《淮南鸿烈解》

The Huainan Honglie Jie is a text included in the “Collected Works of the Masters” section of the Chinese Daoist Canon. Its table of contents lists chapters such as “Treatise on Tracing the Dao to Its Origin,” “Treatise on the Original Nature of the True,” “Treatise on Astronomy,” and “Treatise on Terrain.” The work addresses the Dao, nature, governance, military strategy, and self-cultivation. Some chapter titles are repeated in the contents, and the original table is incomplete; missing titles have therefore been added based on the headings in the main text.

“Preface to the Huainan Honglie Jie” is the title of the work’s preface.

The Prince of Huainan was named Liu An. He was the eldest son of Prince Li, Liu Chang, who was a son of Emperor Gaozu of Han. Liu An’s mother, Lady Zhao, was a favored concubine of Zhang Ao, the Prince of Zhao. In the seventh year of Emperor Gaozu’s reign, the emperor campaigned against Han Xin at Tongdi, and Han Xin fled to the Xiongnu. The emperor then traveled north to Loufan. On his return, he passed through the state of Zhao but did not treat its prince with proper courtesy. The Prince of Zhao presented him with beautiful women. The emperor favored Lady Zhao, and she became pregnant. The prince did not dare bring her into the palace, so he built her a residence outside it.

Later, the conspiracy of Guan Gao and the others was exposed. The Prince of Zhao was arrested and interrogated, and everyone in his household, including the women, was taken into custody. Lady Zhao was among them. Officials reported to the emperor that she had been favored by him and was pregnant. The emperor was then in a rage and paid no attention. Lady Zhao’s younger brother, Zhao Jian, asked the Marquis of Piyang, Shen Shiqi, to inform Empress Lü and have her explain the matter to the emperor. Empress Lü refused to speak, and Shen Shiqi did not press her. After Lady Zhao gave birth to a boy, she killed herself out of fear and grief. Officials brought the child before the emperor, who ordered Empress Lü to raise him and enfeoffed him as the Prince of Huainan.

After Emperor Xiaowen ascended the throne, Liu Chang submitted a memorial asking to meet with him. The emperor issued an edict summoning him to Chang’an. They often traveled and feasted together, and were as close as brothers in one household. Liu Chang resented the Marquis of Piyang for failing to plead with Empress Lü on his mother’s behalf. He killed him with an iron hammer. The emperor judged that he had acted wrongly. Liu Chang took off his upper garment and bared his body to apologize at the north gate of the palace. The emperor punished him by taking away four counties, but later returned them to him.

After Liu Chang returned to his fief, he arrogated to himself the emperor’s yellow-roofed carriage and left pennant, the great banner mounted on a carriage, and called himself the “Eastern Emperor.” For this he was found guilty and exiled to Yandao in Shu. He died on the way, in Yong. The emperor took pity on him and made his four sons marquises. At the time, the people sang: “A length of silk, spread wide; a measure of millet, enough to fill the belly. Two brothers, yet they cannot live in harmony.” On hearing this, the emperor said, “Do they think I covet Huainan’s lands?” He summoned the four marquises and granted them fiefs. One died of illness. The eldest son, Liu An, inherited the title of Prince of Huainan; the second son was made Prince of Hengshan, and the third, Prince of Lujiang. The Grand Tutor Jia Yi had once advised that a person who had a grudge against the emperor should not be made a high-ranking prince. Later, the Princes of Huainan and Hengshan both did indeed rebel, just as Jia Yi had said.

Liu An first became known for his eloquence, breadth of understanding, and skill in writing. Emperor Xiaowen was his paternal cousin, and Liu An submitted memorials to him many times and was received at court. The emperor valued him greatly and once ordered him to compose a “Rhapsody on the Li Sao.” Liu An received the order in the morning and had completed the work by breakfast. The emperor admired it and kept it in his collection. Many practitioners of esoteric arts—people who studied various forms of divination and technical arts—also came to join Liu An.

Liu An, together with Su Fei, Li Shang, Zuo Wu, Tian You, Lei Bei, Mao Bei, Wu Bei, and Jin Chang—the eight men—and the Confucian scholars known as the Greater and Lesser Mountains, discussed Dao and De, brought together the teachings on benevolence and righteousness, and compiled this book. Its central ideas are close to those of the Laozi: it advocates calm and Wuwei (non-action), observes emptiness and stillness, and connects the principles found in the classics. Its discussions of great matters encompass Heaven and Earth; its treatment of subtle matters reaches into boundless realms. The book also addresses the rise and decline of government in ancient and modern times, the survival and fall of states, changes in fortune and calamity, and strange and extraordinary events in the world. Its reasoning is clear and its language abundant. It gathers material broadly according to subject, and its contents are extensive. Yet, taken as a whole, it ultimately returns to the Dao.

The book is called Honglie: “hong” means great, and “lie” means clear. The title thus means that it sets out the Dao in a great and lucid way. For this reason, a scholar who has not studied the Huainan teachings will find it difficult to understand the profound depths of the Great Dao. Sages of earlier times, erudite scholars, and authors have all quoted and selected passages from it to support the classics and their commentaries. To avoid the taboo on the name of Liu An’s father, Liu Chang, the character “chang” was replaced throughout the book with “xiu.” Liu Xiang, Grandee of the Palace, collated and edited the text and gave it the title Huainan. There are also nineteen other chapters, known as the Outer Chapters of Huainan.

When I was young, I studied this book with my fellow townsman, the former Attendant-in-Waiting Lord Lu, learning how to punctuate its sentences and understand its general meaning. Later, war broke out, the realm was divided, and regional powers took control. Books were lost, and for more than twenty years I did not continue the work of editing. In the tenth year of Jian’an, I was summoned to serve as an official under the Minister of Works, and later became magistrate of Puyang in Dong Commandery. Seeing that few people at the time studied Huainan, I feared that this learning would gradually fade away. So, in the time left after my official duties in the morning and evening, I carefully recalled my teacher’s explanations and consulted the classics, their commentaries, and Daoist writings, comparing related passages. I annotated the book, copied out its text, and marked its pronunciations. Bian Yi, the Agricultural Commander-in-Chief, borrowed eight chapters, saying that he would collate them. He later died, and the volumes were lost. In the seventeenth year of Jian’an, I was transferred to oversee Hedong and filled in the missing parts once again. My learning is shallow and my experience limited, so I cannot fully understand everything in the book. Where I encountered something I did not understand, I noted, “I have not heard an explanation.” I hope that learned scholars will examine the work and, through it, encourage those who study in generations to come.

Huainan Honglie Jie, Volume One, “Treatise on the Origin of the Dao”

“Origin” means the root or foundation. The Dao is the source of all things. It contains Heaven and Earth and runs through the myriad things, which is why the chapter is called “Treatise on the Origin of the Dao.”

The Dao covers Heaven and supports Earth. It has no form, yet is vast and boundless. It extends in all directions and reaches the ends of the eight quarters; it is so high it cannot be reached and so deep it cannot be measured. Before Heaven, Earth, and the myriad things took shape, they had already received life from the Dao. The Dao is like a spring that wells up without end: at first it is empty, then gradually fills. It is also like turbid water that, after flowing for a time, gradually clears.

The Dao stands between Heaven and Earth and fills them both. It runs across the Four Seas, and its workings have no end; it has no fixed time of flourishing or decline. Spread it out, and it can cover all of Heaven and Earth; draw it in, and it is so small it cannot fill a hand. It can expand from simplicity and reveal itself from the hidden depths. It is both yielding and powerful, both gentle and firm. This is the nature of the Dao.

The Dao runs through Heaven, Earth, and the four directions, containing Yin-Yang. It governs the cosmos, bringing the sun, moon, and stars to shine. The Dao is deep and broad, yet subtle and refined. Through it, mountains rise high and abysses grow deep; beasts run and birds fly; the sun and moon shine, and the stars follow their courses. Through it, the qilin roam and the phoenixes soar.

In ancient times, the emperors Fuxi and Shennong grasped the essentials of the Dao. Standing at the center of Heaven and Earth, they explained the principles of Yin-Yang. They joined with wondrous transformations and, through this, brought peace to the realm. Thus Heaven moved and Earth rested, while the myriad things cycled without cease. Water flowed on without stopping, and the myriad things were born and passed away in turn. Winds and clouds arose, and all things responded; thunder sounded and rain fell in answer, with transformations beyond counting. Things appeared like ghosts and vanished like lightning; dragons rose and luan birds gathered. The myriad things turned like a potter’s wheel and revolved like the hub of a chariot, returning again and again.

After things have been carved and shaped, they ultimately return to simplicity. To follow the Dao is to act without apparent effort, yet naturally accord with it; to make no deliberate pronouncements, yet naturally reach De. When the heart is calm and content, without taking itself to be wise, it can join in harmony. Though all things differ, each can follow its own nature.

The Dao’s wondrous power can reside in something as tiny as the tip of an autumn hair, yet also govern the vast cosmos. Its De gently covers Heaven and Earth, harmonizes Yin-Yang, arranges the four seasons, and brings the Five Phases—Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water—each into its proper order. The Dao gently nourishes all things and makes living beings flourish; plants and trees are moistened by it, as are metals and stones. Birds and beasts grow strong, their fur glossy, their wings powerful, and their horns well formed. The young carried by beasts all grow safely to term, and birds’ eggs hatch successfully. In the human world, no father grieves the death of a young son, no elder brother mourns a younger brother who has died too soon; children are not left fatherless, and women do not become widows. Rainbows do not appear, and ill-omened stars do not travel across the sky. These are all results of the De inherent in the myriad things.

The highest Dao (the fundamental principle underlying all things in the universe) brings forth the myriad things, yet does not claim them as its own. It enables them to change and take shape, yet does not rule over them. Whether they are animals that walk on feet and breathe through beaks, or creatures that fly or crawl, all depend on the Dao to live. Yet they do not know its beneficence, nor repay it for that; they depend on the Dao to die, yet none can therefore resent it or call it cruel.

Those who benefit from the Dao cannot for that reason praise it; those who suffer harm through its workings cannot for that reason blame it. The Dao gathers and stores the myriad things, yet does not thereby make itself richer. It gives and provides for them, helping those in need and making up what is lacking, yet does not thereby make itself poorer. This means that in its workings, the Dao does not regard the myriad things as its private possessions.

