《无能子》

Wunengzi was an intimate friend of mine, unconstrained by formalities. In his youth his learning was broad and his desires few; as he grew older he became adept at investigating the principles of things and exhaustively examining human nature, even to the point of inquiring into the root of life.

During the Huang Chao rebellion he moved from place to place to escape the calamities of war, with no fixed residence. Cold and hunger he met with calm indifference. In the third year of Guangqi the emperor was stationed in the region of Bao, and warfare still continued on every side. Wunengzi lodged in the house of a family surnamed Jing in the capital region, deliberately concealing himself. He lived in a humble common dwelling, mingling with all sorts of people, yet his manner remained tranquil and composed.

By day he liked to lie down, but he did not sleep. While reclining he would write a sheet or two; when he rose he tucked the paper into his bosom and never showed it to anyone else. From the ren-shen day of mid-spring to the ji-hai day of late spring he filled several dozen sheets, rolled them up, and put them in a bag, as if he had composed a work. I privately took them out and read them, and found that they mostly recorded things he had heard and things he had seen with his own eyes, together with exchanges of question and answer he had once had with his brothers and friends. The guiding purpose of the book is to clarify the principles of the natural and to inquire into the source of human nature and life. It advocates according with the natural and refraining from willful, contrived action, and holds that human nature and life are originally without desire. For this reason he treated the teachings of ritual with a certain economy, and was little concerned with worldly affairs.

Those who understand these principles will believe them without any explanation; as for those who do not understand, can they on that account be without fault? I therefore arranged the contents by categories, compiling them into thirty-four chapters in all, divided into three volumes—upper, middle, and lower—to be left for those who understand these principles to read. I had already come to know carefully Wunengzi’s conduct, his experiences, and his inner mind; therefore I do not write his personal name, nor do I record his travels or his official service.

Wunengzi, Upper Volume

Chapter One: The Faults of the Sages

When Heaven and Earth had not yet separated, there was only a single mass of chaotic Qi (vital energy). This Qi filled Heaven and Earth and later divided into the two forms of Heaven and Earth: clear Qi and turbid Qi, light Qi and heavy Qi. What was light and clear rose as Yang and became Heaven; what was heavy and turbid sank as Yin and became Earth. Heaven, firm and vigorous, is in motion; Earth, soft and compliant, is at rest. All of this arose spontaneously from Qi. After Heaven and Earth had settled, the Qi of Yin and Yang joined together, and so the naked creatures, the scaly creatures, the hairy creatures, the feathered creatures, and the shelled creatures all came into being. Human beings belong to the naked creatures. Like the other kinds of creatures, they were born of the joining of the Qi of Yin and Yang between Heaven and Earth, and there is nothing that sets them apart.

Some say that human beings differ from other creatures. Is this not simply because humans regard themselves as more special than the scaly, feathered, hairy, and shelled kinds? And does the supposed difference not lie in the fact that humans can think and speak? Yet from birds and beasts down to the tiniest creatures, all cherish life and avoid death, fashion nests and dens, seek food, and also reproduce, nurture, and protect their own kind. This is no different from humans cherishing life, building dwellings, seeking clothing and food, and bearing and raising children. How can one say that they lack the capacity to think? Birds, beasts, and small creatures each have their calls. Who can determine that there is no language among the members of their kinds? Humans do not understand their sounds and therefore say that they cannot speak; then, since they do not understand human speech, might they not equally say that humans cannot speak? Their calls must also be language. How can one say that they are unable to express themselves? Thought and language belong both to humans and to other creatures; the difference between them lies only in bodily form. Among the scaly, hairy, feathered, and shelled kinds of animals, bodily forms likewise differ from one another. Human forms have both similarities and differences, and it is not simply that humans differ from the other creatures.

Alas, Heaven and Earth are nothing more than vast things formed by the Qi of Yin and Yang. The naked creatures, the scaly creatures, the feathered creatures, the hairy creatures, and the shelled creatures are all living beings born of the harmonious blending of Qi within this vast Heaven and Earth, just as rivers and seas contain fish and turtles, and mountains and ridges nurture grasses and trees. In remote antiquity, humans lived mingled with the various animals. Male and female coupled of themselves; there was no distinction between man and woman or husband and wife, nor the statuses of father and son or of brothers. In summer they lived in nests, and in winter they sheltered in caves; there was no institution of houses. They ate raw flesh and drank raw blood; there was no planting of the hundred grains. While alive they roamed freely, and when dead they fell to the ground. They had no thought of plunder or harm, nor any practice of burying corpses. They accorded with what is natural and preserved their inborn nature. No one governed or herded them, and their life was plain and whole. This condition lasted a very long time.

Later, among the naked creatures, the deliberations of some gradually increased, and thus humankind came into being. They established rules and measures to restrain the scaly, hairy, feathered, and other animals. They also taught people to sow seed and to take the hundred grains as food, and thus there came to be farm tools such as the plow and the plowshare. They cut timber and raised earth to build houses, and thus there came to be tools such as axes and adzes. They regulated marriage so as to distinguish men and women, and thus there came to be the statuses of husband and wife, father and son, and brothers. They made inner and outer coffins, burial garments, and coverlets with which to bury the dead, and thus there came to be the rites of mourning and burial. They knotted nets to catch scaly, hairy, and feathered animals, and thus there came to be the methods of cooking meat for food. The condition of pure simplicity and naturalness was thereby dispersed, and people began to give rise to feeling and desire. Even so, at that time the strong were strong of themselves and the weak weak of themselves, and no one yet imposed control upon them.

Those of still greater deliberation then chose one person from among the multitude to lead them all, calling him “ruler” and calling the multitude “subjects.” The ruler put the subjects to service, and the subjects dared not set themselves above the ruler; thus there came to be the distinction between ruler and subject and an order of the honored and the humble. The honored stood higher, while the multitude occupied the same rank. In later ages, noble titles and stipends were further established to mark off grades, and thus there came to be the difference between noble and base and the gap between rich and poor. People called those of abundant deliberation “sages.” Thereafter, the lowly envied the honored and the poor envied the wealthy, and the mind of contention arose.

Those called sages were troubled by this and deliberated, saying: “At the outset everyone was whole and simple. Who called them ‘human beings’? It was we who forcibly gave them the name ‘human,’ and thus humans came to be distinguished from the other creatures. At the outset there was neither baseness nor honor. Who established ruler and subject? It was we who forcibly set them up, and only then were there rulers and subjects. At the outset there was neither grasping nor desire. From where did titles and stipends come? It was we who forcibly divided them, and only then were there honor and disgrace. Now the original genuineness and wholeness of human beings have already grown thin, desire has grown heavy, and the mind of contention has grown along with them. Contention will lead to plunder, and plunder will give rise to disorder. What is to be done?”

One whose deliberation was still greater answered: “I have a method.” Thereupon they established the teachings of humaneness, righteousness, loyalty, and trustworthiness, together with the institutions of ritual and music, in order to restrain people. When a ruler made his subjects suffer, it was called harshness; when subjects encroached upon the ruler, it was called rebellion; when a father did not love his children, it was called unkindness; when children did not respect their father, it was called unfiliality; when brothers were not harmonious, it was called a want of fraternal amity and a want of brotherly deference; when husband and wife could not remain exclusively devoted and harmonious with each other, it was called unchastity and discord. If people acted according to these norms, they were judged “right”; if they did not, they were judged “wrong.” To conform to the norms brought glory, and to violate them brought humiliation. Thus people took conformity as honor and violation as shame, and the mind of contention was for a time held down.

In later generations, desire burned still more fiercely. People abandoned humaneness, righteousness, loyalty, and trustworthiness, overstepped the norms of ritual and music, and began to contend once more. Those called sages felt regret and, having no alternative, established penal laws and set armies in motion in order to control the situation: lesser offenses were dealt with by punishment, and greater conflicts were settled by war. Thereupon the state was filled with punishments such as confinement, yokes and fetters, flogging, and exile, and the world was covered with campaigns raised by blades, spears, bows, and arrows. The calamities of ruined families and fallen states followed one upon another without cease, and the suffering of the common people—hardship, poverty, early death, and affliction—likewise had no end.

