomes an earthly immortal—long-lived yet dwelling among humans.

There are one hundred and twenty more kinds in this category, each with its own illustrated record.

Among the caozhi (grass fungi), there is one called the du yao zhi (solo-swaying fungus), which stirs even when no wind blows. Its stem is as thick as a thumb, red as cinnabar, with white leaves like those of amaranth. Some roots are as large as a peck measure; others are small, like twelve eggs ringed around the main root in the pattern of the Twelve Earthly Branches. The roots stand about ten feet apart, linked by fine filaments like white hair. Du yao zhi grows in deep mountain valleys where no other grass grows nearby.

Grind the largest specimen to powder and consume it all, and one may live a thousand years; smaller ones are said to add a hundred years each, and may be given to others as well. Carry the large root on your person to hide from sight; to appear again, turn it leftward and take it out.

The niu jiao zhi (horn fungus) grows on Hu Shou Mountain and Wu Slope. Shaped like a scallion, it rises alone like an ox horn, three or four feet tall and blue-green. Ground to powder, take one fangcun bi (square-cun spoon, a small ancient measure for medicine) three times daily; after a hundred days, it is said, one may live a thousand years.

The long xian zhi (dragon immortal fungus) looks like two dragons carrying each other in a leap; its leaves resemble dragon scales, its roots coiled dragons. One plant is said to grant a thousand years of life.

Ma mu zhi resembles hemp, with red stems and purple flowers. Zi zhu zhi has yellow flowers, red leaves, and fruit like purple plums; twenty-four branches join in a chain, hanging like strings of beads.

Bai fu zhi has roots coiled like dragons; one plant is said to grant a thousand years. It stands four or five feet tall, shaped like a plum tree, often blooming in heavy snow and bearing fruit at winter’s end.

Zhu cao zhi has nine bends; each bend bears three leaves, and each leaf three fruits.

Wu de zhi is shaped like halls and pavilions, with square stems and leaves in five colors, each hue clear and unmixed. The crown spreads like an open umbrella; sweet dew often pools at the center, and purple qi (vital energy) rises several feet.

Long yu zhi usually appears in mid-spring as two plants facing each other, with three joints and twelve branches; the lower root looks like a seated figure.

There are one hundred and twenty kinds of such caozhi in all. The text states that when they are shade-dried and taken, they can extend life to match heaven and earth; some are said to grant one or two thousand years.

The term rouzhi (“flesh ganoderma”) refers to a class of numinous drugs whose forms resemble branching twigs and whose lower “roots” look like seated human figures. Among plant and fungal lingzhi of this sort there are said to be one hundred and twenty varieties; dried in the shade and taken inward, they are credited with extending life to the span of Heaven and Earth, or with granting one or two thousand years.

Rouzhi also includes certain animals. The ten-thousand-year toad grows horns on its head and bears red script on the lower jaw—eight characters arranged in nine overlapping layers. If one catches it at noon on the fifth day of the fifth month, dries it in the shade for a hundred days, and traces the ground with its left foot, water is said to spring forth; worn on the person, its left forelimb is said to ward off weapons, and when enemies shoot arrows, the shafts are believed to turn back toward the archer.

The thousand-year bat is pure white and roosts head-down in clusters, because its head is heavy. After both creatures are dried and ground to powder and ingested, life of forty thousand years is claimed.

The thousand-year spirit turtle displays five colors; on the male, two bony ridges on the forehead rise like horns. After washing with sheep’s blood, one strips the plastron and carapace, roasts and pulverizes them, and takes one fangcun bi (the capacity of a small ancient apothecary spoon) three times daily until an entire shell has been consumed. Such powder is also said to prolong life; the source itself first mentions forty thousand years and then “a thousand years.”

When walking in the mountains, if one sees figures only seven or eight cun tall riding in chariots or on horses, these are rouzhi; captured and swallowed, they are said to confer immortality.

The fengsheng beast resembles a marten, is bluish-green, and is about the size of a wildcat; it dwells in great forests by the South Sea. Zhang Gang once captured one and heaped wagon-loads of fuel to burn it—when the wood was consumed, the beast remained in the ashes unscorched, its fur uncharred. Blades would not pierce it; striking it was like beating a leather sack. Only after thousands of blows with an iron hammer on the head—it is sometimes written as ten blows—would it die. Yet if the mouth was turned toward the wind, in a moment it would revive and flee; stuffing shichangpu (calamus from stony places) into its nostrils was required to kill it finally. Mixed with chrysanthemum, its brain taken to the weight of ten jin is said to grant five hundred years of life.

There is also the thousand-year swallow: its nest faces north, its feathers are mostly white, and its tail is curved. Caught, shade-dried, and ground, a single bird’s dose is said to add five hundred years. Together with what has been described above, these amount to one hundred and twenty kinds, all counted as rouzhi.

Lingzhi and related “immortal fungi” (junzhi—the spiritual mushrooms spoken of in antiquity) grow in deep mountains, at the foot of great trees, or beside springs. Their forms may resemble palaces, chariots, dragons, tigers, human figures, or birds in flight, and their colors shift without fixed pattern. All of these belong to the category of rouzhi—lingzhi held to possess numinous efficacy. Tradition counts one hundred and twenty kinds of such fungi, each distinguishable from illustrated manuals.

When gathering lingzhi, one should perform the Yubu (Steps of Yu, ritual footwork in Daoist practice) and cut them with a bone knife, dry them in shade, then grind them to powder and take one fangcun bi (the small spoon used in antiquity to measure powdered drugs) per dose. The scriptures claim that after taking them one may ascend as an immortal; even with lesser effect, one may live a thousand years.

To seek lingzhi, one should enter famous mountains in the third or ninth month—months ancients regarded as when divine herbs in the mountains manifest. Avoid “mountain hostile” days (shanheng ri); choose the Tianfu hour (a day-selection term). It is still more auspicious when the Three Wonders (Sanqi) align. Enter the mountain through the three auspicious gates of the Three Wonders, on a six-yin day at the Mingtang hour (day-selection terms), carrying a Lingbao talisman (Daoist fu talisman), a white dog, a white cock, one dou of white salt, and the mountain-opening fu document (the written talisman used to enter the mountain). Place these on a large rock, then enter holding a sprig of Wutang grass (the text also writes “flower”). The scripture says that in this way the mountain spirit will be pleased and the seeker may obtain lingzhi.

Both gathering and ingesting lingzhi should be done on wangxiang and zhuanhe days—dates chosen when qi is held to flourish and the stems and branches harmonize, preferably with upper and lower stems and branches in mutual generation.

Such lingzhi are found in most famous mountains, yet ordinary Daoist priests who lack focused intent, ritual purity, or sufficient virtue, and who do not know the methods for entering mountains, cannot recognize the forms of lingzhi even with manuals in hand and in the end fail to gather any. The scripture also says that mountains large and small all have spirits; if the mountain spirits refuse to grant lingzhi, a person may tread upon them and still not see them.

It is also said that mica is divided into five types, but many people cannot tell them apart. One should hold it up to sunlight and observe the colors carefully in order to identify them; if one looks only in the shade, one cannot see the mixed hues within.

The five kinds of mica each have their own characteristics: that which contains all five colors but has more green is called "Cloud Essence" (Yunying), suitable for taking in spring; that with more red is called "Cloud Pearl" (Yunzhu), suitable for summer; that with more white is called "Cloud Liquid" (Yunye), suitable for autumn; that with more black is called "Cloud Mother" (Yunmu), suitable for winter; that with only green and yellow is called "Cloud Sand" (Yunsha), suitable for the end of summer. That which is pure white and bright is called "Phosphor Stone" (Linshi), and may be taken throughout all four seasons.