The Dao is vast and subtle, beyond exhaustion; it is so minute that nothing can be said to have depleted it. Pile it up, and it does not grow higher; shave it away, and it does not grow lower. Increase it, and it does not grow greater; diminish it, and it does not grow less. Cut it down, and it does not grow thinner; damage it, and it does not become incomplete. Bore into it, and it does not grow deeper; fill it in, and it does not grow shallower.

The Dao is elusive and hard to discern, impossible to depict in any concrete form; it is also hidden and wondrous in its movement, and its function never runs out. It is deep and obscure, yet responds to formless transformations; it is open and boundless, and its workings are never without cause. It changes as firmness and softness bend and extend, and as Yin and Yang rise and fall.

In the past, Feng Yi and Da Bing drove a divine chariot. Some versions write Feng Yi’s name as “Chi” and Da Bing’s as “Bai.” Both were ancient figures who had attained the Dao and could control the Qi of Yin-Yang. Riding a cloud chariot, they entered among the clouds and iridescent mists, passing through the faint haze. They took the transformed shapes of cloud Qi for horses. Here, “travel” means to move, and “faint haze” refers to the subtle breaths between Heaven and Earth. They raced swiftly, their movements elusive and hard to follow, going farther and higher as they traveled.

They crossed frost and snow without leaving footprints, and passed through sunlight without casting shadows. They also grasped swirling currents of air and rode the wind as it spiraled upward like a ram’s horn. Then they ranged across mountains and rivers, climbed Kunlun Mountain, broke through the gates of the heavens, and entered within. Here, Kunlun refers to a mountain in the northwest; “Changhe” is the gate to Heaven, and “the heavenly gate” refers to the palace gate of the Purple Tenuity Palace, the dwelling of the Lord on High.

Feng Yi and Da Bing could accomplish all this while driving their divine chariot. Even later charioteers equipped with a light carriage, fine horses, a powerful whip, and a sharp lash could not hope to outrun them. Here, “powerful” means strong, and “lash” means whip.

Thus, the true great person—the one who understands and puts the Dao into practice—has a quiet heart, free from delusions and worries. He takes Heaven for a canopy and Earth for a carriage, the four seasons for horses, and Yin-Yang for the driver. Riding the clouds, he rises into the high sky and moves together with creation and transformation, the generation and change of all things between Heaven and Earth. He gives free rein to his aspirations, stretches body and mind, and roams across the vastness of the world.

He travels slowly when he wishes and swiftly when he wishes. He has the Rain Master, the star spirit who governs rainfall, sprinkle water to clear the road, and the Wind Earl, the star spirit who governs the wind, sweep away the dust. The Rain Master corresponds to the Bi star; an old poem says, “When the moon passes Bi, heavy rain will fall.” The Wind Earl corresponds to the Ji star; when the moon nears Ji, the wind will raise sand and dust. He takes lightning for his whip and thunder for his wheels. According to the ancients, lightning is Qi in agitation, while thunder is Qi in swirling motion.

He journeys upward into lofty, hidden realms and descends through the boundless gate. He travels in every direction, observing all, then returns to the root. The realms, the boundless gate, and the four directions mentioned here all describe the vastness of Heaven and Earth and the ceaseless transformations of things. The “pivot” refers to the root of all things.

Treat Heaven as the carriage canopy, and nothing will be left uncovered; treat Earth as the carriage body, and nothing will be left unsupported. Take the four seasons as horses, and nothing will be beyond your command; make Yin-Yang the charioteer, and nothing will be left unprepared. Yin-Yang moves in due order, bringing forth the myriad things without omission. Thus, all things are fully present.

One can therefore move swiftly without jolting, travel far without tiring, and keep the limbs still without diminishing one’s intelligence. How can one know the boundaries and contours of the Eight Directions of Heaven and the Nine Regions—the eight directions and the center? By grasping the essential pivot of the Dao, one can roam through realms without end.

Thus, affairs under Heaven cannot be forced into being by human contrivance. Instead, one should follow the inherent conditions of things, examining and guiding them accordingly. The transformations of the myriad things cannot be exhausted, so one must grasp their fundamental patterns and ultimate tendencies.

When a mirror or water reveals a person’s appearance, it needs no clever artifice or deliberate embellishment: whether a shape is square or round, curved or straight, nothing can be concealed. “Artifice” here means clever arrangement and adornment. Mirrors and water reflect appearances without embellishment, showing beauty and ugliness truthfully; no form can escape their reflection.

An echo does not deliberately cater to a call, and a shadow does not consciously strike a pose. When someone calls out, an echo arises in response; when no sound is made, the echo naturally falls silent. Understand how an echo answers a call, and you can grasp its spontaneous nature.

At birth, a person’s heart-mind is still. This is the nature bestowed by Heaven. Acting only after being stirred by external things damages that nature. When external things arrive, the spirit responds: this is the activity of cognition. Contact between a person and external things gives rise to liking and aversion, and from these come emotions and desires. As likes and dislikes grow apparent, the mind is drawn along by external things and cannot return to its original, tranquil nature. The natural principle bestowed by Heaven is thereby weakened.

Thus, one who has attained the Dao does not use human contrivances to alter their nature. Here, “Heaven” means one’s nature; another interpretation takes it to mean the body: worldly benefits and desires should not be allowed to harm it. Such a person may change outwardly in appearance and action along with external things, yet inwardly does not lose their original disposition—the authentic state that is not governed by desire.

The Dao is empty and formless, yet it allows all things to find their proper place. Things unfold and move in their own time, and in the end return to their respective destinations. Each has its own measure, whether large or small, long or short. Though things arrive in profusion and change in countless ways, none loses its inner order; each follows its proper measure.

Therefore, when such a person holds a position above others, the people do not feel oppressed. When they walk ahead of the crowd, they invite no resentment or harm; instead, they are respected and loved. All under Heaven turn to them, and even the wicked hold them in awe. This is because they do not contend with anything, and so no one dares contend with them.

Fishing by the river for a long time does not fill a basket. Even with a fishhook, a fish needle, and a sharp claw-shaped hook, one is still relying on small tools. Because one does not understand how to revere the myriad things or contend with them, nothing can contend with one.

Fishing by the river for a long time does not fill a basket. Even with fine fishing line and fragrant bait, and the ingenious methods of Zhan He and Juan Huan, who were skilled anglers in ancient times, the catch still falls short of what a net can take. An archer draws the Wuhao bow, a famous bow made from tough mulberry wood, and fits it with a sharp arrow from the state of Wei, made in the region of Qi. Even with the skill of Yi and Feng Meng, famed archers of ancient times, shooting at birds in flight yields less than casting a net.

Yi was ruler of the ancient state of Youqiong, and Feng Meng was his disciple. Both were expert archers who could hit their mark with every shot. Why, then, did they still fall short of the net-caster? Because their tools were too small. If the whole world were spread out as a cage and the rivers and seas used as a net, what fish could escape or bird fly away? An ancient poem says, “Cast the net, and it rustles with a rush.” An arrow is inferior to an arrow attached to a cord, and a corded arrow is inferior to an image without form.

To abandon the Dao (the Way) and rely only on small tricks is like asking a crab to catch mice or a toad to catch fleas. Such methods cannot put a stop to wrongdoing; they only make disorder worse. In ancient times, people burned mugwort on a crab’s back and put it into a burrow. Driven by the heat, it scurried about inside and happened upon a mouse. A toad moves so slowly that it cannot even catch all the fleas. These methods, then, cannot eradicate wrongdoing; they only make disorder worse.

Long ago, Gun of Xia built city walls three ren high, with one ren measuring eight chi. Building the walls consumed the people’s labor, so the feudal lords turned against him, and people beyond the four seas grew deceitful and rebellious. Gun was a fifth-generation descendant of Emperor Zhuanxu and the father of Yu.

Yu knew that the people of the realm had become alienated. He therefore tore down the walls, filled in the moats, distributed wealth, and burned the weapons, using virtuous governance to win the people’s support. People from distant regions then came to submit, and foreign peoples from all four directions came to offer tribute. Yu also gathered the feudal lords at Tushan, a legendary site of covenant-making. It is said that ten thousand states came bearing jade and silk. The jade was gui tablets; the silk was woven in black and pale red.

Thus, if one harbors cunning and deceit in the heart, one cannot preserve the wholeness of a simple and clear nature, and the virtue of undivided spirit is damaged. If a person cannot understand the Way within himself, how can he transform people in distant lands?

Therefore, the stronger the armor, the sharper the weapons; once city walls are built, siege engines appear in turn. Preparations for war arise precisely from these defenses. Pouring hot water onto boiling water only makes it boil more fiercely. If one beats a dog that bites and drives a horse that kicks, hoping to teach them better behavior, even Yi Yin, the worthy minister of Shang Tang, and Zaofu, the charioteer of King Mu of Zhou, could not succeed. If there is no intention to harm in one’s heart, even a hungry tiger can be led by the tail—how much more so dogs and horses?

Thus, those who follow the Dao are at ease and untroubled, while those who rely on schemes and contrivances toil without achieving much.

Strict laws and cruel punishments cannot establish the work of a hegemon. Nor does frequent whipping and driving provide a way to make an enterprise last. “Frequent” means occurring often. Liju, a legendary figure with exceptional eyesight, could make out a needle’s tip from a hundred paces away, yet could not see fish in deep water. Shi Kuang, musician to Duke Ping of Jin, was known as Ziye. His hearing was so keen that he could distinguish the eight winds—the eight kinds of wind sounds corresponding to the Eight Trigrams—yet he could not hear sounds from ten li away.

Therefore, relying on one person’s abilities alone is not enough to govern even a household of three mu. If one can put the principles of the Way of governance in order and follow the natural patterns of Heaven and Earth, one can bring stability and balance even to the whole world. “Balanced” means level. When Yu the Great cleared the waterways, he followed the nature of water and took its course as his teacher. When Shennong, the Flame Emperor, sowed grain, he observed how seedlings grew and made that the standard for instruction and farming. Yu, whose personal name was Wenming, was the son of Gun. Following the tendency of water to flow downhill, he opened channels so that it flowed east, leaving a method of flood control for later generations. Shennong was the son of Shaodian and bore the title Flame Emperor. He cultivated fine grains, gradually bringing farming to prosperity; hence he was called Shennong, the Divine Farmer. “Sowing” means scattering seeds. He sowed the hundred grains and cultivated crops according to the growth of their seedlings, establishing a customary method followed by later generations.