Alas, human beings became human only by according with what is natural. Later, however, people deliberately built houses and fixed patterns of food and drink so as to arouse desire; they forcibly distinguished noble and base, honored and humble, so as to stir up contention; they forcibly promoted humaneness, righteousness, ritual, and music so as to damage original genuineness; and they used penal laws and punitive expeditions to injure and destroy life. They pursued the branches and forgot the root, threw feeling and inborn nature into disorder, and wore life away. Lost in the midst of this, they harmed one another, and from ancient times to the present it has never ceased. This is the fault of those who are called sages.

What is called the “root” is to take Wuwei (non-action) as the foundation of the mind. The human bodily form depends on it in order to be established. It remains constant and unchanging, and never becomes exhausted—just as fire may be used to burn, yet one cannot take away its heat and flame, and water may be used to moisten, yet one cannot take away its wetness.

Draw upon it, and it does not thereby take possession; forget it, and it does not thereby disappear. When the mind is active, it can discern forms as fine as an autumn hair and distinguish sounds as faint as those of mosquitoes; when the mind is still, it cannot see the lofty mountains, nor hear the peals of thunder. It is vast enough to contain heaven and earth, and minute enough to enter the space between eyebrow and eyelash. Elusive and hard to grasp, it neither comes nor goes; subtle and hard to put into words, it neither increases nor decreases.

Chao Fu and Xu You (legendary recluses) lived in seclusion, and Yuan Gong and Qili Ji (two of the Four Elders of Mount Shang) withdrew from the world: these were ways of guarding the root alone and cultivating one’s good nature in solitude. Yao passed the throne to Shun, Shun passed it to Yu, and Yu passed it to Qi; Tang of Shang banished Jie of Xia, and King Wu of Zhou campaigned against Zhou of Shang: all of these were the exercise of the pivot of adaptive response, so as to benefit the whole world.

One who understands this principle may live in seclusion when seclusion is fitting, and may take office when taking office is fitting; according with things and bringing affairs to completion, such a person is open-hearted and unencumbered by private feeling. One who does not understand chases after cravings and desires, following the lead of the ears and eyes, and all day long does not know how to employ the original mind, muddled and wholly unaware. Whoever can illuminate the myriad things with unobstructed light, and accord with the harmony of what is natural, will find that the fundamental Dao (the Way), which is “nameless,” manifests where nothing seems to be seen.

Nature (xing) is Shen (spirit), and life (ming) is Qi (vital energy). Nature and life depend on each other within the void and, in the natural state, give rise to one another, just as the xun and the chi (two ancient musical instruments) answer each other, and just as Yin-Yang harmonize with each other. The bodily form (the human body) is the vessel in which nature and life take lodging, just as fire dwells in firewood: without fire, the firewood will not burn; without firewood, fire cannot give light. The body cannot be established apart from nature and life, and nature and life become manifest through the body. Nature and life are therefore born in emptiness and stillness within the natural state, while the body, through coagulation and stagnation, ultimately returns to death. What the natural brings to life, even when silent and soundless, is forever alive; what the natural brings to death, even when it moves and stirs, is in the end dying. People today love life and loathe death, yet they do not understand the principle of natural life and death. Seeing the body grow still and collapse, they grow anxious over it. They spend their mental effort sustaining the life that belongs to the natural, while insisting on clinging to the body that the natural will in the end cause to die. The more urgently they try to hold on to the body, the further they stray from true vitality. It is like trying to make a feather sink and a stone float—utterly muddled.

Without Worry, the Fourth

What people most loathe is death. The bodily form growing still and collapsing is death. The human body is made up of blood and flesh, ears and eyes; if these cannot remain empty, still, and spiritually luminous, they cease to be what life depends on. One therefore need not wait until the body is motionless and has collapsed before calling it death: even while the body is still active and hurrying about, it already stands within what must die. That it can still move and hurry about is because it relies on nature and life, which are originally undying; it is not that the body itself is able to move and hurry about. The body is inherently bound to die, so death does not occur only in the present moment. If one does not confine death to the present moment, there is then no death left to cling to. Although death is what people most loathe, if there is no death to fear, then beyond the bodily form, what is there that could disturb the supreme harmony within me—that state of peace and balanced accord?

Questioning Delusion, the Fifth

People everywhere pursue wealth, high rank, and a fine reputation, yet they do not know when to stop. What is called wealth and high rank is nothing more than an abundance of things one possesses. At its extreme, the greatest are emperors and kings, and the lesser are dukes and marquises. They wear the ceremonial robes of rulers and dwell in palaces; when they go forth they have processions and guards, and so they are called emperors and kings. They wear caps and hairpins, their carriages and horses clamor, and they hold banners and weapons, and so they are called dukes and marquises. Without ceremonial robes, palaces, processions, cap ornaments, carriages and horses, and weapons—all these things—where would the status of emperor, king, duke, or marquis exist? All of these are things. When things are abundant, this is called wealth and high rank; once there is wealth and high rank, there are the titles of emperor, king, duke, and marquis. Thus wealth and high rank are nothing more than an abundance of things. Things are what people are able to make and possess. Yet people are deluded, and instead take an abundance of things for wealth and high rank, and the lack of things for poverty and low station. They then delight in wealth and high rank and feel shame at poverty and low station, and in seeking wealth and high rank there is nothing they will not do. From ancient times to the present, although people have had moments of clarity, they have never truly awakened. How powerful the force of things is!

What is called a fine reputation is nothing more than filial conduct at home, loyalty in serving one’s superiors, trustworthiness with friends, integrity in the face of wealth, outstanding talent and skill, and the like. All of these are standards exalted by the so-called sages and used to restrain the foolish. What receives a fine reputation is, in the end, only the human bodily form. Without that form, a person would be like the vast empty sky, and neither blame nor praise would have anywhere to attach. The human form is merely a vessel holding flesh and blood, a turbid thing: it gathers in the morning and may fall apart by evening. What fine reputation is there worth boasting of? Nowadays people all lose their natural inborn nature and turn instead to chasing these reputations, even becoming cunning and falsely adorned. Why is this? The so-called sages have misled them.

People of ancient and modern times all regard those close to them as blood kin, and so they concentrate their feelings upon them: when together they rejoice, when apart they long for one another, when ill they worry, and when dead they weep. Yet people throughout the world are the same as one’s kin: all have hands and feet, bellies and backs, ears and eyes, mouths and noses, heads and necks, eyebrows and hair. On what basis are they distinguished from one another? What creates the distinction is only names. One is distant from the people of the world because they are unfamiliar with one another; one is close to kin because they are familiar with one another. Yet if one takes apart a person’s hands and feet, belly and back, ears and eyes, mouth and nose, head and neck, eyebrows and hair, and searches separately for the so-called body, nothing at all can be found. On what basis, then, can one say who is kin and who is a stranger in the world? All these distinctions are forcibly drawn by people according to names. If the terms for kin were used to address all people under heaven, then all people under heaven would become kin. If one became as familiar with all people under heaven as with one’s own kin, then they too could all become kin. Where is there any principle that feeling should belong exclusively to certain people?

Those who do not confine filial piety and kindness to particular objects can treat all people under heaven with a heart of filial piety and kindness. Those who are partial give filial piety and kindness only to a single household. If the filial piety and kindness within a household know no restraint, people bring suffering upon one another through the entanglement of feeling, and filial piety and kindness become a burden instead. Once such relationships decay, falseness appears, and suspicion and resentment may arise even between fathers and sons, elder and younger brothers. Zhuangzi said: “When fish are stranded on dry land and moisten one another with their saliva, this is not as good as leaving one another undisturbed in the rivers and lakes.” These words cut to the heart of the matter. Fish forget one another in the rivers and lakes; people likewise forget one another within what is natural to human life. Each accords with their own inborn nature, and all can be at ease. Therefore, those who understand do not confine their feelings exclusively to a few objects.

The balance and the mirror are both objects made by human beings. People fashion them themselves, yet they ask the scale about light and heavy and turn to the mirror to tell beauty from ugliness. Why is this? Because the scale has no partiality, and so can be level and impartial; the mirror has no partiality, and so can reflect clearly. If even objects without a mind can be level and bright, then should a person polish away deliberate distinctions and make the inner mind limpid, empty, and still, that state of mind will be deep, far-reaching, and lucid, hard to fathom. As I see it, such a person can coexist with heaven and earth without boundary, merge into the vast, pure, and harmonious Qi (vital energy) without growing weary, and nothing in the world will be able to contend with him.