There are many methods for taking the "Five Clouds" (the mica types listed above): some are processed with cinnamon, scallion, and water jade (a mineral mentioned in Daoist texts) to make a liquid; some are placed in an iron vessel and simmered with "Mysterious Water" (a specially prepared water referred to here) into a liquid; some are buried in a tube together with saltpeter until they dissolve into liquid; some are mixed with honey into a curd-like form; some are soaked in autumn dew for a hundred days, then placed in a leather bag and pounded into powder; there are also methods that combine them with wudian grass, chuxue, and other ingredients for ingestion.

The scriptures claim that taking it for one year can cure all kinds of illness; after three years, the elderly will return to youth; after five years, one can command ghosts and spirits, enter fire without being burned, enter water without being soaked, walk through thorns without being injured, and even meet with immortals. The scriptures also say that other things buried in the ground will rot, and when burned will be destroyed; but the Five Clouds placed in fierce fire for a long time will not burn, and buried in the earth will never decay—therefore they can enable a person to attain longevity.

The scriptures further say that after ten years of ingestion, cloud vapor will constantly envelop the crown of the head; taking the "mother" will attract the "child"—this is the natural principle. However, if one holds it up to sunlight and sees a faint pure black color showing through, it is not suitable for ingestion, otherwise it will cause the person to suffer from strangury and develop sores. Even if one intends to soak it in water for ingestion, one should first soak it in water dripping from under a thatched roof, east-flowing water, or dew for a hundred days, then wash and remove the mud and stone fragments before it can be used.

Zhongshan man Wei Shuqing took mica, and after a long time was able to travel by riding on clouds. He sealed the prescription in a jade casket; after he departed as an immortal, his son was named Du. Ten generations later, the Han dynasty envoy Liang Bo obtained this prescription, prepared and took it according to the formula, and is said to have also departed as an immortal.

Select realgar from the Wudu region: it must be pure and free of impurities, red as a cockerel’s comb, and bright in color before it may be used. Kinds that are merely yellow like ordinary realgar, without a red luster, are not fit for refining immortal elixirs and may only serve as medicinal drugs.

There are several ways to take realgar: decoct it and ingest it, or take it with wine; one may first dissolve it with saltpeter (a mineral used in traditional alchemy) into a liquid and then solidify it again; or wrap it in xuantong intestine and steam it under red earth; or mix it with pine resin, or refine it together with three ingredients. When properly refined it can be drawn out like cloth and is white as ice. Ingesting these prepared forms can prolong life, dispel myriad illnesses, expel the Three Corpses (spirits or malign influences within the body that hinder cultivation in Daoist teaching), remove scars, turn white hair black, and regrow teeth that have fallen out. After one thousand days of use, a Jade Maiden (a female immortal attendant in Daoist lore) will come to serve you; you may command her and thereby gain xingchu (the wondrous power by which immortals are supplied with food when they travel).

A true Jade Maiden is usually marked by a grain of yellow jade on the nose, about the size of a millet seed; only then is she genuine. Without this mark, it is merely a demon in disguise testing the cultivator.

Jade is also considered an elixir of immortality, though it is hard to obtain. The Classic of Jade (Yujing) states: “Those who take gold live as long as gold lasts; those who take jade live as long as jade lasts.” It also says: “Those who take xuanzhen (another name for jade) have no end to their lifespan.”

It is said that taking jade can lighten the body and lift one toward flight, reaching a state beyond that of a disian (a terrestrial immortal who dwells in the human realm and has not yet ascended to heaven). This method works slowly, however: one may need to consume one or two hundred jin of jade before any effect appears. Jade can be dissolved in black-rice wine, burnet wine, or scallion juice and taken as a liquid; it can also be made into pills or burned to powder and ingested. After a year or more of use, it is said that one can enter water without getting wet, enter fire without being burned, and resist blades and many poisons.

For preparation, one must not use jade that has already been made into objects, because such jade harms the body without benefit; only uncarved raw jade (puyu) should be used. White jade from Khotan (Yutian) is especially prized, followed by jade from the Xushan Pavilion area in Nanyang and from the waters of Lurong in Rinan. Master Red Pine (Chisongzi), the legendary immortal, is said to have soaked jade in the blood of the xuan insect until it became a liquid, which he then ingested—thus he could ride smoke and vapors up and down through the air.

Taking jade powder (fine ground jade) or jade dissolved as a liquid is both said to grant long life without death. Jade is regarded as slightly inferior to gold, because jade often makes the body feel hot, like the reaction to taking Cold Food Powder (hanshan san, a drug that causes febrile symptoms). If one takes jade powder, it is said that every ten days one should also take one daoge (a standard dose measure) each of realgar and cinnabar, loosen the hair, bathe in cold water, and walk in the wind—so that the fever does not set in.

Dong Junyi once gave a blind man jade elixir (yuli); within about ten days the man’s eyes recovered. Wu Yanzhi also wished to take jade. After obtaining a formula from the Classic of Jade, he had not read it through completely and so did not understand dosage, procedure, or taboos. He collected ritual jades—gui, zhang, huan, and bi—along with ornamental jade sword fittings, intending to refine and ingest them. I later told him that such pieces must not be used; he sighed and said, “One must understand what one is doing; not only was there no benefit—I nearly brought disaster on myself.”

Silver is said to be less potent than gold or jade, yet if taken as medicine it can bring one to the rank of terrestrial immortal (dixian)—a Daoist figure who achieves long life while still dwelling in the human world. The usual method is to dissolve silver in wheat gruel; one may also take it with zhucao wine, or refine it with “dragon paste” (longgao). After refining, the dose is divided into three portions, each about the size of a pellet. Such materials, however, are not within reach of an ascetic in modest circumstances.

Pearls larger than one cun in diameter may be ingested; they are said to confer longevity. Steeping pearls in dairy whey can reduce them to a liquid like mercury; pumice water or beehive can also dissolve them. Wrapped with tongshe yellow and jointly refined, the material can be drawn into strips three or four feet long and made into pills. If one abstains from grain and lives on this medicine alone, one is said to become deathless and long-lived.

Pure lacquer, when refined so that no drop of water clings to it, is said on ingestion to open communication with the spirits and grant long life. Some say ten “Great Intestineless Gentlemen” (dawu chang gongzi—a materia medica name for crabs) or large crabs are placed in the lacquer; others say it is taken mixed with mica water or jade water. The texts claim that the nine worms (jiu chong—the various parasites spoken of in classical medicine) are expelled and foul blood flows from the nose; after a year of use, the Liujia travel kitchen (liujia xingchu—the protective spirits and their provisions in Daoist belief) is said to arrive.

Cassia (gui) may be steamed and refined with scallion juice into a liquid, or taken mixed with bamboo sap; it may also be taken together with the “brain of the Prophet Lord” (xianzhi jun)—one tradition identifies the Prophet Lord with the turtle. Taken in this way for seven years, one is said to be able to walk upon water and live without dying.

Jusheng, also called hma (sesame), is said to prevent aging, ward off wind-damp afflictions, and nourish a weakened body. Peach gum, steeped in leachate from mulberry-wood ash and then taken, is said to cure many illnesses; long use is said to lighten the body and make it luminous, shining in the dark like the moon. Taken in greater quantity it is also said to allow grain abstinence (duangu)—living without eating the five grains.

The red fruit of the nÍng tree (also read as chǔ) is regarded as a type of longevity “zhi” medicine. Taken for one year, the aged may regain youth and see clearly enough to perceive ghosts. In the past the Daoist Liang Xu began taking it only at seventy and gradually grew younger; at one hundred forty he could write by night and walk as fast as a galloping horse. Later he withdrew into Qinglong Mountain.