Duckweed takes root in water, while trees root themselves in the soil. Birds beat their wings and pass through the sky; wild beasts race across the ground. Jiaolong dwell in water, while tigers and leopards make their homes in mountain forests. These are all the innate natures of the myriad things under Heaven and Earth.

When two pieces of wood rub against each other, they produce fire; when metal draws near to fire, it melts and flows. Round things turn easily, while hollow things float easily. These are all conditions that arise naturally.

The spring breeze blows, and sweet rain falls, so that the myriad things grow. Birds settle in their nests to hatch eggs, and animals carry and bear their young. Plants and trees bloom and flourish; birds and beasts lay eggs and give birth. People cannot see who brings about these changes, yet the myriad things have already grown to maturity. The autumn wind brings frost, and plants and trees wither and suffer damage. Eagles and hawks hunt for prey, while insects hide away to hibernate. Rainwater seeps into the roots of plants and trees, and fish and turtles gather in deep pools. People cannot see how these changes take place, yet they have quietly come to pass.

Birds and beasts that live in trees make nests from branches and wood; those in the water dwell in caves, while people live in houses. Land is suited to raising cattle and horses; traveling by water requires waterways. The Xiongnu region produces fur garments, while the Wu and Yue regions produce fine ramie cloth. Each place prepares what it needs to cope with dryness and damp, cold and heat. When the myriad things each find their proper place, life becomes convenient.

Seen in this light, the myriad things already grow in accordance with nature. Why, then, should the sage govern by deliberate effort?

South of Jiuyi Mountain, there were fewer matters on land and more on the water. Jiuyi is the name of a mountain in the Cangwu region, and it is also where Emperor Shun was buried.

The local people cut their hair short and tattooed patterns on their bodies, making themselves look like scaly creatures of the water. They tattooed the shapes of jiaolong, or flood dragons, believing that this would keep the dragons from harming them in the water. They wore short garments and no trousers, so they could wade and swim easily; they rolled up their short sleeves to make rowing easier. These customs all suited the demands of life on the water.

North of Yanmen, the Di people did not eat grain. They held the old in low regard and honored the strong, and their customs prized physical strength. They kept their bows unstrung and left the reins on their horses, since these practices better suited life in their region. “Not eating grain” means that they ate only meat and dairy products. The Northern Di refers to the Xianbei; “to slacken” means to put down, while “suitable” means customary or fitting.

Thus, when Yu the Great entered the Land of the Naked, he first took off his clothes and put them and his belt back on only when he left. This, too, was adapting to local custom. The Land of the Naked lay in the south. When governing rites and customs, sages did not force people to change the customs already established in each region. They therefore adapted to local conditions.

Today, when trees are transplanted, changing the Yin-Yang conditions to which they are adapted causes them to wither. An orange tree moved north of the Yangtze becomes a trifoliate orange; a myna that crosses the Ji River, or a badger that crosses the Wen River, will die. The Rites of Zhou contains related accounts. The Spring and Autumn Commentary says, “A myna came and nested,” meaning that this bird, which was not native to the Central Plain, came to Lu and built a nest there—a strange occurrence. This shows that the nature and form of living things are difficult to change, and that the environments to which they are adapted cannot easily be moved.

Therefore, one who understands the Great Dao ultimately returns to stillness and purity. To “return” means to go back to the source: the nature Heaven bestows on human beings is pure and still from the beginning, so one is said to return to stillness and purity. One who probes things to their depths ultimately comes to Wuwei (non-action). Wuwei means not letting external things drive one’s actions.

Nurture one’s nature through calm detachment and settle the spirit through stillness, and one can enter the gate of the Way of Heaven. The Way of Heaven is pure, simple, upright, and clear, without anything mixed into it. Human contrivance, by contrast, mixes in cleverness, affected behavior, and deception to deal with worldly affairs and cater to conventional expectations. Cattle have cloven hooves and horns, while horses have long coats and sound legs: these are their natural qualities. Putting a bridle on a horse or piercing a cow’s nose are additions made by human beings.

Those who follow the Way of Heaven walk alongside the Dao; those who follow human affairs associate with the world and its conventions. You cannot discuss the ocean with a fish in a well, because its narrow surroundings confine it. You cannot discuss winter’s cold with an insect that lives only in summer, because it does not know ice and snow: the seasons limit it. Nor can you discuss the utmost Dao with someone of shallow understanding, because they are confined by conventional ideas and bound by established doctrines.

Thus, the Sage does not let human contrivances disturb the self or desires unsettle one’s nature. Here, “Heaven” refers to a person’s body and mind; when desires disturb one’s nature, that nature becomes clouded. The Sage makes no deliberate plans, yet things turn out as they should; says little, yet speaks credibly; does not deliberate, yet gains something; and does not act recklessly, yet things come to completion of their own accord. The Classic of Poetry says, “Seek no knowledge deliberately, and undertake nothing deliberately; follow the laws of Heaven.” This describes how things can be fitting without planning, and how one can gain something without deliberation. A person whose spirit communicates with the inner sanctuary—the place where the heart-spirit resides—and accords with the transformations of creation, the changes of Heaven and Earth and nature, may be said to have truly cultivated themself.

Even those skilled at swimming may drown, and those skilled at riding may fall. Because they often delight in what they are good at, they can instead suffer harm. Harm means injury. Thus, people eager to keep busy often injure themselves through their own efforts; those consumed by sensual desire often harm themselves as well; and those who compete for gain may ultimately find themselves in difficulty.

In ancient times, Gonggong used his strength to strike Mount Buzhou, causing the earth to tilt toward the southeast. The Gonggong referred to here was a ruler who rose to power through flood control in the age of Fuxi and Shennong, not the Gonggong of the time of Yao. Mount Buzhou lies northwest of the Kunlun Mountains. “Tilt” means to slope downward: the sky’s tilt toward the northwest means that region is high, while the earth’s tilt toward the southeast shows that region is low. Gonggong once contended with Gaoxin for the imperial throne. Gaoxin was Di Ku, said to have ruled all under Heaven, and was a great-grandson of the Yellow Emperor. Gonggong later sank into an abyss; his clan was destroyed, and his descendants ceased to offer sacrifices to him. This is the Gonggong meant here.

The Yue king Yi fled into a cave, and the people of Yue smoked him out, forcing him to emerge. Yi was the crown prince of Yue. Unwilling to become king, he hid in a cave, but the people of Yue drove him out with smoke from a fire and installed him as king. That is why it is said that he “had no choice.” This happened after the Spring and Autumn period, so it was not recorded in the Spring and Autumn Classic.

From this, we can see that whether something is attained does not depend on striving for it, but on the times; whether order is achieved does not depend on claiming to be wise, but on following the Dao. Here, “bringing order” means taking deliberate action. Even a sage cannot force everything to be accomplished, which is why order depends on the Dao. Confucius’s circumstances provide an example.

Land occupies the low places and does not compete to be high, so it is stable and free from danger. Water flows toward low places and does not compete to be first, so it runs swiftly without obstruction.

In ancient times, Shun farmed at Mount Li. After a year, the farmers all competed to cultivate the poor, barren land, leaving the fertile fields to others. Mount Li is said to have been in Chengyang, Jiyin, or in Licheng, Jinan. Later, Shun fished by the river. After a year, the fishers too competed to fish in shallow, swift waters where fish were scarce, leaving the winding banks and deep pools rich with fish to others.

At that time, Shun did not need to urge people with words or direct them with gestures. He spoke no empty words and gave no arbitrary instructions or arrangements. He held deep De in his heart, and its transformative influence spread naturally, as if by a wondrous power. “Mysterious” can refer to Heaven, while “course through” means to spread and operate. To say that the transformation was “like a spirit” means that it seemed to take effect by a wondrous power. If Shun had not held such an aspiration, even eloquent speech and persuasion from house to house could not have transformed a single person. Here, “aspiration” may mean the intention to govern all under Heaven, or the purpose held in a person’s heart.

Thus, the ineffable Dao is vast and boundless. To bring order to the Sanmiao, summon the Feathered People to pay homage, bring the Naked People into submission, and transform the Sushen—all before any command has been issued—this may be possible only for someone who transforms others through the De of the heart. The Sanmiao were a people exiled in the time of Yao; the Feathered People were inhabitants of the southern land of Yu; the Naked People lived in the south, where tradition says Yu the Great once went; and the Sushen were a distant people in the north. An ancient book says, “The Sushen, Yan, and Bo are all within our northern borders.” The point here is that only transformation through benevolent De can bring distant peoples into submission. How could laws and punishments alone be enough to achieve this? This shows that the influence of benevolent De surpasses forced rule by far.

Therefore, sages cultivate what is fundamental within themselves rather than adorning superficial details outwardly; they guard their spirit and restrain cleverness and calculation. Though they seem detached and practice Wuwei (non-action), they enable all things to unfold. Though they seem not to govern, they enable all things to find their proper order. “Non-action” means not forcing action ahead of the myriad things. “Not acting” means acting in accordance with the way things move of themselves—in other words, following their nature. “No governing” means not altering the natural state of things. “Nothing left ungoverned” means following the ways in which the myriad things suit one another, so that each is properly settled.

All things have a source from which they arise. Only those who understand the Dao (the Way) can hold fast to its root. Every affair has a point of entry; only those who understand the Dao can grasp its key. In this way, they can explore the boundless and reach the limitless, see all things clearly without becoming confused, and respond to events without being depleted. This is called “Heavenly Understanding”: knowing the Way of Heaven and discerning Heaven’s intent.

Thus, those who have attained the Dao are gentle in their intentions yet strong in their actions. Their minds are empty and still, and they respond to things with fitting care. To be gentle in one’s intentions means to be yielding and calm, without acting rashly or recklessly. In handling affairs, one does not force things or impose one’s strength, but remains at ease and free from worry. One acts at the right time, moving with the changes of all things, without rushing ahead to issue commands.