The nature of water is this: block it, and it grows clear and still; open a channel, and it flows; rise into the clouds, and it becomes rain; seep into the soil, and it moistens the myriad things. When it becomes rivers and seas, it does not boast of its vastness; when it falls into a pit, it is not ashamed of its narrowness. It joins the hundred streams without tiring and nourishes all things without refusing—it is the most soft and yielding. Thus Lao Dan (Laozi) said, “The soft and weak surpass the hard and strong.” To set aside deliberate mental exertion, make the substance of the mind empty and still, and single-mindedly nurture Qi until softness is reached—this is to be one who has obtained the root of the natural.

Water flows toward what is moist, fire tends toward what is dry, clouds gather with the dragon, and wind rises with the tiger: these are all principles of natural resonance. That Shen (spirit) summons Qi, and that Qi moves in accord with Shen, is much the same. One who understands the mutual responsiveness among natural things, and who concentrates on returning the Mysterious Female (Xuanpin, which Daoism takes as the source that generates all things) to its root, draws near to the state of release from bonds and ease in liberation.

Birds fly in the air and fish swim in the water not by any technique deliberately exercised, but of themselves. Birds and fish do not themselves know how they fly or how they swim; if they first set their minds to calculating how to proceed, they would instead fall or drown. It is like a person’s feet being able to run and hands being able to grasp, ears being able to hear and eyes being able to see, without any need to learn first. In running, grasping, hearing, and seeing, the body responds naturally as occasions arise, and one need not think before acting. Maintain this natural constancy for a long time, and one can commune with the vast and boundless realm; emptiness and stillness are also the mind’s original state.

Nowadays people let their hands, feet, ears, and eyes follow what is natural in running, grasping, hearing, and seeing; yet when it comes to the mind, they do not let it follow what is natural, but continually disturb it. To hope, in this way, to reach peace, keen sensitivity, and unobstructed understanding is very difficult.

Lü Wang was fishing beside the Wei River. The Earl of the West (King Wen of Zhou), preparing to go hunting, first cast an oracle. The oracle text said, “What you obtain will be neither a bear nor a brown bear, but a teacher granted to you by Heaven.” Later, when he went hunting, he met Lü Wang and bowed to him again and again. Lü Wang remained seated and went on fishing, while the Earl of the West kept bowing without pause. Lü Wang stretched out his legs, smiled, and asked, “What have you come to do?” The Earl of the West answered, “The government of Yin is corrupt, and the people live in hardship. I wish to rescue them, and I am hoping for the aid of a worthy man.”

Lü Wang said, “The government of Yin will of itself become corrupt, and the people will of themselves suffer. What has that to do with you? Why have you come to disturb me?” The Earl of the West said, “A sage does not hide his abilities and attend only to his own perfection. He ought to exhaust his wisdom in aiding the myriad things of the world. Should it not be so?”

Lü Wang said, “Human beings live between Heaven and Earth together with birds, beasts, and insects; fundamentally they are all one and the same Qi (vital energy). It is like the walled cities and houses of the world, all standing in the open void: even if the walled cities and houses were entirely destroyed, the void would remain the void; even if humans, birds, beasts, and insects were all killed, Qi would still exist. How, then, can the government of Yin be called corrupt? And in what sense can the people be said to suffer? Still, since the walled cities and houses have already been built, they need not be destroyed; and since the people have already been born, they need not be killed. I will go and rescue them.” He then agreed to return with the Earl of the West in the same carriage.

Tai Dian and Hong Yao said privately to the Earl of the West, “Only because Gong Liu and Hou Ji accumulated De (Virtue/Power) and meritorious achievement do we have today’s royal enterprise. Your De has already brought glory to the work of the ancestors. The world is now divided into three parts, and you already possess two of them; your power may be called very great. Lü Wang is merely a fisherman. Why are you so humble toward him?”

The Earl of the West said, “The De of Wuwei (non-action)—virtue that accords with nature and does not act with deliberate intent—embraces Heaven and Earth. The De of purposeful action—virtue that acts positively and brings affairs to completion—can open the way for things and bring enterprises to fruition. When the Yellow Emperor and Yao were Sons of Heaven, relying on the De of purposeful action, they went to Kongtong to visit Guangchengzi and to Mount Ji to consult Xu You, yet they did not obtain even a single glance from them. How much less, when my own De does not equal that of the Yellow Emperor and Yao, can I look down upon the De of Wuwei?”

Tai Dian and Hong Yao said, “If, as you say, Great King, Lü Wang originally possesses the De of Wuwei, why does he still follow you in taking part in affairs of purposeful action?” The Earl of the West replied, “Heaven and Earth seem to practice Wuwei, yet the sun, moon, and stars travel day and night; rain, dew, frost, and snow fall in autumn and winter; rivers flow without ceasing; and grasses and trees grow without stopping. Therefore, only through Wuwei can one remain unobstructed; if one clings to purposeful action, one cannot truly achieve Wuwei.”

Hearing these words, Lü Wang knew that the Earl of the West was indeed concerned for the people and did not wish to seize the realm of Yin. He therefore led the multitude and, together with him, brought about the rise of Zhou.

If one clings to youwei (purposeful action), one becomes trapped in it and cannot practice Wuwei (non-action); Wuwei, by contrast, meets with no obstruction. When Lü Wang (Jiang Taigong) heard these words, he knew that the Earl of the West (King Wen of Zhou) was truly concerned for the people and did not seek to seize the realm of the Yin dynasty. He therefore followed him, and together they brought the Zhou dynasty to rise.

Shouyangzi’s Discourse, the Second

After King Wen died, King Wu led out his army on a punitive campaign and destroyed King Zhou. Boyi and Shuqi stopped King Wu’s horse and remonstrated: “Your father has died and is not yet buried, yet you have launched a great undertaking and mobilized a great army. This is not filial. To be a subject and yet attack one’s sovereign—this is not loyal.” Those at King Wu’s side wanted to kill them, but King Wu, deeming them men of righteous spirit, let them go. Boyi and Shuqi then withdrew to Mount Shouyang and styled themselves “Shouyangzi.”

Shouyangzi said: “When the world was in its natural state, there were originally no names and stations of ruler and subject. Later, people established the relationship of ruler and subject in order to distinguish the noble from the base. The so-called sage does no more than use cleverness and intelligence to deceive the foolish. To deceive the foolish with intelligence is falsehood. I once said to you: falsely to set up the stations of ruler and subject, falsely to bestow on the Yin dynasty the title ‘Yin’ and on King Zhou the name ‘Xin,’ and then to satisfy false desires through acts of cruelty. When Ji Fa (King Wu of Zhou) launched his war, he likewise acted from desire. Where there is desire, there is falsehood. Those who are said to seize the world by means of falsehood are themselves false men.

“Through Wuwei one can be simple and upright and accord with the principle of Heaven—how then could there still be such stations as father and son, ruler and subject? Through youwei one sinks into cravings and desires and disorders human nature; what difference is there then between filial and unfilial, loyal and disloyal? Now you have turned away from what I said before, and with false words you go to meet a false army, wishing only to win the fame of righteous men by means of bodies that must surely rot. To pursue an empty name with rotting bones is like trying to gather up a flame with the wind. That Ji Fa did not kill you is already good fortune. Even if he had killed you and you had gained the name of righteous men, what use would those rotting bones be? If a dragon flaunts its scales, or a phoenix flaunts its plumage, it will surely fall into the hands of fishermen and hunters. How lamentable—I fear you are no longer my friends!”

Boyi and Shuqi thereupon fled into Mount Shouyang, and from then on no one knew their whereabouts. Later generations held that they had starved to death.

Lord Lao’s Discourse, the Third

Confucius established rites and music, elucidated the ancient statutes and regulations, abridged and edited the Classic of Poetry and the Classic of Documents, and compiled the Spring and Autumn Annals, hoping thereby to set the order of human relations aright and to correct the intentions of rebellious ministers and villainous sons. He therefore went to visit Lao Dan.

Lao Dan said, “Governing a great state is like cooking a small fish. If one turns it over and fusses with it again and again, the small fish will fall to pieces. From ancient times, the sages created things and established institutions in order to guide the human heart, causing that heart to depart from its natural nature; and so those who harmed their inborn nature and shortened their lives appeared without cease. Now you have added still more elaborate ornament, making the human heart even more tangled. When the heart is tangled, people grow slack; when they grow slack, deceit arises; and deceit in turn makes the world still more chaotic. This is to damage natural nature and to vaunt one’s own contrivance. Calamity sent down by Heaven will surely follow.”