Locust seeds (huái zǐ) may be packed in a new jar and sealed with mud. After twenty-odd days the outer skin rots away; wash them and take them when they are about the size of soybeans. The scripture says they nourish brain marrow; long use is said to keep the hair from turning white and extend life.

The drugs used in the Xuánzhōng Màn Fāng—such as chǔ fēi lián, zé xiè, dì huáng, huáng lián, and more than three hundred others—are all held to prolong life and may also be taken singly. Lingfei San, Weiyang Wan, Zhiming Wan, and Yangxue Wan are all said to slow aging and preserve youth.

In the mountains of Lixian in Nanyang there is a stream called Sweet Valley Water. The water tastes sweet because sweet chrysanthemums grow on both sides of the valley; as petals fall into the water year after year, its flavor gradually changes. The people who live in the valley do not dig wells—they rely entirely on drinking this water. Those who drink it rarely show signs of aging; the long-lived reach one hundred forty or fifty years, the shorter-lived still eighty or ninety, and premature death is uncommon. Legend attributes this to the efficacy of the sweet chrysanthemum.

The Minister of Works Wang Chang, Grand Commandant Liu Kuan, and Grand Tutor Yuan Wei all served as governors of Nanyang. Whenever they took office, they regularly had Lixian send forty hu of Sweet Valley Water each month for daily use. These officials mostly suffered from wind impediment (numbness and pain from wind affliction) or dizziness and vertigo; after drinking the water their conditions improved. Yet they could not benefit as fully as the valley dwellers, because the valley people had drunk this water from childhood.

Sweet chrysanthemum closely resembles yi (a plant that looks like chrysanthemum) and can be told apart only by taste: chrysanthemum is sweet, yi is bitter. The saying “bitter as yi” refers to yi’s bitterness. Genuine chrysanthemum exists in various regions today, though not in great quantity; it mostly grows beside water, and is most abundant around Mount Gou and in Lixian. In the immortal formulas of Daoist practice, “Sun Essence,” “Renewed Life,” and “Full Cycle” are all names for chrysanthemum—the root, stem, flower, and fruit simply carry different names. The lore is appealing, but in recent times almost no one who has taken these chrysanthemums has seen results, precisely because they did not obtain the real plant.

Sweet Valley Water merely picks up the scent of chrysanthemum, yet it still lets valley residents extend their years; how much more so when one takes genuine fine medicinals—how could there be no benefit?

My late grandfather served as Vice Minister of State Ceremonial and later as magistrate of Lin-yuan. He said that in that county there was a household surnamed Liao whose members were long-lived generation after generation.

My deceased ancestor once served as Honglu Shaocheng (deputy director of palace ceremonials and related duties) and later as magistrate of Linwuan County. He said that in Linwuan there was a family surnamed Liao whose members had been long-lived for generations—some past a hundred years, others reaching eighty or ninety. After that household moved away, their descendants died young in succession; when others moved into their former home, those families again enjoyed long lives generation after generation, as before. People then suspected it had something to do with the dwelling itself, though no one knew why. Because the well water looked unusually red, they tried digging around the well and found several tens of hu (a dry measure) of ancient cinnabar buried underground. It lay eleven chi below the surface; cinnabar liquid gradually seeped into the spring and mixed with the well water, so those who drank from the well could live long. If cinnabar is refined and taken internally, would it not extend life even more?

I also heard that in Shangdang there was a man named Zhao Qu who had suffered from leprosy for many years. Every remedy people tried failed to help, and he was near death. Some said that while he was still alive they might as well abandon him in the wild. Later, his descendants one after another contracted the same illness. The family prepared provisions and left Zhao Qu in a mountain cave.

Alone in the cave, Zhao Qu lamented his ill fate and wept day and night. After more than a month his condition had not improved and he was again close to death. A transcendent passed the cave, saw how pitiable he was, and asked him in detail about his situation. Zhao Qu knew the visitor was no ordinary person. He kowtowed, told his whole story, and begged for compassion. The transcendent gave him a bag of medicine and taught him how to take it. After about a hundred days of use, the sores on his body were completely healed; his complexion was ruddy and joyful, and his skin was smooth as jade. The transcendent came again to see him. Zhao Qu thanked him for saving his life and restoring him, and asked to be taught the prescription.

The transcendent told him: “This is pine resin. It grows everywhere in the mountains. If you refine it and take it, you can live long without dying.” Zhao Qu then went home. At first his family thought he was a ghost and were greatly alarmed. After that he took pine resin for a long time. His body gradually grew light and strong; his strength increased a hundredfold. He could climb high and cross difficult terrain and stay active all day without tiring.

Zhao Qu lived to one hundred seventy years. His teeth did not fall out and his hair did not turn white. One night while he slept he suddenly saw a light between the beams of the roof, about the size of a mirror. When he asked those around him, everyone said they saw nothing. After a long while the light slowly grew until the whole room was bright as day. On another night he saw two women in colored robes on his face—each only two or three inches tall, with complete features and bodies, simply very small. They played around his mouth and nose for nearly a year, then gradually grew larger and appeared beside him. He also often heard the sound of zithers and lutes and would laugh to himself with delight. He lived in the human world for more than three hundred years, his appearance still like a youth’s, and later entered Mount Baodu. The author believes he had probably become an Earth Immortal—a transcendent who dwells in the mountains of the human realm and has not ascended to the celestial realm.

The author says that when he heard at the time that Zhao Qu had such results from taking pine resin, he too began to take it. He went to great trouble—some hauled it by cart, some by donkey—until pine resin filled the house. Yet those who took it longest did so for only about a month; feeling no clear benefit, they stopped. Clearly, even those who aspire to cultivation find it hard to persevere as Zhao Qu did.

During the reign of Emperor Cheng of Han, hunters in the Zhongnan Mountains saw someone with no clothes and black hair all over the body. They tried to chase and seize the figure, but it crossed gullies and valleys as lightly as if flying—they could not catch up. The hunters secretly tracked and waited, later brought men to surround the place, and at last captured the person, who turned out to be a woman.

They asked her who she was. She said: “I was originally a palace maid in the Qin court. I heard that rebels from east of the Pass were coming; the King of Qin surrendered and the palaces were burned. In panic I fled into the mountains. When there was no food in the hills and I was near starvation, an old man taught me to eat pine needles and pine nuts. At first the taste was bitter and astringent; later I grew used to it and no longer felt hunger or thirst—I did not feel cold in winter or hot in summer.”

By the calendar, this woman would have been a palace woman of Ziying, last ruler of Qin. By Emperor Cheng’s time, roughly three hundred years had passed. People brought her back and gave her grain; at first she retched at the smell of grain and only after several days could she adapt. After about two years the hair on her body fell away; then she gradually aged and finally died. Had she not been captured, she might have become an immortal.

The Wen clan of Nanyang said of their ancestors: when the realm fell into chaos at the end of Han, the ancestors fled…

In Nanyang there was a family surnamed Wen. They told this story about their ancestor: at the end of the Han dynasty, when the realm was in chaos, the ancestor fled into the mountains and was so hungry he nearly died. Someone taught him to eat shu (a medicinal plant in the atractylodes family), and after that he no longer felt hunger. Several decades later he returned to his home village; his face looked younger than before, and his strength was greater than it had been.

He said that in the mountains his body felt light, as if he might leap upward; he could climb steep heights and walk dangerous paths for a long time without tiring; and walking in ice and snow, he felt no cold at all. He often saw on a high cliff several people sitting playing weiqi, with someone reading. They looked down at the Wen ancestor, and one voice asked, “Is this boy qualified to come up?” Another answered, “Not yet.”

Shu is also called shanqi or shansjing (mountain essence). For this reason the Shenyao Jing (Classic of Divine Medicines) says, “If you wish long life, you must regularly take shansjing.”