Things respond to and resonate with one another. For this reason, those of high rank always use humble titles for themselves. “Nobles” here means people of exalted status, such as dukes, kings, marquises, and earls. They call themselves “orphan,” “solitary one,” or “unworthy,” all humble ways of referring to themselves. Those in high positions must also take what is low as their foundation. A foundation is a beginning, just as a high terrace must first be built from the ground up.

Use the small to bear the great, and govern what is external from within. Act gently yet remain firm; make use of weakness and thereby become strong. As circumstances shift and change unfolds, this is how one grasps the Way of attaining the One—that is, holding to the fundamental principle—and uses the few to set the many in order, or governs the many through the few.

True strength means being able to avert disaster and overcome difficulty when change or sudden events arise; one’s power prevails wherever it is applied, and no opponent can resist. By adapting to change and judging the moment, nothing can harm oneself. Therefore, to become firm, one must be guarded by gentleness; to grow powerful, one must preserve oneself through weakness. When gentleness accumulates to a certain point, it can turn into firmness; when weakness accumulates to a certain point, it can overcome the strong. By observing the direction in which things are gathering force, one can judge where fortune or misfortune will lead. “Direction” means the way things are headed.

The strong can overcome those weaker than themselves, but when they face an equal, victory is difficult. Since their strength is evenly matched, neither can easily overpower the other. Cultivating strength has limited effect, and this is not what Daoism values. Yet gentleness and weakness can overcome those stronger than oneself, and their power is immeasurable. The broad reach of gentleness and weakness is precisely what Daoism esteems.

Thus, weapons that are too rigid will break; trees that are too hard are easily snapped; leather that is too stiff will crack. Teeth are harder than the tongue, yet they wear away sooner. Weapons are like fire: when their force reaches its peak, it turns toward decline. That is why flourishing power is said to invite destruction. A tree that is too hard cannot bend gradually and will break; leather that is too stiff will also crack.

An army that becomes too powerful will eventually be destroyed. A tree that is too rigid is more likely to snap. Leather that is too stiff will crack. Teeth are harder than the tongue, yet they are damaged sooner. “Worn out” means exhausted or damaged.

An army is like fire: when its force is strong, it burns ever more fiercely, but after reaching its peak, it declines. That is why it is said, “When strong, it perishes.” A tree that is too rigid cannot bend gradually under an outside force, so it snaps easily. Leather that is too stiff also cracks; a drumhead is one example. Teeth are hard, yet they are damaged sooner than the soft tongue.

Thus, softness and weakness are the basis of life. Here, “basis” refers to what is fundamental, to the substance itself. Strength and hardness belong to the category that leads toward death. “Category” means a kind or class. Those who rush to get ahead are likely to end up in straits; those who act a little later have a better chance of getting through. Those who act first are easily overturned and brought down…

Those who come first often fall into difficulty, while those who come later tend to fare better. Why is this so? People generally live to around seventy, yet each day they make choices, pursue goals, and later often regret what they have done, continuing until they die.

Qu Aoyu, courtesy name Boyu, a senior official of the state of Wei, was fifty and still believed that everything he had done in the previous forty-nine years had been mistaken. He thought this year’s actions were appropriate, but looking back at what he had done the year before, he found them wrong. He reflected this way year after year, until he died. Hence the saying that he had “forty-nine years of mistakes”—or, as it is often put, “each month he regretted the month before, and each day he regretted the day before.”

This is because those who set out first find it hard to see the way clearly, while those who come later can learn from what happened and point out its problems. When those who came first climb to a high place, those who come later can follow the path they took. When the first explain a principle in simple terms, those who come later may instead overturn it. When the first stumble and fall into difficulty, those who come later can plan how to respond. When the first suffer defeat, those who come later can avoid their mistakes. Commentaries interpret the characters “cù” and “tuí” in different ways; the general sense is that when predecessors stumble or fail, those who follow can adjust their actions accordingly.

Seen this way, those who go first are like targets for those who come later to practice archery: they help others judge their aim and correct their actions. It is like the blade and the butt of a spear or halberd: the blade is at the front and more likely to meet danger, while the butt is behind and less likely to be harmed. Those at the front are easily made into the cutting edge; those behind can see the risks and benefits by learning from what happened to their predecessors. Even ordinary people can recognize this plainly, yet the wise and perceptive are not necessarily able to escape it. They too may be blinded by profit and desire.

The “latecomers” discussed here are not sluggish, stagnant people who remain motionless. They are people who understand how things work and respond to the moment. “Zhou” means to adapt fully and appropriately; “shu” means methods and patterns. To act in accord with the moment means to act when it is time to act and stop when it is time to stop.

Only by understanding the Dao (the Way) can one respond to change. Those who go first can constrain those who come later, and those who come later can in turn constrain those who went first. In handling affairs, one should act according to the circumstances rather than always trying to get ahead of others. In arranging matters involving people, some things should be handled later, while one must respond to changing circumstances in good time. Why? If one does not lose the means to shape the situation, others cannot turn around and constrain oneself.

Circumstances can change with extraordinary speed, so quickly that there is not even time for a single breath. Act too soon, and you will be ahead of the moment; act too late, and you will miss it. The sun moves on and the moon completes its course; time will not stop and wait for anyone. Thus the sage does not prize a jade disc a foot across, but cherishes even a brief inch of time, for opportunity is hard to encounter and easy to lose.

When Yu the Great hurried to seize the moment, he did not turn back when his shoe fell off, nor look back when his hat caught on something. He was not trying to get ahead of others, but to seize the moment. Thus the sage holds to a way of stillness and calm, maintains a yielding and modest bearing, and acts in response to change. Usually, the sage takes the later place and does not contend to be first.

The formless is the greatest source of all things; the soundless is the deepest source of sound. The formless gives rise to form, and is therefore the source of all things; the soundless gives rise to sound, and is therefore the source of sound. “Ancestor” means the root.

The child of the Dao is light, and its grandchild is water. Do these arise from things that already have form? Light has no visible shape, and is treasured by the Dao; yet it can be seen, so light is called the child of the Dao. Water has form, yet is difficult to destroy; therefore water is called the grandchild of the Dao. Light can be seen but cannot be held in the hand; water can flow along its course but cannot easily be destroyed. Thus, among things with form, nothing is more precious than water.

To pass from life toward death is to move from the formless into form, then from form back toward the formless, gradually declining and becoming base. “Birth” here means emerging from the Dao, leaving stillness and purity; “entering death” means entering desire. “Arrive” means “reach”: to move from the formless into form is to depart from the root; to move from form toward the formless does not mean one can recover the Dao, which Daoists treasure. This is why the passage says that such a course brings decline and baseness.

Therefore, stillness and purity are the highest expression of De (Virtue/Power), while gentleness and weakness are the essentials of the Dao. “Essential” means the key point. Emptiness, stillness, calm simplicity, and serene joy allow all things to fulfill their functions and to be put to use by people. If one responds solemnly to the promptings of things, then returns deeply to the root, one will merge into the formless.

The formless is what is meant by “the One.” The One is the source of the Dao, the root of all things. To call it “the One” means that nothing in the world can match it: it stands alone, independent and self-sufficient. Above, it reaches through the nine heavens—the expanse formed by the eight directions and the center—and below, it extends across the nine regions, the vast lands corresponding to those heavens. It is round without being bound by a compass, and square without being constrained by a carpenter’s square. Vast and undivided, it returns to unity; layer upon layer, yet without a foundation. Calling it “rootless” describes how subtle and elusive it is.

The Dao contains Heaven and Earth and is the gateway that leads to the Dao. It is deep and hidden, with pure De preserved within it alone. “Mu min yin min” are all expressions describing its formlessness and hidden depth. It is pure and undivided; it gives to the myriad things without being depleted, and they draw upon it without exhausting it.

Thus, when one looks for it, no form can be seen; when one listens for it, no sound can be heard; when one pursues it, no substance can be found. Form arises within the formless: the formless is the Dao, and form is the myriad things. The five notes sound forth from silence; the five flavors take shape from tastelessness; though it has no color, it can manifest the five colors. Thus being arises from nonbeing, fullness from emptiness, and embodied people and all things with form arise from the formless Dao.

If the world is divided into “circles”—places where things gather—then names and goods will come together there. “Names” here means ranks and titles, while “goods” means such material wealth as money and silk. Another interpretation holds that “goods” may also refer to rewards received for acts of benevolence and righteousness and for meritorious achievements.

There are only five basic categories of sound: gong, shang, jue, zhi, and yu. Yet the five tones change without end, so what we hear is limitless. “Change” means that different sounds alternate and give rise to one another. There are likewise only five basic tastes: sweet, sour, salty, pungent, and bitter. Yet the five tastes blend and transform into one another, making what we taste limitless. “Transformation” also means change. There are only five basic colors: blue-green, red, white, black, and yellow. Yet the five colors mingle and change, making what we see limitless. Ordinary looking is called “seeing”; looking at an unusual sight is called “observing.” The Spring and Autumn Annals records Duke Yin of Lu observing people fishing at Tang—one example of this.

Thus, in the discussion of sound, once the gong tone is established, the five tones emerge from it. The gong tone occupies the center and serves as the keynote for the others. “Form” means to establish or take shape. In the discussion of taste, once sweetness is established, the five tastes can be harmonized. “Even” means balanced; sweetness occupies the center among the five tastes. In the discussion of color, once white is established, the five colors can take shape. White can serve as a ground for coloring, and so the five colors can emerge from it.

The Dao works in the same way: once it is established, all things arise from it. Thus, the principle of “the One” can be applied throughout the four seas; here, “principle” means the Dao. The working of “the One” reaches throughout Heaven and Earth. “Reach” means to extend throughout, and “junction” refers to the points where things meet and move.

When the Dao is whole, it is pure, like uncarved wood; uncarved wood is like jade not yet cut from the stone. When the Dao is dispersed, it is like something turbid and mixed. In turbidity, stillness gradually brings clarity; in emptiness, things gradually become full. It is calm and deep, like an abyss. “Emptiness” means hollow; “fullness” means filled; “still” describes a state of settled motionlessness. It also drifts broadly, like floating clouds: seeming formless yet present, seeming to vanish yet remaining.

The gathering of all things can be perceived through a single aperture; “gathering” means coming together. The source of a hundred affairs comes from the same gate—the gate of the Dao. The Dao moves without a fixed trace, and its transformations are difficult to fathom. Its movement is unrestricted by distance: it often seems to come after, yet acts upon all things before they arise.