On hearing this, Confucius was filled with worry and fear, yet he could not stop on that account. Later he was driven from the state of Wei, met with the calamity of the felled tree in the state of Song, went hungry between Chen and Cai, and was besieged at Kuang. He hurried about in distress and could scarcely extricate himself. Turning to Yan Hui, Confucius said, “What Lao Dan said—was it not precisely of a situation such as this?”

Confucius was trapped in Kuang and, for seven days in a row, played the qin and sang without stopping. Zilu asked, “I have heard that a gentleman guards himself with thorough care, so that misfortune does not suddenly arise. You, Master, are a sage, yet you once went hungry in Chen, and now you are trapped again in Kuang. Why is this? Even while besieged you do not cease playing and singing, and your face shows no anxiety. Is there some special method?”

Confucius said, “You (Zilu’s given name), let me tell you. Whether things are right or wrong, upright or deviant, depends on a person’s actions; whether one’s circumstances are ample or meager depends on each person’s allotted fate; and whether one meets with success or hardship is shaped by the times. The sun and moon illuminate all things, yet they cannot avoid eclipses of the sun and moon. Sages and worthies possess wisdom, yet they cannot alter the favorable and adverse turns brought by allotted fate and the times. A gentleman may be benevolent toward others, but cannot make others benevolent toward himself; one may act with righteousness toward others, but cannot make others act with righteousness toward oneself. That I am besieged in Kuang is not my fault, nor can I make them refrain from besieging me. What they can surround, however, is only my body. At this moment I dwell in a realm that is empty, still, and formless, deep, remote, and obscure. I am not stirred in feeling by external things, and I do not know where sorrow would come from. And so I happen to be able to play the qin and sing—that is all.” He had not spoken for long before the people of Kuang lifted the siege and departed.

Yuan Xian lived in a humble alley. Zigong, then serving as an official in the state of Wei, rode in a carriage drawn by four horses and, with attendants, went to visit him. Yuan Xian came out wearing worn and tattered clothes. Zigong asked, “Are you ill, Master?” Yuan Xian said, “I have heard that failing to cultivate De (Virtue/Power) and righteousness is what is called illness; having no wealth can only be called poverty. I am poor; I am not ill.” On hearing this, Zigong felt ashamed, and for the rest of his life he dared not go to see Yuan Xian again.

When Confucius heard of it, he said, “Ci (Zigong’s given name), these words are mistaken. When one is constrained by outward appearance, the inner mind cannot be empty and clear; when the heart clings and will not let go, one’s nature is not pure and substantial. If the inner mind is not empty and clear, distinctions and calculations arise; if one’s nature is not limpid, pure, and substantial, the inner heart is not firm and upright. Zigong has already drawn near to pride and desire, while Yuan Xian draws near to clinging to purity. If one compares them by the clear and the turbid, how far apart are they after all?”

The fifth.

Fan Li said, the sixth.

After Fan Li had assisted King Goujian of Yue in destroying the state of Wu and killing Fuchai, he said to Grandee Wen Zhong: “I have heard that one who secretly plots to harm others will surely have calamity return upon himself. The fall of Gusu and the killing of Fuchai were both the result of the covert schemes that you and I devised. Moreover, this King of Yue is a man with whom one may share hardship, but not with whom one may share ease and prosperity. To withdraw and depart once merit is achieved and fame attained is the principle of Heaven. I intend to retire into seclusion. Are you willing to leave with me?”

Wen Zhong said: “Heaven and Earth, toward the myriad things, cause them to grow in spring and cause them to wither and die in winter. Would the myriad things, because of their dying in winter, turn about and visit disaster upon Heaven and Earth? I have heard that what the sage values is not merely seeking his own preservation, but removing harm and bringing the myriad things to fulfillment. Since one brings the myriad things to fulfillment, what is amiss in removing harm? Thus the Yellow Emperor killed Chiyou, and Shun banished the Four Fiends. Now I have removed the disorder of the state of Wu and accomplished the hegemony of the state of Yue; this too is bringing the myriad things to fulfillment and removing harm. How could calamity return upon me? Moreover, just as the King of Yue was set on destroying Wu, once he had gained you and me he would surely remain with us from beginning to end. You need not be in such haste to retire.”

Fan Li said: “It is not so. Heaven and Earth have no subjective will, nor do they govern even themselves—how much less do they govern the myriad things? Heaven and Earth are simply Heaven and Earth; the myriad things are simply the myriad things. In spring the myriad things grow because of mild warmth, and in winter they wither and die because of cold; it is not that Heaven and Earth command them to be so. Although the sage has mind and resolve, in his conduct he takes Heaven and Earth as his model. Although Heaven and Earth are without will, when the moment is set in motion there is a response; when affairs grow pressing, one follows their momentum; when affairs have passed, one moves in the opposite direction. In removing harm and bringing the myriad things to fulfillment, Heaven and Earth harbor neither aversion nor partial favor. Therefore, once harm has been removed there is no calamity, and once the myriad things have been brought to fulfillment there is likewise no blessing in return.

“Now the King of Yue, harboring a heart of resentment toward the state of Wu, bestowed stipends upon you and me and made use of our schemes. You and I, greedy for those stipends, plotted to destroy Wu and to kill men so as to establish merit, and thereby repaid the one who had given us our stipends. This is human treachery. If we claim to be modeling ourselves on Heaven and Earth in giving life to and slaying the myriad things, and modeling ourselves on the sage in removing harm and completing things, would we not be deceiving ourselves?”

When Wen Zhong heard this he was displeased. Doubt filled his heart, and for a long time he could not decide. Fan Li then took leave of Goujian, boarded a small boat, and drifted among the Five Lakes. Before long, the King of Yue put Grandee Wen Zhong to death.

When Qu Yuan served in Chu as Grand Master of the Three Clans (Sanlü Daifu), King Xiang of Chu lacked virtue. The favored sycophant Jin Shang controlled the court, and Chu was badly governed. Distressed by this, Qu Yuan remonstrated with King Xiang and urged him to dismiss Jin Shang, but the king would not listen. Qu Yuan continued to remonstrate with all his strength, and his student Song Yu advised him:

“A gentleman cultivates himself and does not harshly reproach others; he holds his abilities in check and does not display them before others. When the moment comes, he responds in keeping with it; when something is needed, he helps with all his effort. In responding to the times he seeks no profit for himself, and in helping others he does not pursue credit. Thus favor does not attach to his own name, and resentment does not gather upon him.

“Now the king of Chu is deluded by the words of sycophants and sunk in disordered government. The people of Chu all covet Jin Shang’s power and flock to side with him. You, Grand Master, stand alone, hold fast to loyalty and good faith, and argue loudly among a crowd of flatterers. Your words are not accepted, and the state is not set in order. To act in this way only makes the distinction—‘they are wrong, and I am right’—ever sharper, and brings hatred and calamity upon yourself.”

Qu Yuan said, “I have heard that a gentleman should be filial and affectionate at home, and loyal and trustworthy in office. If his aspirations are fulfilled, then even in death he is as one alive; if they cannot be fulfilled, then even while alive he is as one dead.” And so he went on remonstrating without cease.

Jin Shang resented Qu Yuan and slandered him to the king of Chu, who thereupon banished him. Qu Yuan wandered along the banks of the Xiang River, chanting in sorrow. Song Yu advised him once more:

“Earlier, when you, Grand Master, stood alone, held to loyalty and good faith, and argued loudly among the sycophants, I was already anxious for you and had urged you otherwise. You would not listen. Why, then, are you sorrowful now? Is it that you cannot bear to give up rank and stipend, or that you are troubled by the decline of Chu?”

Qu Yuan replied, “No. What grieves me is that men of loyalty and good faith are not employed, and that Chu is left ungoverned.”

Song Yu said, “You once held that, even in death, one must keep to filial piety, fraternal duty, loyalty, and good faith. If that is so, why grieve? Moreover, your appearance and body are not truly at your command: what is beautiful cannot be made ugly, nor what is ugly made beautiful; what is long cannot be made short, nor what is short made long; strength cannot be made into weakness, nor can weakness disturb the strength that was originally there. Illness cannot be driven off, and death cannot be held back. The body seems to be ‘myself,’ yet in fact it cannot be wholly controlled by me. If even your own body is like this, and still you wish Chu to be governed by yourself, your delusion is far too deep!