In antiquity there were eight immortals who each ingested a particular medicinal preparation and thereby became lu xian—“land immortals” who achieved long life and clear vision yet remained on earth—each living for several centuries. Only later did they jointly refine a spirit elixir (shen dan) and golden fluid (jin ye) and ascend to Taqing, the highest heaven in Daoist cosmology. If one combines all eight medicines and refines them for ingestion, the expected effects do not appear, because their properties mutually constrain and counter one another.

Han Zhong took sweet flag (chang pu, Acorus calamus) for thirteen years: hair sprouted over his body, he could read tens of thousands of characters in a day and commit them all to memory, and in winter he could expose his body to the cold without discomfort. Sweet flag should grow on stone; the finest has segments at least one inch long with nine or more nodes, and purple-flowered varieties are especially prized.

Zhao Tazi took cassia (gui) for twenty years: hair grew on his feet, he could travel five hundred li in a day, and lift a thousand jin. Yimenzi took schisandra (wu wei zi, “five-flavor seed”) for sixteen years: his appearance was like that of a jade maiden, water did not wet him, and fire did not burn him. Chu Wenzi took rehmannia root (di huang) for eight years: at night he could see by light, and with his hands he could draw a chariot crossbow. Lin Ziming took atractylodes (zhu) for eleven years: his ears were five inches long, his body was as light as if flying, and he could leap across deep ravines some twenty feet wide.

Du Ziwei took asparagus stem (tian men dong) and could keep eighty concubines, fathered one hundred thirty children, and walk three hundred li a day. Ren Ziji took poria (fu ling) for eighteen years: immortal jade maidens came to keep him company; he could hide his form or make it visible, ceased eating grain, the scars from moxibustion vanished from his skin, and his face and body took on a jade-like luster. Lingyang Zizhong took polygala (yuan zhi) for twenty years, fathered thirty-seven children, forgot nothing he had once read, could appear while seated, and vanish while standing.

The Xian Jing (Scripture of Immortals) states that even if one takes the leaves of ordinary plants and thereby lives for several centuries, one must not grow complacent but should still seek the spirit elixir; otherwise one will never attain immortality. From this it follows that plant medicines can only prolong life—they are not the true drugs of longevity. Before the elixir is successfully refined, one may first take herbal medicines to sustain the body.

Someone asked: “When taking medicines, is there an order of precedence as to when they should be taken?”

Baopuzi replied: “The Zhong Huangzi’s Regulations on Ingestion says that drugs for treating illness should be taken before meals, while drugs for nourishing the body and cultivating one’s nature and life should be taken after meals. I once asked Master Zheng why this is arranged so. Master Zheng said: ‘That is easy to understand. When using medicine to treat disease, it is suitable to take it before eating, because the stomach is empty and the drug’s power can act more readily. If you take it after a meal, the drug’s power is spent only on digesting food, and its effect is used up. If you wish to regulate and cultivate the body, yet take the medicine before eating, the drug’s power has not yet had time to work before food carries it downward; it cannot stay and bring no benefit.’”

Someone asked: “People take medicine to regulate the body. Is it true that there are also suitable choices in what one takes?”

Baopuzi replied: “Both the Yuce Ji and the Kaiming Jing say that one may determine to which life-year one belongs by the five tones and six affiliations. Zi and Wu belong to Geng; Mao and You belong to Ji; Yin and Shen belong to Wu (Earth stem); Chou and Wei belong to Xin; Chen and Xu belong to Bing; Si and Hai belong to Ding. If inferred from a one-character formula, one belongs to the gong tone and to Earth; from a three-character formula, to the zhi tone and Fire; from a five-character formula, to the yu tone and Water; from a seven-character formula, to the shang tone and Metal; from a nine-character formula, to the jue tone and Wood.

If your natal allotment is Earth, you should not take green-colored medicine; if Metal, not red; if Wood, not white; if Water, not yellow; if Fire, not black. This follows the principle of mutual overcoming among the Five Phases: Wood overcomes Earth, Earth overcomes Water, Water overcomes Fire, Fire overcomes Metal, Metal overcomes Wood. However, for great medicines of the golden elixir (jindan) type, these rules of suitability no longer apply.

One-character affiliation to the gong tone—for example Geng-zi, Geng-wu, Xin-wei, Xin-chou, Bing-chen, Bing-xu…”

Dinghai, Dingsi, Wuyin, Wushen, Jimao, and Jiyou—these days belong to the “Three-count Zhi” group (numbered by three, classified under the Zhi pitch).

Jiachen, Jiaxu, Yihai, Yisi, Bingyin, Bingshen, Dingyou, Dingmao, Wuwu, Wuzi, Jiwei, and Jichou—these days belong to the “Five-count Yu” group (numbered by five, classified under the Yu pitch).

Jiayin, Jiashen, Yimao, Yiyou, Bingzi, Bingwu, Dingwei, Dingchou, Renchen, Renshu, Gusi, and Guihai—these days belong to the “Seven-count Shang” group (numbered by seven, classified under the Shang pitch).

Jiazi, Jiawu, Yichou, Yiwei, Gengchen, Gengxu, Xinsi, Xinhai, Renshen, Renyin, Guimao, and Guiyou—these days belong to the “Nine-count Jiao” group (numbered by nine, classified under the Jiao pitch).

Wuchen, Wuxu, Jisi, and Jihai—these days belong to Shang. Jiazi, Jiawu, Yichou, Yiwei, Gengchen, Gengxu, Xinsi, Xinhai, Renshen, Renyin, Guimao, and Guiyou—these days correspond to the “Nine-count Jiao” group (numbered by nine, classified under the Jiao pitch).

Wuchen, Wuxu, Jisi, Jihai, Gengyin, Gengshen, Xinmao, Xinyou, Renwu, Renzi, Guichou, and Guiwei—these days are also listed among them.

The Yu Step is performed as follows: first lift the left foot; step the right foot past the left, then bring the left foot close to the right; next lift the right foot, step the left past the right, then bring the right close to the left; then lift the right again, step the right past the left, and bring the left close to the right. Walk three steps in this pattern; the total distance should be two zhang and one chi, leaving nine footprints behind. The Yu Step is a ritual gait used in Daoist ceremonies, with strides taken in a fixed sequence.

The “Minor Spirit Formula” (Xiao Shen Fang) is prepared thus: take three jin of true cinnabar (a mineral drug such as cinnabar) and one jin of white honey, mix them, expose the mixture to sunlight, then decoct until it can be rolled into pills. Each morning take ten pills, each about the size of a hemp seed. The formula claims that within less than a year white hair will turn black again, fallen teeth will grow back, and the body will become moist and lustrous; with long-term use the aged will regain youth, and regular intake is said to grant immortality.

The method of “swallowing gold in small amounts” is: melt gold with fire and put it into clear wine; repeat melting and dipping two hundred times until the wine boils. Then grasp the gold in the hand—if it can be squeezed through the fingers as soft as mud, it meets the requirement; if the wine does not boil or the gold cannot be squeezed through the fingers, melt and treat it again. The original text states that after such processing one can achieve immortality and never die.

Method for refining small gold pills: Place gold in clear wine and heat it through refinement, repeatedly removing and returning it two hundred times each way, until the wine boils. Pinch the refined gold with your fingers so it squeezes through the gaps like soft mud. If the wine does not boil, or the gold cannot be pressed through the fingers, continue putting it back in the wine to refine, repeating many times. When finished, you may form one pellet the size of a bullet, or divide one dose of the liquid into many small pills. After thirty days of ingestion, whether in cold or warm weather, divine beings and jade maidens will descend. Silver may be refined and taken by the same method. Taking these two substances allows one to dwell in stone chambers on famous mountains and cultivate; in one year one may lighten the body and ascend; if taken while living in the world, one is called an earthly immortal (disian). Do not transmit this method casually.