Thus, when the Perfected Person—one who has reached the highest level—governs worldly affairs, they restrain their cleverness and talent, do not flaunt their literary skill, and follow what is reasonable while setting aside artifice. They take impartiality as the standard for themselves and the people. “Impartiality” means fairness.

They keep firm control over the principles they uphold, reduce what they seek, and cast off their craving for fame, wealth, and power. They curb their desires and quiet their thoughts. In this way, the principles they uphold become clearer and governance less burdensome. With fewer demands, needs are easier to meet, and tasks are easier to accomplish.

Relying only on the ears and eyes exhausts the body but does not bring clear understanding. Governing solely through thought and planning drains the mind but may still yield no results. Therefore, the Sage follows established standards and laws without altering what is appropriate or violating constant principles. They follow the laws as one uses a measuring cord, and respond appropriately to each thing according to its particular nature, acting in accord with the circumstances.

Joy and anger can lead people away from the Dao (the fundamental principle governing the workings of all things). The Dao values harmony, so excessive joy and anger are both forms of deviation. Worry and sorrow damage De (one’s inner, natural nature). De prizes calm and harmony, so worry and grief mark a loss of De. The Analects’ phrase “his De is broad and open” refers to this state of mind.

Likes and dislikes are failings of the heart-mind; cravings and desires burden one’s nature. The heart-mind should be focused, inwardly restrained, and undisturbed by external things. To respond instead with intense likes and dislikes is a failing. One’s nature should be clear and still, preserving its innate simplicity. To become absorbed in cravings and desires instead places a burden on that nature.

Great anger injures Yin Qi, while great joy throws Yang Qi out of balance. Anger belongs to Yin Qi; when Yin Qi accumulates and surges, it causes harm. Joy belongs to Yang Qi; when Yang Qi rises and accumulates, it too causes harm. Constricted breathing can make a person lose their voice, while excessive fear can disturb the spirit and mind. Abundant worry and grief, along with deep resentment, allow illness to build gradually; a tangle of likes and dislikes brings one misfortune after another.

Thus, when the heart-mind is not stirred by worry or pleasure, De has reached its utmost. When it is clear-sighted and does not change with external things, stillness has reached its utmost. When cravings and desires are kept out of one’s nature, emptiness has reached its utmost. When there is neither preference nor aversion, equanimity has reached its utmost. When one remains undisturbed by external things and keeps to purity and unity, refinement has reached its utmost. Achieve these five, and you will attain spiritual insight beyond ordinary understanding. Those who attain such insight have grasped the inner foundation.

Therefore, using the heart-mind to restrain outward passions allows all things to proceed without obstruction. Here, “center” means the heart-mind, and “outer” means the passions: when the heart-mind is properly in command, outward passions can be brought under restraint.

Therefore, by using the inner mind to regulate outward conduct, all affairs can be handled properly. Here, “center” refers to the inner mind, while “outer” refers to desires and passions. When the inner mind is well grounded, outward desires and actions can be restrained without deliberate suppression.

When the mind is settled, the Five Organs—the heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys in traditional medicine—each remain in their proper place. When thoughts are calm, unfounded joy and anger also subside. The sinews and bones are then strong and vigorous, and the ears and eyes keen and clear. One is perceptive without making mistakes, and resilient without being damaged. There are no serious errors, nor tasks beyond one’s ability. In a narrow place, one feels no constraint; in a broad place, one does not feel lost or empty. One can adapt to a small setting and meet the demands of a large one.

When the spirit is not agitated and the mind is undisturbed, the spirit is at peace. With the inner mind quiet and tranquil, one can become strong among others. When urgent matters arise, one can meet them; when moved by something, one can respond. Faced with the myriad changes of things, one can adapt in accord with their course. One acts with ease and composure, like an echo answering a sound or a shadow appearing with a form.

When ascending to a height and looking down, one does not lose sight of what one holds to as fundamental. Even in danger, one does not forget the “mysterious support”—relying on the Dao (the Way). By keeping to this throughout, one’s De (Virtue/Power) remains undiminished. Amid the manifold changes of things, one can transform along with them. To meet the affairs of the world in this state is like running with the wind: swift and effortless. This is called “Supreme De,” the highest virtue. Attaining Supreme De brings joy to the inner mind.

In ancient times, some people lived in mountain caves without losing their spirit. In later generations, others possessed the power to rule a kingdom of ten thousand chariots yet lived each day in sorrow and grief. This shows that wisdom does not lie in governing others, but in attaining the Dao; joy does not lie in wealth and rank, but in a peaceful and balanced De.

To know that one’s inner life matters more than all under Heaven is to draw close to the Dao. Xu You and Wu Guang were such people. Does happiness really require living in lofty palaces such as Jingtai or Zhanghua, touring the lakes and marshes of Yunmeng or the terrace of Shaqiu, listening to the musical pieces Jiushao and Liuying, savoring fine foods, racing horses along level roads, or fishing and shooting birds? (Jingtai and Zhanghua were elevated terraces in the state of Chu; Yunmeng was a lake and marshland in Chu; Shaqiu was the name of a terrace belonging to King Zhou; Jiushao was said to be music composed by Shun, and Liuying music composed by Zhuanxu. The suhuang is a kind of bird.)

The happiness I speak of is the ability to be content with whatever one has. Those who are truly content with what they possess do not mistake luxury for happiness, nor grieve over a plain life. They gather themselves in accord with Yin and unfold in accord with Yang. Thus Zixia once grew thin from inner conflict; later, after grasping the principle and finding calm within, he regained his healthy fullness. Zixia was a disciple of Confucius. According to the commentary, when he entered the school he cherished the Way of the former kings, but outside he longed for the pleasures of wealth and rank. Torn between these two thoughts, he grew thin. Once he stopped struggling over them, he found peace.

The sage does not let external things drive him, nor allow desires to disturb the peace of his heart. So joy never becomes excessive, and grief never harms his nature. Faced with the myriad changes of the world, he roams freely and adapts with ease, without clinging to any fixed circumstances. He stands resolute in his own generous spirit, casts off attachment to external things, and joins with the Dao; thus he can be content in himself.

Beneath a great tree or in an open cave, whatever suits one’s nature is enough to bring comfort. Those who are truly content can nurture their nature even in a humble dwelling. Those who are not content cannot sustain their lives even if the whole world is their home and all its people their servants. When one reaches a state of clinging to nothing as happiness, nothing can fail to bring happiness. When nothing can fail to bring happiness, that is the highest happiness: the joy of the utmost De.

They set out bells and drums, arrange pipes and stringed instruments, spread felt mats and cushions, and then plant banners decorated with ivory. “Pipes” refers to wind instruments such as the xiao; “strings” refers to instruments such as the qin and se. “Fu” means to adorn or attach, while “mao” means a banner, and “xiang” refers to ornaments made of ivory.

The ears take in the soft, decadent music of the region north of Zhaoge. Zhaoge was the capital of King Zhou of Shang, and “bi” means a town. According to legend, King Zhou had Shi Juan compose this decadent music. Later, Shi Yan performed it for Duke Ping of Jin, and Shi Kuang recognized it as the sound of a doomed state. Before the eyes are beautiful women from Qi. “Mi man” describes a lovely appearance. Fine wine is laid out, cups are raised in turn, and people drink and make merry through the night until dawn.

They also set crossbows to shoot birds high in the sky and unleash dogs to chase nimble hares. Such revelry is lively and grand, yet it inspires unease, as if something were drawing the heart and filling it with longing. When the chariots are unhitched and the horses allowed to rest, the feast breaks up and the music stops, the heart suddenly feels as though it has lost something, and sinks into a sense of absence.

Why is this? Because people do not find contentment within themselves, but instead use external pleasures to fill an inner void. When the music begins, they feel joy; when it ends, they feel sorrow. Grief and joy arise in turn, the spirit becomes confused, and there is not a moment’s peace. “Ying” means to be bewildered. On closer examination, it is hard to say exactly what this unease is like. To harm one’s life in this way, day after day, is to lose the ease one could have found in the first place.

If the heart-mind has not truly understood, and one merely accepts knowledge from outside to adorn oneself, that knowledge cannot soak into the skin, reach the marrow, or remain in one’s intentions and settle among the five organs. What comes from outside cannot be retained without the heart-mind as its master; what arises from within cannot be put into practice without a response from the outside.

Thus, when people hear beneficial words and sound plans, even the foolish know to praise them. When they hear of the highest virtue and noble conduct, even those of poor character feel admiration. Many praise, but few truly adopt what they hear; many admire, but few truly put it into practice. Why is this? Because they cannot return to their own nature to understand and embody it.

If the heart-mind is not open, yet one forces oneself to study and inquire into the Dao, knowledge cannot enter the ears or remain in the heart. How is this different from a deaf person singing along with others? One merely imitates them, unable to find joy in the song oneself. As soon as the song leaves the mouth, it disperses; once it has dispersed outward, the ears can no longer hear it.

The heart-mind is the ruler of the five organs. It directs the limbs, circulates blood and Qi (vital energy), guides people through the realm of distinguishing right from wrong, and opens and closes the gates to all affairs. If one has not truly understood within, yet wishes to grasp the principles for governing the world, it is like trying to tune bells and drums without ears, or appreciate writing without eyes: one is bound to be unequal to the task. Here, “Jing” means governance and the ordering of things.

That is why the world is a wondrous thing and cannot be governed by force. Here, “vessel” means an object made for human use, and “to act” means to govern. Those who force their way into action ruin things; those who insist on holding on to them end up losing them.

Xu You considered the world too small and was unwilling to exchange his own nature for Yao’s realm, because his aspirations had long since gone beyond the world. Xu You was from Yangcheng and lived as a recluse on Mount Ji. Yao considered him worthy and summoned him, intending to abdicate in his favor. Xu You refused, which is why it is said that his aspirations were not bound to the world.

Why is this so? Because governing the world means following its natural state. The key to the world lies not with another person but with oneself: “another” refers to Yao, and “oneself” to Xu You. The key lies not in other people but in one’s own being. When one understands oneself, all things are present as well. Once one understands the principles of the mind’s workings, cravings, preferences, and aversions no longer occupy the heart. When the heart is not stirred by external things, there is nothing to rejoice in, grow angry over, delight in, or suffer from. All things then become one with oneself.