“A gentleman lodges himself in the world, meets the myriad things with an empty mind, and does not cling to wickedness and uprightness, right and wrong, good and evil, merit and blame. When the mind is empty, there is no way to assign guilt even to men such as Jie, Zhou, and Robber Zhi; when thoughts of filial piety remain in the mind, there is no speaking of merit even in men such as Yao, Shun, Kui, and Xie. Seen in this light, who, after all, is to judge the right and wrong of your loyalty and good faith and of Jin Shang’s wicked flattery? If no distinction is made at all, then loyalty and good faith do not differ from wicked flattery; if a distinction is made, then the one who makes it is himself nothing but deluded attachment. You have left your original genuineness to chase these delusions, relying on yourself and rejecting others. Even if the king of Chu had not banished you, you would already have turned away from yourself of your own accord.

“Now you have sought loyalty and good faith and have attained them, yet you still grieve on that account and cannot stop your sorrow. This is at once to cling to delusive thoughts and to be trapped by them.

“I have heard that understanding the times has three levels, higher, middle, and lower: to empty the mind and not cling to action is the integrity of true understanding; to keep one’s own standpoint and distinguish right from wrong is to preserve integrity; and, after insisting on one’s own distinctions, to grieve and waver because of the outcome is to lose integrity. You, Grand Master, did not understand these principles, and in the end you cast yourself into the Miluo River and died.”

Emperor Gaozu Liu Bang favored Consort Qi and wished her son, Liu Ruyi, King of Zhao, to replace Crown Prince Liu Ying. The ministers dared not argue. Empress Lü, fearing that the crown prince’s position could not be secured, sought a plan from Zhang Liang, Marquis of Liu.

Zhang Liang said, “To accomplish an extraordinary undertaking, one must have the aid of extraordinary men. I have heard that four worthy scholars live in seclusion in the Shangluo mountains: Xia Huanggong, Master Luli, Dongyuan Gong, and Qili Ji. Gaozu once summoned them, yet could not persuade them to come. If the crown prince now lowers himself to seek them, they may come. Should the four be willing to assist the crown prince as guests, they would be a great help.” Empress Lü followed Zhang Liang’s plan and sent Lü Ze to invite them.

At first the four recluses felt insulted. Later they discussed the matter among themselves, saying, “Liu Ji is magnanimous in bearing and knows how to respect us. If he cannot obtain us, he will at most feel ashamed. Lü Zhi is a woman, and her temperament is cruel. If her son Liu Ying cannot succeed to the throne, she will certainly fall into danger. She seeks us now only because her situation is perilous, and her own safety depends upon us. If we do not agree, she will surely harm us; better to agree for the time being.” And so the four came.

One day the four accompanied the crown prince into audience. Gaozu saw them and asked who the visitors were. Each gave his name. Gaozu said in astonishment, “I once invited you to leave the mountains, and you would not come. Why are you now willing to follow the crown prince?” The four replied, “Your Majesty treats others lightly, and we were unwilling to suffer humiliation; the crown prince respects others, so we are willing to accompany him as guests.” Gaozu apologized to them, then pointed to them and said to Consort Qi, “The crown prince’s support is already complete; his position can no longer be shaken.”

Grateful for the help of the four, Empress Lü intended to confer noble ranks upon them. The four, however, said to one another, “We came here to avoid disaster, not from our true hearts. If Liu Ying succeeds, Liu Ruyi will lose his standing; if Lü Zhi has her way, Consort Qi will come to grief. Now, in order to escape calamity, we have helped Liu Ying and set Liu Ruyi back, bringing joy to Empress Lü and sorrow to Consort Qi. This amounts to sacrificing others in order to preserve ourselves, and can hardly be called giving one’s life to fulfill benevolence. If we were further to endure the shame of accepting titles from a woman and take office at court, it would be like a thief who breaks into another’s house by night, steals gold and silver, and then boasts of his own wealth.” Thereupon they returned to Mount Shang. Empress Lü could not keep them. Zhang Liang, awakened by this, drew in his Qi (vital energy), cut off grain, and withdrew into seclusion.

Before Emperor Guangwu had risen to prominence, he befriended Yan Ling (Yan Guang) when both were still commoners. After Guangwu ascended the throne, Yan Ling continued to fish beside the Fuchun River. Cherishing their old friendship and also respecting his worth and virtue, Guangwu went in person to invite him to take office. Yan Ling refused.

Guangwu said, “You and I are friends. Now I am exalted as the Son of Heaven, yet you are still fishing, and I feel this is a pity for you. I have offices and noble ranks with which I can make you illustrious, and gold, silver, and treasures with which I can make you wealthy. I can set you high above ten thousand people, so that your every movement seems able to shift mountains, and a single shouted command seems able to summon wind and rain. I can bring glory to your clan and renown to your family, so that generation after generation they are enfeoffed as dukes and marquises. I can have you dwell in painted palaces, with carriages and horses coming and going without cease, wear magnificent clothes, eat precious foods, listen to bells and drums, and watch song and dance. In this life you may enjoy glory and splendor, and your name will be handed down for ten thousand generations. How can this compare with fishing all day in obscurity? You had better come with me.”

Yan Ling laughed and said, “When I first befriended you, you set your resolve on purity and loftiness and took joy in poverty and low station; there still seemed something worthy in you. Now you actually boast with words like these and use them to mislead others.

“All within the four seas has from ancient times been regarded as exceedingly vast. Yet if all under heaven is divided into ten parts, mountains, rivers, and seas take up half; the outlying regions of the Man, Yi, Rong, and Di take up three parts; and what the Middle Kingdom actually possesses is no more than one or two parts. Within this limited territory, betrayal, encroachment, campaigns, and warfare have never ceased. The honor of the Son of Heaven of the Middle Kingdom is merely this: within one or two of those ten parts of the world, he seizes a place of honor for himself by conquest and war.

“What is called honor amounts only to acting as one’s own pleasure and anger dictate upon this one or two parts of the land, and wielding the power of life and death. It amounts only to selecting timber and stone to enlarge palaces, gathering silks and treasures to adorn carriages and horses, slaughtering oxen and sheep and planting the five grains to enrich one’s food and drink, and then arranging beautiful women and playing musical instruments to please the eyes and ears. Before desire is satisfied, a person has already grown old and died. Plump flesh is in the end devoured by ants, and rotting bones are in the end buried in the soil. Ordinary men and women are no different from the Son of Heaven—where, then, is the honor of the Son of Heaven?

“You say you will use office and rank to make me illustrious; I understand. From ancient times, the titles of emperor and king, duke and marquis, minister and grandee have all been names forcibly imposed by the sages in order to distinguish the noble from the lowly, used merely to entice the foolish. You are now exalted as an emperor, yet in the past you too were a commoner. Although you have become emperor, in your own eyes how are you any different from before? These titles serve only to entice me, so that you may delight in them and show them off. Now you wish again to entice me with the titles of duke, marquis, minister, and grandee—are you not taking me for a fool?

“Titles such as these anyone can confer upon himself. If I liked these designations, I could perfectly well call myself duke, marquis, minister, or grandee; why should I wait for you to enfeoff me? You will certainly say that office and rank can give a person wealth and honor. Yet office and rank are originally only a name. The real benefit of wealth and honor lies in whether one can obtain it oneself; if one does not rely on oneself, from where does wealth and honor come? What is called the wealth and honor of office and rank is nothing more than wearing a tall cap and jade ornaments, being heralded in front and attended behind, living in a great house and wearing fine clothes, listening until one is sated with strings and pipes, and eating one’s fill of rich food. All of these are words with which you entice me; in the end, they are only things that satisfy desire.

“Carriages and horses are for getting about in place of walking, and both a fine horse and an ordinary horse can do this. Houses are for sheltering from wind and rain, and both a painted palace and a thatched hut can give shelter. Clothes are for covering the body, and both silk and coarse cloth can do this. Grain is for filling hunger, and both fragrant delicacies and plain vegetables and simple fare can do this.