Another method for refining gold: Take three jin of pig fat, one dou of pure bitter wine, and five liang of gold, and decoct them in a vessel. After removing from the heat, place the gold in the fat and repeatedly remove and return it one hundred times; treat the bitter wine the same way. The scripture says that ingesting one jin of gold grants longevity until heaven and earth decay; half a jin grants two thousand years of life; five liang grants one thousand two hundred years; any amount may be taken. It should be prepared on wangxiang days (days considered auspicious in numerology), for especially good results. Do not pass it to others; if transmitted, the medicine loses its efficacy.

For a medicine that expels corpse worms (shichong), one should take cinnabar (dansha). The method for refining cinnabar: take one jin of cinnabar, pound and sieve it, then add three sheng of pure bitter wine and two sheng of pure lacquer (another version reads two sheng of honey). Mix the three ingredients evenly and simmer over a gentle fire until pills can be formed. Take two pills each time, the size of hemp seeds, twice daily. The scripture says that after forty days it cures all ailments in the abdomen and expels the Three Corpses; after one hundred days, flesh and bone become firm and strong; after one thousand days, the Director of Destinies (Siming, the spirit who governs lifespan and death) strikes one’s name from the register of the dead, so one may long endure with heaven and earth, face the sun and moon, transform appearance at will, leave no shadow at midday, and finally radiate light from one’s own body.

Volume 11 of the Inner Chapters of Baopuzi (Baopuzi Neipian) ends here.

What follows are collation notes recording textual differences between the base text and Wang Ming’s critical edition: in some places characters were missing in the original and have been supplied from Wang Ming’s edition; in others the original read differently and has been emended according to Wang Ming’s edition; in still others superfluous characters have been removed on the same authority. Some entries in the collation notes appear more than once.

Someone asked: “If becoming an immortal is truly possible, the ancient sages would long ago have cultivated themselves to that end. Yet neither the Duke of Zhou nor Confucius did so. From this we can tell that the way of immortality does not exist.”

Baopuzi replied: Sages are not necessarily immortals, and immortals are not necessarily sages.

Sages receive the mandate of Heaven, yet they may never encounter the way of longevity. Their aim is to remove cruelty and harm, pacify danger and chaos, restrain violence, establish ritual and compose music, fix laws and transmit teaching, reform corrupt customs and dissolute habits, right rulers on the verge of collapse, and support states about to perish. They put in order the Odes and Documents, compile the Hetu and Luoshu, write classics and edicts, harmonize the Ya and Song hymns, instruct the young, and respond to invitations from various states—running back and forth so busily that smoke never rises from their stoves and their mats never grow warm from sitting. With endless affairs year round, how could they shut off ears and eyes, gather in the spirit, look inward and listen within, regulate breath and circulate qi, keep long fasts and purify the body, enter a quiet chamber to refine the form, climb mountains to gather herbs, count breaths and preserve spirit, or cut off grain and cleanse the intestines? These are all things that seekers of immortality do.

As for becoming an immortal, if one is single-minded and firm, sincere and without doubt, diligent and never slack, and able to be tranquil and still, it can be done—it does not require outstanding talent. Those true persons who enter the world and bear high office, on the contrary, become heavy burdens for cultivators. If one obtains the great elixir of unity and grasps the essentials of “guarding the One and nurturing spirit,” one can live long and see far; how could that compare to the sage who governs the world with never-ending business?

Moreover, the sages spoken of in the world are sages who govern affairs, not sages who have attained the Dao. Sages who have attained the Dao are the Yellow Emperor and Laozi; sages who govern affairs are the Duke of Zhou and Confucius. The Yellow Emperor first governed the world and only afterward ascended as an immortal—he was someone who happened to combine both capacities. Ancient emperors carved records on Mount Tai; of those still traceable today there are seventy-two houses, while the rest effaced are beyond counting—yet people single out only the Yellow Emperor’s ascent to immortality, from which one can see that the matter has a basis in fact.

People often call someone a “sage” (or “master”) when one side of their ability stands out so far that no one can match them. Someone unrivaled at weiqi is called a “sage of the board,” which is why names like Yan Ziqing and Ma Suiming are still spoken of as sages of go. Someone who writes history with exceptional skill is called a “sage of writing,” so Huang Xiang and Hu Zhao still carry that reputation. Someone whose painting is supreme is called a “sage of painting,” hence Wei Xie and Zhang Mo. Someone whose carving and craftsmanship are extraordinarily fine is called a “sage of woodwork,” so Zhang Heng and Ma Zhong are remembered that way.

Mencius said that Boyi was the sage of lofty withdrawal, Liuxia Hui the sage of easy compliance, and Yiyin the sage of bold responsibility. I would extend the point: being a “sage” is not confined to a single kind of excellence. Ban Shu and Chui Di were sages of mechanical invention; Fu, Bian, He, and Huan were sages of healing; Zi Wei and Gan Jun were sages of reading the sky and fixing the seasons; Shi Su and Xin Liao were sages of divination; Xia Yu and Du Hui were sages of bodily strength; Jing Ke and Nie Zheng were sages of courage; Fei Lian and Kuafu were sages of speed; Zi Ye and Yanchou were sages of music; and Sun, Wu, Han, and Bai were sages of warfare. “Sage” is what people say when some power has been pushed to its limit—it is not reserved for literary scholarship alone.

Zhuangzi said that even robbers have five “ways of the sage”: guessing where another hides his goods is clarity; going in first without hesitation is courage; leaving last without fear is righteousness; knowing whether a move is fitting is wisdom; and dividing the loot fairly is benevolence. There has never been a robber who could lord it over the realm without these skills.

Someone asked: "Should not the Way of the sages be scattered into branch after branch? Must one gather and possess it all before one can count as a sage?"

I replied: Among Confucius's disciples, seventy-two were accomplished; each grasped and embodied one aspect of the sage. This shows that the sage's work was always divided into different roles. It is also said that although Yan Hui possessed the sage's full virtue, he was not yet fully deep and substantial—showing that the sage's Way also has degrees of depth and fullness.

The Book of Changes says the sage's Way has four aspects: those who speak value words; those who act value change; those who make implements value the hexagram images; those who divinate value the oracle's fulfillment. Clearly the sage's Way can be pursued in separate lines. Given that, why cannot those who excel in moral cultivation and thereby reach the immortal realm count—as makers of implements value images and diviners value oracles—as sages who have attained the Way? If one denies sages who attain immortality, can Duke of Zhou and Confucius not count as sages who govern the world? Since sages are not of one kind only, why insist they must combine every aspect?

According to the Scripture of Immortals, those who become immortals are all born under mandate, having by chance received immortal qi. In the womb they already carry an inborn nature inclined toward the Way; once aware, their hearts love the matter of cultivating immortality, and they are bound to meet a clear teacher and learn the methods of practice. Otherwise they will neither believe nor pursue; even if they pursue, they may not obtain it.

The Jade Bell Scripture, "Origins of Mandated Fate," says human fortune and fate are fixed at the moment of conception when one receives qi—then one receives refined qi from the stars above. Meeting a constellation of sages, one becomes a sage; meeting worthies, a worthy; meeting literary or martial stars, one gains literary or martial talent; meeting stars of nobility, wealth, baseness, poverty, longevity, or immortality, one receives respectively rank, riches, low status, want, long life, or the lot of becoming an immortal.

Beyond that, stellar fates have many types: some govern immortals and sages, some govern sages who order the world, some combine both; some are noble without wealth, wealthy without nobility, or both rich and honored; some are first rich then poor, first honored then base, or both base and poor; some cannot long keep wealth and honor, some are marked for loyalty and filial piety or for viciousness. The varieties are too many to list one by one—the general pattern is as above.