“Profound” means deep and mysterious like the heavens; “radiant” means bright. With no division between one thing and another, and no fixed boundaries between right and wrong, all things come into being and transform amid profound radiance, as if being alive were like being dead, untouched by desire.

To possess the world may also be understood to mean that the world belongs to me and I belong to the world. What barrier could there be between the world and me? This refers to their mutual unity. Does possessing the world necessarily mean wielding power, controlling life and death, and governing through commands? That is not what “possessing the world” means here. It means simply understanding oneself and holding fast to one’s innate nature; it may also be said to mean not losing oneself. When one understands oneself, the world is united with oneself. When the world and I are united, we can remain in lasting communion. What room, then, is there for a barrier? To be “self-fulfilled” means to preserve oneself; preserving oneself is to unite with the Dao.

So even when I travel along riverbanks or venture to distant places by the sea, as long as I and all things under Heaven are in mutual communion, we can remain close and interdependent. How, then, could I ever be without a place to dwell? What is meant by “being at ease in oneself” is preserving oneself; by preserving oneself, one can unite with the Dao.

Even riding a fine steed named Yaoniao, beneath a carriage canopy adorned with kingfisher feathers, and speeding along in a splendid carriage offers only external pleasures. The eyes watch dancers wave feathered ornaments in the performance of “Wuxiang,” the dance of King Wu of Zhou; the ears hear every kind of elaborate, wondrous music, from stirring, lilting melodies to the sounds of Zheng and Wei and the lingering styles of Chu. One hunts high-flying birds beside the ponds and chases running beasts through the parklands. This is the life of ordinary people, absorbed in pleasure and unrestrained in their indulgence. The sage may be among such things, yet never lets them drain the spirit or disturb the mind, leaving the heart confused and one’s nature lost.

Even if sages live in remote, desolate places, hidden among the plants and trees beside a stream valley, in a hut with only a single wall on each side, its roof thatched with straw and its door woven from mugwort, its window covered with a broken jar, and its door pivot made from a bent mulberry branch; even if rain leaks inside, the dwelling is damp, and water seeps into the dark northern room; even if snow and frost blanket the ground and moisture nourishes aquatic plants such as gua and jiang, they can still dwell there in peace. They wander at leisure in great marshes and roam beside mountain gorges.

Ordinary people in such circumstances are often constrained by their situation, grieved and distressed, and convinced that their aspirations have gone unfulfilled. Sages, however, neither grow sorrowful and resentful nor lose their capacity for contentment. This is because their hearts understand the patterns of nature’s workings. Differences in status, wealth and poverty, or exertion and rest do not alter their aims or their De.

Crows cry “caw, caw,” and magpies call “chack, chack.” Do their cries change when the weather shifts from cold to hot, or from dry to damp? This illustrates that those who have truly realized the Dao do not change their resolve because of rank or status, wealth or poverty, hardship or ease—just as birds do not change their cries with the seasons.

Once the heart that has attained the Dao is firm, it need not shift with the changing course of things, nor rely on passing changes to decide whether it has gained anything. The “attainment” spoken of here means allowing the inherent state of nature and life to rest in its proper place. Nature and life, together with the body, arise from the same root. When the body takes shape, nature and life take shape as well; once they have taken shape, feelings such as love and aversion arise.

Thus, men have convictions that remain firm, and women have a fidelity that does not waver. When men share the same aims, their De is in accord; after meeting, they can mutually recognize this bond, which is why they are said to have firm convictions. A virtuous woman remains devoted to one person: even if widowed, she does not marry again, which is why she is said to keep an unchanging fidelity.

The compass and square cannot arbitrarily alter roundness or squareness, and the inkline and carpenter’s square cannot alter straightness or crookedness. Yet even these tools have no use here. The enduring span of Heaven and Earth does not grow longer when one climbs to a high hill, nor shorter when one stands in a low place. Thus, those who have attained the Dao do not fear hardship, nor regard success as an honor. In high office, they do not feel endangered; when prosperous, they do not fall into ruin. In fresh circumstances, they do not feel unusually radiant, and over time they do not change. Even if they enter fire, they are not scorched; if they enter water, ...

When occupying a high position, he feels no danger; when abundance is at its fullest, he does not collapse. He remains fresh and clear, never growing dim, and endures without change. “Yu” means to change; the original text is missing a character at “□.” Even when he enters fire, he is not scorched; when he enters water, he does not get wet.

Such a person is naturally respected without relying on power, is truly wealthy without relying on riches, and is strong enough without relying on force. He rests calmly in emptiness, stillness, humility, and lowliness, freely moving with the transformations of all things. Here, “soaring” means rising and descending with ease as things change.

A person like this feels no regret even if gold is hidden in the mountains and pearls in the depths of the abyss. Shun hid gold in Mount Jin and pearls deep in the Five Lakes to put a stop to the desire to accumulate wealth. He did not value possessions, nor did he covet power, rank, or status. Here, “power and position” refers to ranks such as noble titles and official designations.

Thus, he does not take comfort as his happiness, nor grieve over a difficult life. He does not regard high status as security, nor feel endangered by low status. He lets his body, spirit, breath, and will each settle in their proper place, following the workings of Heaven and Earth.

The body is the dwelling place of life, Qi is the nourishment that sustains life, and Shen is the ruler of life. If any one of the three leaves its proper place, the other two will also suffer harm. Therefore, the sages teach people to let each remain in its place and fulfill its own role, without allowing them to fall into disorder with one another. When the body is in a state unsuited to it, it declines; when Qi is not put to proper use, it dissipates; when Shen does not act in the appropriate way, it grows dim. To grow dim is to fail to understand. All three must be guarded with care.

All things under heaven—even tiny insects—know what benefits or harms them, what they like and dislike. Why? Because their nature remains intact and has not departed from them. If they lose their nature, the body loses its order and may even perish.

People can see clearly and hear keenly; the body can carry out movements and the joints can bend and extend; the eyes can distinguish black from white and beauty from ugliness; and the mind can tell sameness from difference and understand right from wrong. This is because Qi nourishes the body and Shen directs its activity.

How do we know this? Each person’s thoughts focus on something in particular. When the spirit concentrates in one place, a person’s actions are affected in turn: while walking, they may stumble, step into a pit, or collide with a tree without noticing. If someone addresses them, they do not see; if someone calls to them, they do not hear. This is not because their eyes or ears have failed, but because they cannot respond: Shen has lost the place that keeps it anchored.

When a person concentrates on small matters, they forget the great ones. When they remain in the middle, they forget what lies beyond; when they attend only to what is above, they forget what is below; when they look only to the left, they forget the right. So it was with Bai Gong Sheng of Chu, who was preparing to plot a rebellion. As he stood in the court hall, he held his staff upside down. Its top pierced his head from below, and blood ran onto the ground, yet he did not notice. There are many other cases like this.

Where the spirit (Shen) reaches, there is nothing it cannot be. “Being” means existence. Thus, those who value emptiness and stillness can make even a tiny, hair-thin place a dwelling for the spirit. “Emptiness” means a mind free of distracting thoughts. To take a hair’s breadth as one’s dwelling means that the spirit can be subtle and present everywhere.

People who are mad cannot avoid the dangers of water and fire, nor can they cross the hazards of ditches and ravines. Does this mean they lack a body, spirit, Qi, or will? No. They simply use these in a way unlike ordinary people. They have lost the mind’s governing center and are no longer settled within or beyond body and mind. As a result, their behavior is often inappropriate, and they cannot act or remain still with due measure.

Throughout their lives, they drag along frail bodies, walk over rough and uneven ground, and stumble into filthy pits. Though they live in the human world like everyone else and have bodies much like other people’s, they cannot escape being killed or mocked. Why? Because body and spirit are out of harmony.

When the spirit leads, the body benefits accordingly. When bodily desires rule a person, the spirit is harmed. The spirit is clear and still, and so it brings benefit; the body is bound by passions and desires, and so it brings harm.

Those who are greedy and full of desire become immersed in power and profit, coveting fame and status. They hope to use their intelligence, which they believe surpasses that of ordinary people, to win great renown in the world. As a result, their spirit is depleted day by day, and they grow ever more distant from their original nature. When desire becomes excessive and they remain unable to return for a long time, the body too becomes closed off, leaving no way for the inner spirit to enter. The “spirit” spoken of here refers to a person’s mind and tranquil nature.

Thus, people in the world often become mentally confused and lose their composure. They are like oil lamps and candles: the more fiercely the flame burns, the faster the oil and wax are consumed, and the sooner the flame goes out. When Jing (essence), Shen (spirit), Qi (vital energy), and one’s will are calm, they grow fuller day by day and thereby become strong. When they are agitated, they are depleted day by day and thereby grow old.

The sage, therefore, is skilled at nurturing the spirit, keeping Qi calm and supple, and making the body steady and at ease, while following the Dao’s cycles of flourishing and decline, ascent and descent. When the mind is at ease, the sage lets body and mind naturally unfold. When circumstances become urgent, the sage acts swiftly. In unfolding, the sage is like setting down a garment: unhurried and natural. In action, the sage is like a crossbow releasing its bolt: swift and forceful. In this way, the sage follows the timely changes of all things and responds aptly to the changing circumstances of every matter.

In The Huainanzi’s “Discourse on the Beginning of the True” (Chuzhen xun), “chú” means “beginning,” while “the true” refers to the Dao’s real substance. The Dao begins in a state without form or name and brings forth the myriad things. This is called “embracing the true,” and the chapter takes its title from this idea.

The “beginning” refers to the start of the opening of Heaven and Earth. “Before there was ever a beginning” means that the myriad things had not yet shown even the faintest signs of sprouting. “Before there was ever a state preceding the beginning” means that the Qi of Heaven and Earth was still in a silent, empty state, with nothing at all. “Before there was a beginning” describes a state so indistinct that it is difficult to discern. “There is being” means that the myriad things begin to show signs of taking shape; “there is nonbeing” means that Heaven and Earth are so vast they cannot be described by name. The phrases “before there was ever nonbeing” and “before there was ever a state preceding nonbeing” ask about states that came earlier than “being” and “nonbeing.”