“What is more, I am now immersed in Taixu (the vast, empty, and still realm) and nurturing Taihe (the peaceful and pure primordial Qi [vital energy] of heaven and earth). In movement and in stillness I contrive nothing, and I merge as one with the Qi of Yin-Yang. I have now nearly forgotten my own surname, and I let my going and staying follow what is natural. Holding my fishing rod and casting my line, I am at ease, as though merely lodging for a time in the world. Where would I find the leisure to bind my body and burden my spirit, greedily seeking those artificially established titles and satisfying empty desires?

“Besides, Wang Mang and the Gengshi Emperor once possessed all under heaven—how did that differ from your possessing all under heaven? They were the same as you: each wished to become the one honored by the Middle Kingdom. Were they truly anxious for the sake of all under heaven? Now you have launched wars and slaughter without end, exhausting the lives of the common people to satisfy your own desires. A humane person cannot bear to speak of such things, yet you do not regard them as shameful, and instead take my fishing to be a cause for shame?”

Emperor Guangwu felt ashamed, and thereafter he no longer asked Yan Ling to serve as his subject.

Master Sun Deng lived in seclusion on Mount Sumen. Ji Kang admired him and went to pay his respects, saying, “I have heard that the mayfly does not know the tortoise’s long life, and that swallows and sparrows cannot arrange a distant journey with the wild geese. My own capacity is truly too slight to receive genuine instruction. Yet when the sun and moon shine upon the earth, do they choose between broad roads and barren soil? When rain and dew moisten the myriad things, they do not favor only the orchid and the fragrant sweet-flag while abandoning mugwort and wormwood. Besides regulating body and mind and settling nature and life, I hope you might also guide me, so that I may pass beyond finite life and roam in the boundless.”

Sun Deng was silent for a long time before he replied, “Within profound and dark stillness there is something subtle and fine, yet one cannot call it a concrete Jing (essence). Within undifferentiated simplicity and fullness there is a wondrous working, yet one cannot call it a formed Shen (spirit). Jing and Shen are utterly real; they cannot be separated, nor can they be retained. What is meant by settling nature and life? What is meant by regulating body and mind? And what is the finite, what the boundless? Yet within emptiness there is a continuous, ever-returning movement, coming and going without a trace: it is the root of heaven and earth. Those who recognize it are clear-sighted; those who obtain it are honored. What you have just said has not yet touched its threshold.

“I have heard Lao Dan (Laozi) say: One skilled in trade stores treasures deep and seems to have no goods; the gentleman of De (Virtue/Power) is inwardly full, yet outwardly appears dull and simple. The mussel is split open for its pearl; the elephant is burned and killed for its tusks; the orchid is gathered and simmered because balm can be pressed from it; the kingfisher is caught because its feathers are patterned. These are things ordinary people understand. You have a gift for literary ornament, yet you lack the essential pivot of profound and dark stillness. It is like holding a bright torch whose light shoots out in every direction, and thereby drawing the displeasure of Heaven.

“I have read the Letter Breaking Off Relations that you wrote to Shan Juyuan (Shan Tao). The ‘two great things that must not be’ and the ‘seven things one cannot bear’ set out there are all words that praise yourself and blame others, which people of the time detested. One whose mind is empty feels no disturbance even in court or marketplace; one whose mind is full of desire feels no quiet even in mountain forests and secluded valleys. Office cannot change your innate nature, and seclusion cannot make your state of mind gentle and harmonious. Since office would not entangle you, it would have been enough simply not to take office. Yet you went further, cutting off intercourse with friends and adding words of self-praise and reproach, clamoring in the dusty world while wishing to seek the Dao (the Way) of long life. This is like hating your own shadow and running into the sunlight. How are you fit to hear my instruction?”

On hearing this, Ji Kang suddenly awoke to understanding. Later, he did indeed die under punishment.

Wunengzi’s household was poor. The sons of his brothers were cold and hungry and often sighed in distress. One day Tong, the son of his elder brother, said to Wunengzi, “Year after year we go hungry and freeze, yet at night we always dream of holding office and enjoying an official salary, with carriages, horses, gold, and silk in full abundance. In the dream we are happy; when we wake we are full of sorrow. How can this situation be changed?”

Wunengzi said, “Sorrow by day and joy by night cancel each other out. Why must they be changed?”

Tong said, “The joy of the night is nothing but a dream.”

Wunengzi said, “In a dream one lives in a house, rides in a carriage, wears clothes, eats meals, loves one’s wife and children, and hates one’s enemies; there are sorrow and joy, delight and anger. How do these differ from what one pursues, possesses, and experiences while awake?”

Tong answered, “They do not differ.”

Wunengzi said, “If they do not differ, how do you know that what is experienced in sleep is a dream, and that what is experienced while awake is not a dream? Moreover, a human life lasts a hundred years. Day and night each take half of it, and sorrow and joy each take half. What is there to complain of?

“If a person’s mind can return to a state of deep stillness and emptiness, of single-minded constancy—a frame of mind undisturbed by external things—then the rank of kings and marquises cannot make it noble, nor can the station of a servant make it lowly; jade, silk, and children cannot make it rich, nor can coarse food and tattered clothes make it poor. Once this state is reached, sorrow and joy have no way to arise.

“Human feeling is stirred by emotion and clings to the bodily form; it changes only when touched by external things. External things are merely what people use to obtain wealth and rank. Both the bodily form and external things are roots that will in the end rot and decay. When emotion is stirred by them, sorrow and joy arise, yet sorrow and joy are not constant. To use ever-shifting feelings to cling to a form and to external things that will ultimately decay is to be dreaming even while awake, and to make a hundred years like a single night.

“If you can return the mind to emptiness and stillness, to single-minded constancy, you will no longer cling to hunger and cold or to wealth and rank. If you remain stirred by emotion and attached to the bodily form, then both day and night are nothing but dreaming. Think on this carefully.”

Wu Nengzi had a friend of the physical form named Huayangzi. People who knew him well pressed Huayangzi to take office, so he asked Wu Nengzi in uncertainty: “I have long wished to learn no-mind (wuxin), yet taking office seems to go against my original mind. If I do not take office, I fear I will fail the kindness of those who know me. What, then, should I do?”

Wu Nengzi said: “No-mind is not something attained by study. Taking office itself does not go against no-mind. If one declines office and yet turns the matter over and over in the heart, that is attachment of a very deep kind. It is like seeing a blind man walk to the edge of a well and still leading the way in front of him.

“True Wuwei (non-action) is not doing nothing at all, but there being nothing one cannot do. One who acts from a fixed purpose is instead bound by his own preconceptions and fixations. Therefore the truly solid and sincere person accords with the constant principle, and the truly impartial person draws near to Wuwei, because such people have no selfish desires to begin with and harbor no private motives.

“If the heart is set on being a fisherman, a woodcutter, a farmer, or a herdsman, that too is having a mind. If the heart does not covet an emperor’s carriage or a marquis’s robes, that is no-mind. Thus the sage withdraws when it is time to withdraw and acts when it is time to act. When the principle favors cultivating oneself alone, Xu You and Shan Juan are not ashamed to remain commoners; when circumstances favor benefiting all under heaven, Yao and Shun do not decline to be Sons of Heaven. The no-mind they attain is in fact the same.

“When Yao and Shun held the throne, they did not regard the honor of the Son of Heaven as their own honor, and so, without any great additional effort, the world could still be well governed. Later, seeing that their sons Zhu and Jun were unworthy, they passed the throne to Shun, and Shun in turn passed it to Yu. They cast aside their sons as one removes a superfluous growth from the body, and they left the world as one spits out saliva. Thus, after ten thousand years, people still cherish them.

“The Duke of Zhou was the son of King Wen and the younger brother of King Wu, and all under heaven knew well his De (Virtue/Power). When King Cheng had grown up, circumstances did not suit the Duke’s becoming Son of Heaven himself, so he did not become Son of Heaven. When King Cheng was young, circumstances required him to exercise the ruler’s office for a time, and he did not decline. In this way he preserved the ancestral temple and the altars of soil and grain of the Zhou, saved the people of the Zhou, established lofty achievements, and his De suffered no harm. All these men were without selfish desire in the heart, and yet there was nothing they could not do.

“If you can understand this principle, then even cockfighting and dog-racing in a slaughter market, or seizing banners and slaying generals on the battlefield, can all be done—how much more so the taking of office?”