Human life each has its fixed fate; Zhang Chezi's view is correct. Without the lot of immortality, the heart that loves the immortal Way will not arise; if the heart does not love the immortal Way, one will not seek learning and practice—and without seeking, one cannot obtain. From antiquity to the present, some men of outstanding talent and wide learning have not believed in immortals; some of ordinary endowment have become immortals through study. Some see much yet are blind precisely on the immortal Way; some know little yet alone penetrate its principle. Is this not the working of Heaven's mandate?

The Daoist tradition (here meaning the cultivation line that takes immortality and transcendence as its goal) holds precious secret methods of transcendence. Even among disciples, only those who are suitable are chosen with special care. Only after long and careful testing are the crucial instructions passed on. As for ordinary people, since they often neither believe nor seek to learn, why force these teachings upon them? If they cannot be made to trust, one only invites ridicule and slander.

Therefore, those who have attained the Way walk a different path from the world and dwell apart from it. They are unwilling to speak with worldly people or mix among them. Even at a distance of a thousand li they may feel that is not far enough to escape worldly clamor; even by cutting off all trace of themselves they may still fear they cannot avoid calumny and shame. Wealth and rank cannot entice them—how then would they take the initiative to display themselves before ordinary people and say they possess immortal methods? This is roughly why the Duke of Zhou and Confucius had no opportunity to learn of the immortal Way.

The Duke of Zhou and Confucius were after all men of outstanding talent and deep learning, yet they were still largely unfamiliar with many minor arts. Juggling balls, swordplay, passing over sharp blades or throwing oneself into narrow spaces, walking on ropes or climbing high poles, spinning trays around tables, hanging from cliffs ten thousand feet high, swimming in waters as perilous as those of Lüliang, lifting a thousand jun with bare hands, treading the rushing wind, grappling tigers or subduing leopards empty-handed, catching arrows shot at great speed with the bare hand—these ordinary people can do, yet the Duke of Zhou and Confucius might not. Does that mean they were inferior to such people?

Likewise, what another person is thinking, which way a louse’s head is turned, the color of objects beyond a wall, the kinds of plants under the trees, the books in a chest, treasures buried underground, birds and beasts in dense forest and deep marsh, fish and turtles in abyssal pools and great lakes—if the Duke of Zhou and Confucius were asked to identify every color, distinguish every name, list every count, and verify what is present or absent, they might not know them all either, still less things more remote and harder to know than these.

If sages did not eat, they would still feel hunger; if they did not drink, they would still feel thirst. When burned by fire they would feel heat; when assailed by cold they would feel chill; when whipped they would feel pain; when cut by a blade they would be wounded. Over many years they would grow old; when harmed they would fall ill; when breath ceased they would die. In these respects, sages resemble ordinary people in many ways; where they differ from ordinary people is slight. What sets sages above the common run is chiefly that their intelligence is keen, their thought far-reaching, their speech eloquent and their writing outstanding, their virtue complete and their conduct upright, and that they study diligently and have broad experience. How then can one demand that sages know everything and be capable of everything?

Since sages have already composed classics, stabilized the state, and governed the people, to require them also to master the way of immortals and live forever without dying is to impose on sages a demand that is far too harsh. I have heard that the deepest words often do not suit the ears of the world, and that what is true frequently goes against what most people think. When Confucian scholars read my book, they will surely suppose that I am slandering the sages. Is that really so? I only wish to penetrate the principles of things. When principles are made clear and matters are explained plainly, what one hears may sound as if one were denigrating the Duke of Zhou and Confucius.

People take sages to be spirits descended from Heaven, knowing all and capable of all; therefore they stand in awe of their renown and no longer dare measure them by concrete deeds. If one says a sage did not know something, it is as though no one else could know that thing either; if a sage did not know it, can it be that no one in the world could know it? Is that not absurd? Now I cite a matter close at hand for comparison, which I think suffices to make the point: on Mount Wanshan there is a bird whose cry sounds like “selling life” and “delivering death.” Confucius did not know the meaning of that bird’s call—does that mean one can say Yan Hui understood only one narrow corner of things?

There is the story of the woman weeping at Mount Tai: Confucius asked her why, and learned that a tiger had killed three members of her family. At first he could not see why she did not move away; only when she answered did he understand. When he saw a bird-catcher taking nothing but young birds, he likewise did not grasp the reason until he had asked and been told.

When Confucius was preparing to bury his mother, he did not know where his father’s grave was; others had to tell him before he could fix the site. When the grave subsided, he did not notice at first either; only after his disciples pointed it out did he weep as though the loss were fresh. He once suspected Yan Hui of eating sacrificial food and tested the suspicion by pretending he would offer sacrifice to a spirit—only to show that his guess was wrong. When the stables caught fire, he did not at once ask whether the horses were hurt. It was only after Yan Hui died that he said Yan Hui was dead.

Confucius traveled through more than seventy states yet could not foresee that in the end no ruler would truly employ him; he still rushed from place to place, hardly warming his seat before moving on. He did not know he would be trapped at Kuang, yet he still went that way. When he asked Laozi about ancient rites, there were points of ceremony he still did not understand; when he questioned the lord of Tan about offices named after birds, there too were things he did not know. On the road he did not know where the crossing was and sent someone to inquire—without realizing that the person he asked would ridicule him and refuse to direct him. In that light, he need not have asked at all. He stepped down from his carriage to pursue the man singing “Feng xi,” not knowing the singer would not stop; he visited Nanzi, not knowing the visit would do him no good.

Incidents of this kind are too many to recount. If so, what is strange about not knowing the methods of immortals? Yet ordinary Confucians say that what the sage could not do, no one else can do either.

Some people could live underwater; Mother Liang could transform into fire; Zibo could endure extreme heat, and Zhongdu could withstand bitter cold. Zuo Ci could be cut apart by weapons and come back to life; Ganshi could go without grain for a full year; Fan Yi was hacked with blades yet the blades could not harm him; Bi Ling died and his corpse drifted on the water, then he revived. Shaoqian could command a hundred ghosts; Changfang could shrink the earth’s veins and thereby shorten the road; Zhongfu could turn into a wild duck at dawn, and Zhang Kai could blow and raise mist and clouds. Yet one never hears that the Duke of Zhou or Confucius did such things.

Some say the Duke of Zhou and Confucius could have done them too—they simply chose not to.

I replied to him: If one does not rely on what is clearly recorded in written sources and only uses vague talk to prove a point, I could just as well say that the Duke of Zhou and Confucius could spread their wings and roam the eight directions, raise clouds and send rain, move mountains and uproot wells—they simply chose not to do so. When matters not grounded in books are taken as evidence, how many things could one not say at will?

If it were really as you say, I could also say that the Duke of Zhou and Confucius had both become immortals, only that this path cannot be used to instruct the world. They feared that if everyone knew one could live forever without dying, all would abandon supporting their families and pursuing fame and office, and rashly cultivate this way. Then homes would have no descendants, the state no subjects and officials, loyalty and filial piety would be lost, and the bonds of society would surely fall into disorder. Therefore the Duke of Zhou and Confucius secretly cultivated themselves while hiding the method from others; outwardly they appeared bound to die, while in reality they had become transcendent immortals (shangxian). If that were so, on what grounds could you refute me? Such a reading is not necessarily impossible.

The Lingbao Jing (a Daoist scripture) contains three sections—“Correct Mechanism,” “Balance,” and “Flying Tortoise Bestowing the Register”—all concerning the arts of becoming an immortal. When the King of Wu quarried stone to build a palace, he found a golden brief written in purple characters between the blocks. Unable to read it, he sent an envoy to ask Confucius, but deceived him by saying: “When the King of Wu was at leisure, a red sparrow brought a document and placed it in the hall. We do not understand its meaning, and have come from afar especially to ask.”