Here, “the beginning” refers to the time when various breaths and substances had gathered and accumulated but had not yet dispersed. The myriad things had just begun to show faint signs of emerging, but had not yet formed distinct shapes or boundaries. They stirred subtly, seeming about to grow, but had not yet become specific kinds of things. “Fánfèn” describes the way numerous things gather together, while “fā” carries the sense of being knotted up and accumulated.

Before all things began to take shape, there was a state that could not yet be said to have begun. At that time, the Qi (vital energy) of Heaven had only just begun to move downward, while the Qi of Earth had only just begun to rise. Yin-Yang crossed and converged, spreading and flowing between Heaven and Earth. They propelled one another and moved freely. Carrying De (Virtue/Power) and containing harmonious Qi, they gathered in a tangled mass, seeking to join with the myriad things, yet no traces of them had appeared.

Further back still lay a state in which even “beginning” had not begun. Heaven held harmonious Qi, but it had not yet descended; Earth concealed Qi, but it had not yet risen. There was emptiness and stillness, desolation and distance, and everything was indistinct and hard to discern. Qi then gradually coursed through, filling the depths of darkness and obscurity.

“Being” refers to the appearance of the myriad things: plants have roots, stems, branches, and leaves, their green growth lush and their colors bright and vivid; flying insects flit about, crawling creatures wriggle, and animals walk and breathe. These things can be touched, observed, grasped, and counted.

“Nonbeing” means that its form cannot be seen, its sound cannot be heard, and it cannot be reached by touch or seen even from afar. It is vast and immense, beyond measurement or calculation by any standard, yet it is clear and luminous without having a form.

There is also a state in which neither “being” nor “nonbeing” has yet appeared. It encompasses Heaven and Earth, brings forth and nurtures the myriad things, and unites all things in an undivided whole. It is boundless and immeasurable, beyond calculation by any standard; it is clear and luminous, yet has no visible form.

There is a state that exists before “being” and “nonbeing” have begun. It embraces Heaven and Earth, nurtures the myriad things, and allows everything to pass freely through the depths of chaos. It is vast and far-reaching, with no boundary that can be called outside; even if divided into the finest detail, it has no limit that can be called inside. It has no space enclosed by walls, yet it is the source from which “being” and “nonbeing” arise. What the realized person—the one who has attained the Dao (the Way)—experiences in this dim, chaotic realm is the Dao.

There is another state that has never existed even before “being” and “nonbeing” began. At that time, Heaven and Earth had not yet separated, Yin-Yang (yin and yang) had not yet divided, and the myriad things lay between separation and mixture. The seasons had not yet taken shape, and nothing had yet been born. All between Heaven and Earth was open, still, silent, and clear; no forms could be seen. “Vast” describes something deep and boundless. As if immersed among shifting light and shadow, between seeming and not seeming, a person withdraws into it and even forgets their own self. To “lose oneself” means no longer to appear within perception.

At this point, one might say: “I can act with intention, and I can practice Wuwei (non-action), but I still cannot reach ‘nonbeing of nonbeing.’” Here, “acting with intention” means deliberately doing things; “Wuwei” means following things as they are and refraining from forced action. Yet even Wuwei may still be something one consciously pursues. Only when one lets go even of the thought of Wuwei does it arise naturally from one’s own nature. Once one truly reaches “nonbeing of nonbeing,” how could such a wondrous state be attained through words and thought?

Heaven and Earth gave me my form and made my life a labor. When I grow old, they will grant me ease; when I die, they will grant me rest. Zhuangzi said, “Life is like serving a sentence at hard labor; death is rest.” So when Heaven and Earth bring about my death, they are giving me rest. If I cherish life, I should also understand how to cherish death. If I delight in being alive, I should also delight in dying. This shows that death, too, is a transformation. We should not regard life alone as good, but see life and death as one.

Hide a boat in a valley and a mountain in a marsh, and people may think they have hidden them securely. But in the middle of the night, a strong person could carry off the boat and the mountain while everyone slept, unaware. Things can still be stolen away. But if you hide the whole world within the whole world, nothing can escape. The great man takes the world as his dwelling and uses it to shelter all things. How, then, could anything truly be lost?

People rejoice as soon as they acquire human form. Yet the transformations of all things are endless—why should becoming human be the only form they take? When one form decays, another transformation follows. How could anyone count the delights contained in this?

Sometimes we dream that we have become birds and flown into the sky; sometimes we dream that we have become fish and plunged into the depths. While dreaming, we do not know that we are dreaming. Only after we wake do we realize it was a dream. Perhaps there will be a greater awakening, when we understand that what we now call being awake is itself no more than a dream.

Before I was born, how could I have known what joy there is in living? Now that I have not yet died, how can I know that death is certainly not joyful?

Long ago, Gongniu Ai fell ill and underwent a transformation. Seven days later, he became a tiger. What is called “transformative illness” is a change in the course of an illness. In the Jianghuai region, someone from the Gongniu family suffered this kind of illness and turned into a tiger, much as people in the Central Plain sometimes suffer bouts of madness that recur at set times. After becoming a tiger, if he ate a person, he would turn fully into a tiger; if he ate no one, he would later change back into a person.

Gongniu Ai was from Han and lived in Huainan. The scripture uses “cattle eating fodder” to explain the term “grass-fed and grain-fed animals,” and cites this story as an example. His older brother peered through a crack in the door, then went inside to look. The tiger pounced on him and killed him. “Yan” is read as “yan,” meaning to cover; “chan” means to peer or look secretly.

Thus a person’s appearance and body can change into those of an animal: human claws and teeth become a tiger’s, and the person’s mind changes along with them, as spirit and form transform together. While he is turning into a tiger, he does not know that he was once human; while he is human, he does not know that he will become a tiger. Human and tiger alternate, each at ease in the form it has taken.

Changes such as cunning and dullness, and the many ways right and wrong appear, have no fixed beginning. Who can know where they arise? Water freezes into ice in winter, and ice melts back into water in spring. Ice and water change from one to the other, as though someone were hurrying along with a burden on their back. Who has time to dwell on the joys and sufferings of each?

Thus, when the body is harmed by bitter cold or scorching heat, dryness or dampness, it may wither and fall ill, while the spirit may also be injured. When the spirit is harmed by joy, anger, and anxious thought, it may be exhausted, while the body still retains some strength. When an old horse dies and its body is cut open, it is like dry wood, because its vital force has been spent. When a young dog dies and is cut open, its body is still moist, because its vital force has not yet been exhausted.

Therefore, those who die from injury have restless, troubled ghosts that often afflict people with spirit-caused illness. Those who die when their allotted years have run their course have spirits that are quiet and still. This shows that form and spirit do not necessarily vanish at the same time. Daoists value nourishing form and spirit, so that one may live out one’s natural lifespan and die at its end. The saying that form and spirit both perish means more than the spirit simply becoming still. Laozi said, “When the world is governed by the Dao, ghosts cannot manifest their powers and cause trouble.” This refers to the extinction of both form and spirit.

The sages cultivated their nature with a clear and tranquil mind, followed the movements of their spirit, and allowed body and mind to support one another, thereby remaining in accord from beginning to end. So they slept without troubled dreams and awoke without distress. Their spirit was undisturbed by anxious thoughts, and they slept peacefully; they held benevolence and righteousness in their hearts, worrying only that they might fail to live up to them, and so they had no other worries.

In ancient times, people lived in a state of undivided wholeness. Their spirit and Qi did not dissipate outward, and all things were peaceful and harmonious. Strange phenomena such as comets and fuzzy stars, along with the stellar forces around the Dipper’s handle, could bring no harm. People then lived at ease, with no sense of east or west. They played with food in their mouths, and after eating their fill, patted their bellies and frolicked, free from trouble. They shared the harmony of Heaven and lived on the Five Grains produced by the Earth. They did not use cunning and deceit to argue over one another’s faults. This was a scene of expansive abundance, known as Great Order.

Those in high positions need only guide and employ the people, without letting their nature run unchecked; they should settle and govern them without altering their original De. Then there is no need to proclaim benevolence and righteousness for all things to flourish and grow, nor to impose rewards and punishments for people throughout the land to be content and compliant: they follow the power of De. Acting in accord with this principle allows all things to prosper naturally, though its effects are difficult to describe one by one through calculations and categories. A short-term accounting may seem to show a shortfall, while a calculation over the course of a year shows a surplus. It is like plums: a hundred plums provide enough sourness for a hundred people to taste, but one plum is not enough for a hundred people to taste.

Fish in rivers and lakes forget one another; people, too, forget one another in the arts of the Dao—the ways of nature and the arts of self-cultivation—because each can be content with their place and fulfill their wishes. The true people of antiquity, those who embodied and followed the Dao, took their stand on the foundations of Heaven and Earth. Their hearts were at ease and unhurried; they embraced De and bathed in harmonious Qi. Thus all things gathered, grew, and came to maturity. Who would want to become entangled in worldly affairs and let external things disturb their life and nature?

The Dao has guiding principles and an order that run through all things. By grasping the Dao of “attaining the One”—that is, understanding the shared foundation of all things—we can connect many branches to their root and use a few essential principles to set many things in order. Thus, those in positions of authority can govern by following the Dao; those of low status no longer lose heart because of their station; those in poverty can be at ease with their livelihood; and those facing hardship can meet danger with composure.

Only after bitter cold arrives and frost and snow fall can we see that the pines and cypresses remain lush. Only amid hardship and danger, when the stakes are plain, can we see whether a sage has steadfastly kept to the Dao.

Therefore, those able to bear the Dao of Heaven and Earth can put broad and upright principles into practice. Those whose hearts are clear and vast as the Great Clarity—the open, empty expanse of the heavens—can see things plainly. Those who establish peace throughout the realm can dwell in the Great Hall. Here, the “Great Hall” refers to the Mingtang, an ancient ceremonial hall where rites such as announcing the new moon and issuing decrees were held. Those able to roam in the deep and mysterious reaches can shine with the same brilliance as the sun and moon. To speak of the Dao of De is to speak of people who can bear Heaven and Earth and shine with the same light as the sun and moon.

Therefore, use the Dao as a fishing rod, De as the line, ritual and music as the hook, and benevolence and righteousness as the bait. Cast them into rivers and set them in the sea. All things come and go in ceaseless succession—which among them does not fall within their embrace?