Answering Yuzhongzi’s Question, Three

Wunengzi’s intimate friend Yuzhongzi felt unwell at heart and came to Wunengzi seeking a remedy. Wunengzi asked, “Where do you feel unwell?” Yuzhongzi said, “It hurts.” Wunengzi asked again, “Where does it hurt?” He replied, “It hurts in the heart.” Wunengzi asked once more, “Where is the heart?” On hearing this, Yuzhongzi told him that his illness had already much improved. Wunengzi said, “This man may be said to possess his innate nature; the numinous light of the Shen (spirit) within his heart has not been obscured.”

Discourse on Fish, Four

On the river stands the Dragon Gate, in the ancient territory of Jin, opened by the Great Yu. The water plunges from a height of several dozen ren, roaring like thunder. Yet only a short distance away, when spring comes the great fish in the river gather in schools…

On the Yellow River there is Dragon Gate (Longmen), in the ancient territory of Jin. It is said to have been cut open by Yu the Great. The water plunges down from a height of several dozen ren, and its roar is like thunder. A stretch of river lies between the upper and lower ends of Dragon Gate. Every spring the great fish of the river gather in schools beneath the waterfall and struggle upstream against the current. Those that leap over Dragon Gate are transformed into dragons, riding the clouds and driving the rain.

The tiny fish along the bank watched them and said to one another, “They are fish as well. How can they leap up and change to such a degree? Are they still supposed to swim endlessly along the bank and crowd together into holes, the way we do?”

One of the fish said, “You are mistaken. The myriad things between heaven and earth differ in form; their bodies are large or small, and their endowments high or low. When each follows its own form and brings forth what it is able to do, all is fitting. Those fish that leap and are transformed can meet the heaving of the waves when the river rises or falls, and when the surface is calm they can rest in it at ease. Their intentions proceed smoothly, their strength is abundant, and they sink or float as they please. Only when they set their hearts wholly on transformation do they gather in schools, competing and envying one another, and hurl themselves against the waterfall. Their minds are thrown into disorder and their strength is exhausted—and only then do they bring on clouds and rain.

The coming of clouds and rain is the natural mutual response of steaming, moist Qi (vital energy). What has it to do with them? If they deliberately try to control the clouds and rain, there may come a time when they lose their footing and fall. If they are without intention and the response arises of itself, what merit is there to claim? Horns on their heads and feet beneath their bodies are no different in kind from the whiskers and fins we grow. We, with whiskers and fins, swim in the water; they, with horns and feet, leap through the air. In either case it is only a matter of according with one’s own endowment. Because we wander at ease along the bank, neither contending nor seizing, hidden in holes without care, unnoticed and unharmed—are we therefore inferior to them, who toil over horns and feet, clouds and rain?”

The Fifth Discourse of the Zhen.

The zhen bird and a snake met, and the zhen bird stepped forward to peck at the snake. The snake said, “Everyone in the world says that you are poisonous. ‘Being poisonous’ is a bad reputation. You have come to bear this evil name because you eat me. If you did not eat me, you would not be poisonous, and you would not have an evil name.”

The zhen bird laughed and said, “Are you yourself without poison toward the people of the world? When you say that I am poisonous, you are deceiving them. You harm people because you bite them on purpose. I detest your biting of people, and so I eat you; this is to punish you. People do indeed know that I can chastise you, and therefore they keep me as a guard against you. They also know that your poison will stain my feathers and my body, and so they use my poison to kill people. My poison was originally your poison. I loathe wickedness, and yet for this I am saddled with an evil name. But those who kill are in fact human beings—just as when a person takes up a weapon and kills: is the weapon to blame, or the person? It is clear, then, that this is not brought about by my poison, and the reason people keep me rather than you is equally plain. I have no wish to harm anyone. I am given an evil name only because I loathe wickedness, and then I am made use of by others. What I do is done in order to preserve myself. To preserve oneself while willingly bearing an evil name—such a name can no longer be counted an evil name. You, however, use poison with intent, running wild and doing harm among the grasses, waiting for a chance to injure people, seeking only your own satisfaction. That you have now met me is the will of Heaven. Do you still hope to scrape by and save your life with specious argument?” The snake could make no reply, and the zhen bird ate it.

Even insects ought not deliberately harm people—how much less should human beings do so?

Answering Lu’s Questions, Six

Wu Nengzi’s younger cousin, Lu, came to Wu Nengzi seeking instruction. Wu Nengzi asked, “What do you wish to learn?” Lu answered, “To learn conduct, and to learn literary composition.” Wu Nengzi said, “I do not understand what you mean by this.” Lu said, “Conduct means putting into practice what lies in one’s own heart…”

Wu Nengzi’s younger cousin Lu came to him seeking instruction. Wu Nengzi asked, “What do you wish to learn?” Lu replied, “To learn how to be a person, and to learn literary composition.” Wu Nengzi said, “I do not understand what you mean.” Lu explained, “To be a person is to act according to what the heart regards as good; literary composition and ritual are what adorn good conduct. Funeral rites take their root in grief. Grief is a feeling of the heart, while wearing the zicui mourning garments and preparing the articles of sacrifice are the outward ritual. Ritual takes its root in reverence. Reverence is a feeling of the heart, while advancing and retreating as one walks, bowing, and yielding are the outward ritual. Music takes its root in harmony. Harmony is a feeling of the heart, while instruments of clay, gourd, silk strings, and bamboo pipes are its outward expression.”

Wu Nengzi said, “Ritual and literary composition arise from conduct, conduct arises from the mind, and the mind issues from innate nature. If innate nature is lost, the mind gives rise to all manner of attachments. Once the mind has attachments, conduct becomes shallow. When conduct is shallow, outward ritual grows elaborate. Elaborate ritual lapses into hypocrisy, and hypocrisy leads to disorder. When matters reach the point of disorder, even a sage has no way to set them right. One who grasps the root does not chase the branches; one who attends to the source need not pursue the tributaries. If you can observe things with wuxin (a mind not pulled along by attachments) and return to innate nature, then even if no sage stands before your eyes and there is no Xuantian (the mysterious and wondrous celestial realm spoken of in Daoism) above, you will still, without deliberately seeking to learn, be able to act and keep to ritual of yourself.”

One day Lu asked again, “I often worry over things I have not yet obtained, and I also grieve over things past. When I drink until I am deeply drunk, I grow blissfully forgetful of myself and do not even know the present moment; yet I cannot free myself from dependence on wine.” Wu Nengzi asked, “Do your sorrow and grief arise from the body, or from the mind?” Lu replied, “From the mind.” Wu Nengzi asked, “Can the mind be seen?” Lu replied, “It cannot.” Wu Nengzi said, “The mind that cannot be seen is nonetheless where sorrow and grief arise. Since one cannot even see from where sorrow and grief arise, on what can they depend? If sorrow and grief have nowhere to lodge, then even if you were granted the fulfillment of wishes not yet realized and the recovery of a past already gone, to whom could you hand over this sorrow and grief? You follow close after sorrow and grief, like one who would bind the wind or seize a shadow. Sorrow and grief have nowhere to rest, yet you taste the bliss that follows drunkenness; unable to find joy in yourself, you instead sink into wine brewed from ferment—are you a vessel for holding wine?”

Seventh

Jijian, the Eighth

The illusionist in the marketplace of Qin—one who performs by the arts of illusion—you would still go looking for him; that is like trying to tether the wind or catch hold of a shadow. You have no sorrow on which to rest your feelings, yet you sink into the mellow ease of drinking; unable to take joy in yourself, you steep instead in yeast and lees. Have you yourself become a vessel for brewing wine?

Seventh

Records, the Eighth

In the marketplace of Qin there was an illusionist who could heat a cauldron of oil until it boiled furiously, then immerse his hands and feet in it. The boiling oil did not injure him, and his face was all smiles. Master Wuneng summoned him and asked about it. The illusionist said, “I learned this art from my teacher; it can withstand the heat of fire. The secret my teacher passed down is this: when you see the oil cauldron burning at its fiercest, first forget your own body in your mind, and regard your hands and feet as withered wood. Once the hands and feet have been forgotten, carry the art through accordingly. The moment fear arises, the art fails. That is why I am able to do this.”

Master Wuneng turned to his disciples and said, “Remember this: when the mind does not cling to one’s own body, even an illusionist can remain unharmed in a cauldron of boiling oil—how much more so one whose cultivation has reached the realm of supreme De (Virtue/Power)?”