After reading it, Confucius said: “This is a method from the Lingbao Jing, a way to long life. Yu the Great once practiced this method; he later withdrew to live among the waters, his lifespan matched heaven and earth, and he could attend court in the Purple Court (Ziting). When Yu was about to become an immortal, he sealed this book in a stone casket in a famous mountain; now the red sparrow has brought it again—perhaps heaven is conferring it.”

From this it appears that Yu the Great did not die, and that Confucius knew of it. How then can one be sure that Confucius did not likewise withdraw among the waters, with a lifespan matching heaven and earth and attendance at the Purple Court?

From this perspective, Xia Yu may not have died after all, and Confucius knew of it—how then can we be sure Confucius did not secretly cultivate the path of longevity? Even if sages do not practice such arts, that is no proof they are ineffective.

People’s likes differ. Using faces as an analogy makes the point easily: what fits one’s heart, one will do even when the matter is small; what does not, one will not learn even when the benefit is great. Some prefer bitterness and dislike sweetness—this is common enough; many grasp profit and cast aside righteousness.

The ancients said that what sages value most is rank, and that gathering people depends on wealth. They also said that wealth and honor are what everyone desires. Yet since antiquity, some have been offered imperial thrones and refused; some have been given the riches of the realm and would not take them. They scorned high office and rich stipends, declined offers of precious goods, chose the pure life of mountains and forests, and were content with humble pursuits such as fishing. Such people are beyond counting.

It is also said that sexual love and food are humanity’s two great desires. Hence some are lost in beauty and cannot be turned back; others can forget fine flavors. Since antiquity, some have cut off grain, renounced delicacies, taken no wife or concubine, lived apart in detachment, found inner sufficiency, rejoiced even in their own shadow, delighted in drinking water alone, and forgot the taste of food. Such people too are innumerable.

As a rule, people love beautiful women and graceful, delicate figures. Yet the Yellow Emperor took the homely Mogong as wife and cherished her deeply; Lord Chen also favored the plain-looking Dunqia. Noses usually love fragrance—perfumes such as liuhuang, yujin, orchids, and styrax, and herbs such as jiangli, jieche, spring orchid, and autumn orchid, are worth as much as jade—yet by the sea there was a woman who followed her foul-smelling husband and would not leave him.

King Wen of Zhou loved insipid pickled vegetables and would not swap them for the flavor of the ta lai sacrifice; Emperor Ming of Wei loved the sound of drilling and would not exchange it for the harmony of string and bamboo. Hearts differ—how can one demand that everyone share the same taste?

Note: The original ends with repeated and misjoined text; this interpretation follows the passages that read coherently.

Emperor Ming of Wei enjoyed the sound of pestle and chisel striking stone, yet he would not have them replace the harmonious music of silk strings and bamboo pipes. Each person’s tastes differ—how can one demand that everyone be identical?

The Duke of Zhou and Confucius each held their own views and did not believe in the way of immortals. Even the sun and moon have places they do not reach, and even sages have things they do not know. How can one, because sages never did a certain thing, conclude that there are no immortals under heaven? That is like faulting the sun and moon for failing to shine inside an upside-down basin.

Someone asked: “Did the immortals of antiquity all become immortals through study and cultivation? Or were they born with an uncommon endowment from the start?”

Ge Hong uses the practice of cultivating the Dao to illustrate that neither learning nor seeking the Dao is easy. Disciples often have to carry book chests and follow their teacher for long years of hard work—braving frost and danger, traveling through wind and rain, and personally sweeping, cleaning, and serving. First they must be tested through keeping faith and proper conduct; later they must endure trials of hardship and suffering. Only those whose character is firm, whose behavior is upright, and in whose hearts there is no resentment or divided loyalty have a chance to draw closer to the teacher and learn in depth.

Some slack off halfway; some leave in resentment; some are lured back to worldly affairs by glory and profit; others are shaken by heterodox teachings and lose their aspiration for simplicity. Still others begin practice in the morning and already expect success by evening, or sit in cultivation and immediately wait for results. Those who can see wealth and beauty without their minds wavering, and hear worldly talk without losing heart, are rare even among ten thousand. Therefore those who practice are as numerous as hairs on an ox, while those who truly achieve something are as scarce as the horn of a qilin.

To draw a strong bow, one must put force into releasing the arrow; to cross a great river, one must persist until one truly reaches the far bank. If a well has not yet reached spring water, one should not stop digging; if a road is not yet finished, one should not halt. A long road cannot be walked in a brief moment; a lofty terrace reaching the clouds is not piled from a single basket of earth. Those who climb high often run out of strength near the top; those who cultivate the Dao often fail to hold firm in aspiration just when success is near.

Grain filling a thousand granaries does not come from one season’s plowing; a tree towering into the clouds does not grow in ten or fifteen days; a pool bottomless in depth forms from water gathering drop by drop; the wealth of Lord Tao Zhu (Fan Li, the legendary merchant) was surely built through long accumulation. When others step back, one still moves forward—this is why Yinzi (a legendary Daoist cultivator) was able to exhaustively pursue the utmost Dao; remaining the same from start to finish and staying as reverent and careful at the end as at the beginning—this is why Xianmen (a legendary immortal) was able to reach a realm like dragons and clouds. As long as my aspiration is truly firm, what are they by comparison?

In the Baopuzi, Ge Hong says that ordinary people do not know how to nurture life, yet keep doing things that harm it. What is limited cannot satisfy endless drain; river water cannot fill a bottomless vessel. When income is small and spending large, daily life is hard enough—how much more when there is no replenishment at all, only constant expenditure many times over?

People fall ill at every age; only the severity differs. The innate Yuanqi (original vital energy each person receives) is not the same in everyone: those with ample Yuanqi use it up slowly; those with little use it up quickly. Those who understand the way of nurturing life seek to supplement and regulate, first restoring the body to its proper state and then pursuing further gain. If people could take nourishing medicines every day and at once become light enough to fly, or if regular daoyin (breath and movement practices for body and mind) quickly produced wings, no one in the world would disbelieve in the arts of the Dao. The problem is that the benefits of medicine, tu na (breath cultivation), and the like are slight at first while the cost in time and effort is long; before the foundation is firm, cold and other injuries arrive one after another. People do not see that the fault lies in their own practice and say the arts are useless, then abandon medicine and stop tu na.

So is long life hard to attain? What is hard is hearing the way of nurturing life; is hearing hard? What is hard is acting on it; is acting hard? What is hard is persisting to the end. A skilled craftsman can hand over compass and tools but cannot guarantee fine workmanship; a clear teacher can transmit methods and texts but cannot guarantee the student will practice. Cultivating the Dao is like sowing seed: the hardest part is seeing it through to harvest. Even with rich soil and ample water, if the season is missed and the field is not truly tilled, though grain may cover the furrows, none is reaped or gathered—the more fields, the more empty hands.

Ordinary people not only fail to see that benefit too accumulates bit by bit; they also fail to see that harm accumulates gradually. Loss is easy to notice and comes quickly; gain is hard to notice and comes slowly. If they cannot grasp obvious loss, how can they recognize slow gain? Loss is like a lamp slowly burning oil—hard to notice until the oil is suddenly gone; gain is like seed sprouting and stalks growing—hard to notice until the crop is suddenly lush. Therefore in tending the body and nurturing character, one must watch the small: do not neglect accumulation because a small benefit seems invisible; do not neglect caution because a small harm seems harmless. Many small things make a great result; repeated accumulation reaches abundance. To cherish small benefits and let success grow from little to much is to approach understanding the way of nurturing life.

Someone asked: “In ancient times, was there anyone who did no cultivation at all yet happened to live forever without dying?”