Some people rely on improper and contradictory methods to guide and manipulate affairs in the world, shaping customs from above and below. They probe into minute matters and entangle themselves in them, seeking profit and using it to satisfy their ambitions and desires. How much more so, then, for those who hold within them the pure and beautiful Great Dao, like jade: they can forget their liver and gall, set aside their ears and eyes, and refuse to be led by the senses. They wander alone beyond the boundless, neither mixing with nor disturbed by external things. At ease in the realm beyond form, they roam in harmony with Heaven and Earth.

Such people restrain their cleverness and talent, and hold fast to their unadorned nature. They regard gain and loss as mere dust, and life and death as the alternation of day and night. Thus, even if splendid jade-adorned carriages stand before them and the famed melodies “White Snow” and “Pure Horn” sound in their ears, their spirit remains undisturbed. Even if they climb to a ravine a thousand fathoms high and face dizzying, precipitous cliffs, their inner calm is not lost.

They are like the fine jade of Zhong Mountain: even after three days and nights in a furnace, its luster does not change. The highest De is the essence of Heaven and Earth. Life cannot compel such a person, nor can profit move them; death cannot restrain them, nor can calamity make them afraid. They understand the bounds between life and death and grasp the changes in gain and loss. Even if the whole world were offered in exchange for a single hair on their shin, their resolve would not waver.

Honor or disgrace falling upon them passes as swiftly as a gust of wind. Slander or praise settling on them is as insignificant as a passing mosquito. They hold fast to purity without being stained, and act with integrity without becoming mixed with what is impure. In darkness they do not lose their clarity; at ease in nature’s balance, they suffer no harm. The steep, bitterly cold mountains of Mengmen and Zhonglong cannot confine them; rushing waters, deep abysses, and the perilous currents of Luliang cannot hold them back; nor can such treacherous passes as Taihang, Shijian, Feihu, and Gouwang obstruct them.

Thus, although their body is above the rivers and seas, their spirit can roam beneath the palace towers. “Wei Que” refers to the great gate towers outside the royal palace. Some also take it to mean the great opening within the heart, suggesting that the spirit remains inwardly centered. Without grasping the source of the Great Dao, who could reach such a state?

Thus, keeping company with a Perfected One—a person who has attained the Dao and possesses profound wisdom—can make ordinary people forget their poverty. It can lead princes and nobles to regard wealth and status lightly and find contentment in humble circumstances; make the bold temper their sharpness; and diminish the desires of the greedy. The Perfected One sits quietly without preaching and stands firm without argument, so that those who arrive empty return filled. This is the foundation of “guarding the One,” and the source of the Dao.

The Perfected One can bring people a sense of peace without teaching them in words. The Dao’s insight, like a flowing river, naturally brings people peace and ease. Thus the highest Dao does not act by design; at times it is like a dragon, at times like a snake. The dragon can transform, and the snake can shed its skin, so the ancients used them as metaphors for the Dao. The Dao expands and contracts, coils and unfurls, changing with the times. Outwardly, it adapts to its surroundings; inwardly, it preserves its nature. It does not let external things dazzle the eyes and ears, or let thoughts become restless and confused.

The spirit of one who has attained the Dao remains calm and steadfast, roaming freely in the Great Clarity—a realm of pure emptiness and lofty transcendence—and guiding the myriad things so that all manner of beauty may arise. If one deliberately manipulates and agitates the spirit, it will instead depart. Let the spirit rest in tranquility, and it will naturally remain.

The Dao arises from a single origin and runs through the nine gates—the gates of Heaven. It also branches out along the four cardinal pathways, spreading throughout Heaven and Earth. Its workings extend across the boundless universe. The Dao is still and empty, taking no active action upon the myriad things; they act through their own transformations. Thus, the myriad things are not brought to completion by the Dao acting on their behalf. They each come into being through the Dao’s influence. Things succeed by following their inherent principles; the Dao does not carry them out itself, but provides the conditions for their operation.

All things covered by Heaven, borne by Earth, embraced by the six directions—that is, Heaven and Earth and the four quarters—and nourished by Yin-Yang, moistened by rain and dew, and sustained by Dao and De are born of Heaven and Earth, their mother and father, and gather in the same vital breath of harmony. “Harmony” means the harmonizing of Qi. What the Dao cherishes is precisely this shared principle of generation and transformation. Thus the locust and elm trees, and the tangerine and pomelo trees, may be said to come from one source and to be like brothers. Even the distant regions of Youmiao and Sanwei can, through the Dao’s nurturing influence, be connected as one family.

A person’s eyes may gaze upon a swan while their ears listen to zithers and lutes, yet their mind and spirit may be far away at Yanmen. A person’s thoughts can be scattered across different places; in the vast expanse of Heaven and Earth, a single movement of intention can seem to carry them a thousand miles away. In their differences, the liver and gallbladder are as far apart as the lands of Hu and Yue; in their shared origin, all things lie within the same domain.

The teachings of the various schools each have their own origins. Mozi of the Mohist school advocated universal care and opposed music, holding that anything beneficial to the state should be done, even if it meant wearing down one’s scalp and wearing through one’s heels. Yang Zhu advocated preserving one’s nature and remaining true to oneself; he would not pluck a single hair from his leg even if doing so could benefit the world. Shen Buhai served as chancellor to Marquis Zhao of Han, where he established laws and institutions and promoted strict methods of government. Shang Yang was originally Gongsun Yang of Wei. He later devised a system of collective responsibility for Duke Xiao of Qin and became known for his harsh methods. He was enfeoffed as Lord Shang, and so was also called Shang Yang.

These teachings each cling to one side, like a carriage canopy missing a rib or a wheel missing a spoke. They may fill out the count, but their absence need not prevent the vehicle from working. To imagine that one’s own doctrine is unique is to misunderstand the true condition of the myriad things in Heaven and Earth.

When craftsmen cast vessels, the metal surging in the furnace inevitably overflows in parts that are discarded. Metal that falls to the ground and solidifies may also happen to take the shape of some kind of vessel. Even if these shapes are somewhat regular, there is no guarantee they meet the standard of the Nine Tripods of the Zhou royal house—let alone that they match the precise forms traced with a compass. Compared with the Great Dao, these partial teachings remain far from the mark.

All things grow in separate directions, spreading out their branches. The many affairs of the world are as numerous as stems, leaves, and boughs, yet all arise from the same root, while their branches extend into countless forms. “Shu yue” means spreading out; “zi,” read here as “zi,” refers to branches. Since all things receive something from a source, yet there is no agent that bestows it on each one in turn, the source itself bestows nothing, and yet there is nothing that cannot receive from it.

This is like dense clouds gathering: layer upon layer of cloud forms, and at last it becomes rain. “Zhou yun” refers to thick rain clouds; “long cong” describes their gathering; and “liao chao” and “peng bi” describe the clouds’ accumulated fullness. Rain nourishes all things, yet does not thereby become wet along with them.

A skilled archer has rules and measures for aiming, and a craftsperson follows standards such as the compass and carpenter’s square. Mastering these makes it possible to achieve great skill. But Xi Zhong, though skilled at making carts, could not thereby become Feng Meng, the master archer; nor could Zao Fu, though skilled at driving, thereby become Bo Le, the judge of horses. This shows that expertise in one area does not mean understanding every kind of thing.

When white cloth is dyed with alum, it becomes darker than the alum; when cloth is dyed with indigo, it becomes bluer than the indigo plant. The resulting black is not the alum itself, and the blue is not the indigo plant itself. Although the dye acts on the cloth, the cloth cannot then be restored to its original state. This means that things change gradually in the course of transformation, and their original qualities grow ever fainter. How much more so with the forces that bring about the transformation of all things directly, without any concrete medium such as alum or indigo. The changes they produce would be impossible to enumerate one by one, even if carved in metal and stone or written on bamboo and silk.

From this, we can see that nothing arises except from “Being.” Here, “Being” refers to the source from which all things come to be and exist.

Therefore, the sage entrusts his spirit to the “spiritual abode”—the inner realm of the heart and mind—and returns to the beginning of all things. He observes in darkness and depth, and listens in silence. In the darkness, he alone can see the light; in stillness and vast emptiness, he alone can discern. He acts without deliberate effort and so achieves more; seemingly doing nothing, he is then truly able to act. His wisdom appears to be ignorance. Because he does not imagine himself to know everything, he is able, in time, truly to understand.

If Heaven is unstable, the sun and moon have nowhere to rest and cannot move; if Earth is unstable, plants and trees cannot grow. If people cannot find steadiness in how they live and conduct themselves, right and wrong cannot become clear. Thus the True Person—one whose being accords with the Dao and who returns to what is genuine—comes before true knowledge. Such knowledge contains no deception, and is therefore called “true knowing.” If a person does not understand the principles they hold in their heart, how could ordinary, unenlightened people know that the “knowing” I speak of is not what is usually called knowing?

To accumulate kindness and extend deep affection, using reputation and prestige to transform and protect the people, so that they find joy and are content to preserve their nature—this is called “benevolence.” To accomplish great deeds and earn an illustrious name, set right the distinctions between ruler and subject and those above and below, clarify degrees of closeness and rank, rescue states in peril and preserve lineages on the verge of extinction, bring order to disorder, revive declining ancestral temples, and provide heirs for those without descendants—this is called “righteousness.” To close the senses and quiet the mind, abandon cleverness and ingenuity, and return to a state of unknowing; to wander freely beyond the dusty world, roam at ease in a realm without affairs or deliberate action, harmonize Yin-Yang, and bring all things into accord—this is called “De.” Thus, when the Dao disperses, it becomes De; when De fills out, benevolence and righteousness arise. Once benevolence and righteousness are established, the Dao and De decline.

After a large tree was felled, it was made into a xizun, an ancient sacrificial wine vessel often carved in the shape of an animal offering. The craftsman carved images of the sun and moon on the vessel, pierced and engraved it with tools such as a ji, a hooked carving knife, and decorated it with colors such as blue-green and yellow. The text’s references to the compass, measuring standards, incised drawings, and ink lines describe the methods the craftsman used to measure, sketch, and mark the wood before carving; blue-green and yellow refer to its colored decoration.