Wu Nengzi was lodging with the Jing family in Qin Village. One evening an owl—a bird of the owl kind—called from a tree. The master of the Jing household looked worried and was about to shoot it with a slingshot when Wu Nengzi stopped him.

The master of the Jing household said, “The owl is an inauspicious bird. When a household is about to meet with disaster, it comes and calls. Kill it, and the disaster may perhaps be avoided.”

Wu Nengzi said, “If people suffer disaster because of its call, that is the owl’s fault. Yet even if you kill it, you cannot remove a disaster that has already occurred. When it calls as disaster is about to arrive, is it not faithfully warning people in advance? The disaster is not brought by the owl; to kill it is, on the contrary, to harm the one who offers loyal counsel.

“What is more, we who call ourselves human, like all the beasts that walk and the birds that fly, are born of the impartial primordial Qi (yuanqi, vital energy) of Heaven and Earth. Human eyes are set horizontally and the two feet stand square and straight, while among birds and beasts some fly in the air and some run on the ground. These differences arise only because the Qi they receive differs in clarity and turbidity, in thickness and thinness; they take form naturally of themselves, and are not deliberately arranged by anyone according to love or hatred. Who charged the owl with authority over human disasters? And who decided that the owl should be called inauspicious? Did Heaven and Earth say so, or did the owl say so itself? Heaven and Earth do not speak, and the owl itself does not speak either—how, then, can we determine that it must bring disaster?

“Since we do not know where the claim that the owl is inauspicious comes from, then even the bird of five-colored plumage and beautiful bearing that is called the phoenix need not necessarily bring good fortune; nor is the owl necessarily baleful.”

When the master of the Jing household heard this, he stayed his hand. That night the Jing family met with no disaster either.

In the Fan family there was a handsome man of thirty. Sometimes he let his hair hang loose and ran about everywhere; sometimes he sat upright all day without a word. Whenever he spoke, he called a sheep a horse and a mountain water, constantly misnaming things. His family and the people of his village thought him mad, yet they did not punish him for it. Wunengzi likewise thought him mad.

One day Wunengzi met him in a place thick with grass and trees. He went up to him and sighed: “What a robust man, full-featured and sturdy—what a pity he has fallen ill like this!” The man slowly replied, “I am not ill.” Wunengzi said in surprise, “You do not observe the rules of dress; your daily routine has no fixed order; you get the names of all things wrong and have forgotten the rites and customs of your hometown. That is madness. How can you say you are not ill?”

The man said, “Wearing cap and sash, keeping to a daily routine, cherishing one’s family, and respecting one’s village—were these things I was born knowing how to do? In former times someone arbitrarily laid down rules, then dressed them up in fine writing and presented them as rites and laws, so that people grew accustomed to following them, and this has continued down to the present day. Thus even thin wine has come to be taken for rich wine. Those who clearly know that these rules were made by human beings, yet refuse to follow them, are in turn said not to understand the rules, and are called madmen.

“Are the names of the myriad things likewise natural and inherent? What is clear and above is called ‘Heaven’; what is yellow and below is called ‘Earth’; what lights the day is called ‘the sun’; what lights the night is called ‘the moon.’ And so on through wind and cloud, rain and dew, mist and fog, frost and snow; mountains and peaks, rivers and seas; grasses, trees, birds, and beasts; the Chinese and the barbarians; emperors, kings, dukes, and marquises; scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants; menial attendants and slaves; as well as right and wrong, good and evil, the deviant and the correct, honor and disgrace—all these names were forcibly imposed by people of former times. People grew long accustomed to them and forgot that the names were originally human stipulations. Thus they argue over what belongs to what, yet dare not change them.

“If those who formerly established the names had called what is clear and above ‘Earth,’ what is yellow and below ‘Heaven,’ what lights the day ‘the moon,’ and what lights the night ‘the sun,’ people today would likewise contend to uphold that set of names. Forcibly imposing names is a human act, and I too am human. By what right may others forcibly assign names, and why may I not? Therefore, as for cap and sash and daily routine, I may choose them as I please; as for the various names of the myriad things, I may also rename them as I please. As for whether I am mad or not, even I myself may not know. That others do not understand me and take me for a madman is hardly surprising.”

The five weapons—five kinds of arms—are used to kill people, and nets and snares are used to catch birds, beasts, insects, and fish. Once the sage has made these things, people kill one another and also catch birds, beasts, fish, and insects. The sage lets people know that weapons can kill and that nets can be used in the hunt, and then establishes the crime of killing and sets prohibitions to protect mountains, forests, and waters. In an age of decline and disorder, people cannot even keep fathers and sons, brothers and brothers, safe with one another; birds, beasts, fish, and insects are likewise hard to catch, and there is still less leisure to rear young deer and fish fry. Laws and decrees grow ever more numerous, yet they still cannot restrain weapons. It is the weapons and the nets that teach people to act in this way. Those who created them appear once more—can such a custom really come to a stop of its own accord?

Coffins and outer coffins—the inner coffin and the outer casing—can indeed help in burying the dead, yet those who make them do not, in their hearts, delight in aiding the dead. They seek profit: they hope the coffins will sell every day, and so they look forward to someone’s death. This hope does not arise from resentment toward the dead; it is driven by gain. A physician is glad to see someone fall ill, and also hopes that the patient will in the end recover—not because he is especially eager to save lives and wants the patient to feel grateful, but likewise because he is driven by gain. Both the coffin-maker and the physician, while aiding the dead or the sick, look forward to death or recovery as what brings them business. They harbor neither hatred nor loving care; they are only satisfying their own desires. Therefore, the so-called benevolence of Wuwei (non-action)—benefiting the world without deliberate exertion—does not consist in coffin-makers and physicians profiting from burying the dead and curing disease.

The ox butts with its horns and the horse kicks with its hooves; the snake has venomous fangs and the scorpion a venomous tail. Each acts by relying on the skill in which it excels. Once one sees clearly how they put these skills to use, one can guard against them and bring them under control. Therefore, to excel in a certain skill is, on the contrary, not as good as lacking that skill altogether.

The silkworm eats mulberry leaves, and silk gathers in its intestines; it wraps itself in the silk, and this is called a “cocoon.” Inside the cocoon it transforms, grows wings, and becomes a moth. This is its inborn course of growth, just as beasts carry their young in the womb and birds hatch their eggs—it is not decided by the creature itself. The clever know that silkworm silk can be drawn into thread, and thread woven into cloth. They therefore boil the cocoons, draw out the silk, and weave it on a loom; when the cloth is finished they paint and ornament it, and at last make it into clothing.

When the silkworm emerges from the cocoon and is about to become a moth, it does not willingly die by boiling in order to make garments for people; it is boiled because it is entangled by its silk. Those who boil the silkworms do not hate them either; they are driven by profit. Beasts conceiving, birds incubating eggs, and silkworms forming cocoons are each their innate endowment. The silkworm happens to be born able to spin silk, and that silk in turn brings it to the cooking pot. This looks like misfortune, yet such misfortune seems to have been fixed long beforehand by its endowment.

Therefore, the person of Wuwei (non-action) has no so-called good fortune or misfortune. Why, then, distinguish the gains and losses brought by deliberate action and by Wuwei? Doing good does not necessarily bring blessing, nor does doing evil necessarily bring disaster; at times the outcome is constrained by one’s allotted fate. Hence the sage prizes Wuwei.

If one takes the little mound raised by ants and the outlook of a frog at the bottom of a well to explain the mountains and forests where tigers and leopards roam, or the great sea where whales swim, they will certainly doubt it, for what they have seen is far too limited. Speak the principle of Wuwei to those sunk in desire and busy with worldly affairs, and they too will certainly be bewildered, for they have long grown used to their former way of life. Thus a father cannot pass the principle of Wuwei on to his son, nor an elder brother to a younger brother. People drown in desire until they die, and not one of them can return to the original source and cease vain contrivance.

Alas—Wuwei lies in oneself, and craving also lies in oneself. Wuwei makes one calm; craving makes one restless. Calm brings joy; restlessness brings sorrow. Ordinary people are deluded and never reach understanding, because habit binds them; those who understand cast off their old habits.

(Missing hereafter: this indicates that the subsequent text is absent.)