Baopuzi replied: “Nothing of the sort. Some people followed enlightened masters, cultivating and accumulating merit over many years, and received elixirs their teachers had refined; others obtained secret methods and compounded them according to the formulas. Their deeds were not known to the world and did not circulate widely among ordinary people, so historical records preserve only their names and cannot fully describe how they became immortals—hence the gaps in the accounts.

“The Yellow Emperor could speak from birth and command the hundred spirits—one might say he was born with extraordinary endowment; yet he still could not attain the Dao by sitting still and doing nothing. He ascended Mount Wangwu to receive alchemical scriptures; went to Dinghu to refine flowing pearls; climbed Mount Kongtong to consult Guangchengzi; traveled to Mount Juci to visit Dayou; went to Mount Dongdai to learn from Zhonghuang; entered Jingu Valley to question Juanzi. On nurturing life he sought instruction from Xuan Nü and Su Nü; on calendrical and astronomical calculation he consulted Shan Ji and Li Mu; on celestial divination he took in the counsel of Feng Hou; on examining the body he received transmission from Lei Qi; on military strategy he applied the five-tone method; on spirits and strange beings he recorded the teachings of Baize; on reading the land he noted the doctrines of Qing Wu; on healing wounds and injuries he gathered the arts of metal refinement. Because he fully mastered the secret essentials, exhaustively investigated principle, and completely obtained the true methods, he finally rode a dragon upward and endured as long as Heaven and Earth.

“Yet when one examines texts such as the Scripture of Immortals, all say that the Yellow Emperor and Laozi served Taiyi Yuanjun (a divine immortal title) and received crucial secrets from him. If even sages like the Yellow Emperor and Laozi acted thus, how much more those who fall short of them? How could anyone become an immortal and leave the world without transmission? One has never heard of such a thing.”

Someone asked again: “If the Yellow Emperor truly became an immortal, why is there still his tomb at Mount Qiao?”

Baopuzi replied: According to the Jingshan jing and the Longshou ji, after the Yellow Emperor took the divine elixir, a dragon came to receive him. The ministers admired the Yellow Emperor but did not know what to do; some took his desk and staff and built a temple to worship him; others took his hat and robes, buried them, and guarded the tomb. The Liexian zhuan says the Yellow Emperor himself chose the day he would leave the world, returned seventy days after departing, and was later buried at Qiao Mountain (some records say “Hou Mountain”). When he suddenly passed away, there was no body in the tomb—only a sword and shoes remained. Though these accounts differ in detail, they all hold that the Yellow Emperor became an immortal.

There are many passages in Daoist scriptures and the writings of the various schools about the Yellow Emperor’s immortality. Confucians, unwilling to promote the strange and bizarre or open the door to heterodox views, therefore emphasize ritual and teaching; matters of immortals are also unsuited to instructing the common people, so they say the Yellow Emperor had died, in order to settle the people’s hearts.

Zhu Ba, Luan Ba, and Lord Yu had shown kindness to the people, and while they were still alive the people built temples to worship them. When men of outstanding virtue in antiquity passed away, their ministers would inscribe their achievements on objects meant to endure. Today, when an official is transferred, it is common for people who miss him to erect steles praising his virtue. All of this resembles the case of the Yellow Emperor having both temples and a tomb—how can one take that as proof that he must have died?

Someone asked: Peng Zu lived eight hundred years, and An Qisheng lived three thousand—both far beyond ordinary people. If there truly were methods of long life without death, why did they not go on cultivating and become immortals? Could it be that each person’s endowment and lifespan are fixed in length, and they merely happened to live longer than others, yet could not extend life further, so in the end they still could not escape aging and death?

Baopuzi replied: According to the Pengzu jing, Peng Zu once assisted Emperor Ku, later assisted Yao, passed through the Xia dynasty down to the Shang, and served as a grand officer…

Baopuzi replied: According to the Pengzujing (Scripture of Peng Zu), Peng Zu had assisted Emperor Yao and lived from the Xia dynasty through the Shang, where he served as a grand officer. The Shang ruler sent palace women to learn from him the art of the bedchamber—ancient methods of nurturing health through relations between men and women. When he saw that the method truly worked, he wished to kill Peng Zu so that his art would not spread. Peng Zu perceived this and fled. By the time he left, he had already lived seven or eight hundred years; he had not simply died.

The Huangdi Shigong Ji (Record of the Yellow Emperor and Lord Shi) states that more than seventy years after Peng Zu departed, his disciples saw him west of the Flowing Sands (Liusha), which is enough to show that Peng Zu did not die. His disciples Qingyi Niangong, Heixue Gong, Xiumei Gong, Baitu Gongzi, Lilou Gong, Taizujun, Gaoqiuzi, and Bukenlai each lived several hundred years and, in the Shang period, ascended as immortals and departed. How, then, could Peng Zu have died? Liu Xiang’s Liexian Zhuan (Biographies of Immortals) likewise treats Peng Zu as an immortal.

Master Anqi sold medicines by the seashore; for generations people in the Langya region reported seeing him, and by reckoning he had lived a thousand years. The First Emperor of Qin once invited him to converse, and they talked for three days and three nights. Master Anqi’s words were profound in meaning and far-reaching in intent, broad in scope and well grounded, and the First Emperor was greatly astonished. He rewarded him with gold and jade worth tens of millions. Master Anqi accepted the gift, left the gold and jade at Fuxiang Pavilion, and in return sent a pair of red jade shoes with a letter saying, “After several thousand more years, come find me on Mount Penglai.” This shows that when the First Emperor met him, he had already lived a thousand years; he had not died.

The First Emperor of Qin was obstinate, violent, and deeply suspicious—arguably the person in the realm least inclined to believe in immortals. He would not have tolerated answers he could not trust. Yet when he asked Master Anqi about longevity, Anqi’s replies were reasonable and led the First Emperor to realize that the way of immortals might truly exist in the world. He honored him with rich gifts and genuinely wished to learn the art of long life without death; he simply failed to meet a true teacher and was later deceived and toyed with by men such as Lu Ao and Xu Fu, so in the end he did not succeed.

If what Master Anqi said had no basis, then over three days and three nights of conversation the First Emperor would have had ample opportunity to press him until his reasoning collapsed. In that case Anqi would surely have faced execution and the cauldron, and how could he have received such lavish gifts from the First Emperor?

Someone asked: “In this world there are people who take medicinal preparations, practice circulating qi, and perform daoyin (guiding and pulling exercises), yet they still cannot escape death—why is that?”

Baopuzi replied: “Without obtaining the Golden Elixir, how can one achieve longevity?

“Some people never obtain the Golden Elixir and only take plant-based drugs and practice minor techniques; at best they can extend life and delay death—they cannot become immortals. Some know only how to take herbal medicines but do not understand the crucial methods of returning to youth and fangzhong (bedroom arts); in the end they cannot survive for long.

“Some do not understand how to wear divine talismans, observe prohibitions and taboos, meditate on the body’s spirits, and guard the True One (zhiyi—steadfastly holding to the spirit within and primordial qi); at most this can keep internal illness from arising and ward off wind-damp afflictions. If they suddenly meet malicious ghosts, evil spirits, mountain sprites, or poisonous harm, they may still lose their lives.

“Some do not know the arts for entering the mountains, provoke the mountain gods to send calamity, and are also tested by demons and ghosts, hurt by fierce beasts, afflicted by poisonous streams and waters, or bitten by snakes and scorpions—there are many such causes of death.

“Others begin cultivating the Dao very late, after the body has already been deeply damaged, and it is hard to repair. Before the effects of mending the body appear, illness returns; the body is worn down again and again—how then can one achieve longevity? Some who start cultivating only in old age still become immortals, while some who begin in youth never succeed…”