《岘泉集》Vol. 2

Yang Zhu held that human nature mixes good and evil; in substance that is only different leanings of desire, habit, and qi temperament—how could that be called the proper nature heaven gives human beings? Gaozi named people’s innate condition “nature” and also treated everything done under the drive of desire as nature. Xunzi held that human nature is originally bad and that what we call good is only the result of later human effort. What these views rest on is the fixed skew that desire, habit, and temperament impose on nature; they stand far from the original right order of nature itself.

Han Yu divided human nature into three grades and human feeling into seven kinds. Would not what heaven bestows then become excessively varied? Where is one to fix a standard? Whatever issues from nature is feeling (qing). Is human nature to be confined to a threefold grading, with five more “natures” added on top? In truth these accounts take temperamental bias for nature. Later writers prized Han Yu especially because, from Qin and Han onward, few spoke on the topic and he alone stated a view.

Ouyang Xiu said that nature is not what students most urgently need to discuss and that sages seldom stressed it. Is that not because the root issue had not been cleared up? Dong Zhongshu said: “Ming (fate) is heaven’s command; xing is the endowment received at birth; qing is human desire; dao is the path to good order; benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music are instruments for walking that path.” Wang Anshi said: “Xing is the root of the Five Constants (benevolence, righteousness, ritual, wisdom, and trustworthiness), but the Five Constants themselves cannot directly be called xing.” That may come close to the truth. Yet some set this apart from Mencius and instead find Xunzi and Han Yu more convincing—a mistake that comes from not seeing the difference.

Only Zhou Dunyi’s language comes near the right principle. He said: “One who acts at ease along with nature is called a sage.” Cheng Yi said: “What heaven gives to the person is called ming; what all things receive is called xing; xing is li (principle).” Here the point is stated plainly. Those who could carry on Mencius were Zhou Dunyi and the two Chengs; that they rise above the other schools is clear from this.

Why, then, do Laozi and Buddhism use “xing” differently? Laozi takes xing to be shen (spirit)—numinous being that exists from the primordial outset and is not destroyed. Buddhism takes xing to be awakening—the full preservation of the original empty, clear, numinous knowing. They hold that one must sever concern for outer things and strip away cravings so that nature is not stained or seized, until the mind is clear and firm; when numinous clarity gathers, marvelous transformation appears. On that view, everything in heaven and earth that has form and breath counts as empty illusion, so discourse easily favors void stillness alone and slights the reality of li and qi.

As for their probing of life and death and single-minded pursuit of self-completion, how can that be classed with Shen Buhai, Han Fei, Yang Zhu, and the like? The way of heaven and the way of the human are originally continuous. The Dao is most subtle and pure; li is most deep and fine. Unless one aligns with the movement of heaven and earth without violating it, one cannot mark the line between heavenly principle and human desire, and so cannot fully take in the mind of the sages. To take in one’s own original mind completely is to illuminate nature to the full and fulfill the charge that ming assigns.

Someone asked: “The Daoist school treats matters of ghosts and spirits as a main concern—do ghosts and spirits really exist?”

The reply was: “Who says ghosts and spirits do not exist? It is only that people’s analysis is not fine enough, so doubts sometimes arise. Heaven is the accumulation of qi; earth is qi gathered into a denser form—and the same holds for what lies above physical form, in the realm of the formless. Qi operating within form is precisely the circulation of heaven’s decree. It runs without ceasing, and there must be a ruler over it. Master Cheng said: ‘What rules is called Di (the Lord); its subtle efficacy is called ghosts and spirits.’ He also said: ‘Ghosts and spirits are the traces left by creation-and-transformation, and also the natural power of yin and yang at work.’

The traces of yin and yang in motion cannot be seen, yet their pattern can be inferred. Principle has what is manifest and what is subtle; some depths cannot be fathomed, and wondrous efficacy lies therein. Therefore the sages never asserted that ghosts and spirits do not exist—they simply did not make them a special topic. Confucius said that prayer can reach the spirits of heaven and earth; he also said that in matters of ghosts and spirits one should be reverent yet keep at a distance; and he praised the virtue of ghosts and spirits as reaching the utmost height. These sayings do not mean that ghosts and spirits do not exist. Confucius did not discuss the strange, force, rebellion and disorder, or ghosts and spirits, because he feared people would sink into absurd talk.

The Book of Changes says: “When yin and yang change in ways hard to measure, this is called spirit (shen).” It also says that a person’s fortune and misfortune align with ghosts and spirits. When the human mind-heart is upright, the Dao becomes clear and principle shows itself. The pivot of yin-yang change, and the coming and going of qi, are not outside our mind-heart. Thus human fortune and misfortune connect with ghosts and spirits; without the subtle efficacy of yin and yang that ghosts and spirits represent, how could we speak of fortune and misfortune at all?

Only those who make the great Dao clear and bring virtue to wondrous efficacy can accord with these principles and know the character of the spiritual. When virtue is vast and reaches the realm of transformation, this is called sagehood; when sagehood reaches what cannot be fathomed, this is called spirit (shen). This is the principle by which the myriad things change and operate through wondrous efficacy. To exhaust the wondrous and know the principle of change is also where this is fully embodied.”

The sage comprehends the subtle principle by which Heaven and Earth operate, attains the supreme realm of unity between Heaven and humankind, yet does not feel that anything miraculous is at work within this, and does not deliberately display or boast of the miraculous—only thus can it be called truly miraculous. Therefore it is said: to serve Heaven one must understand its principle; to serve Earth one must discern its disposition. Once the heart sincerely communes with Heaven above, Heaven responds and the first signs of its working appear. What cannot be seen or fully understood is precisely the trace in which what is called “spirit” (shen) dwells.

Though Heaven’s movement is silent and without sound, resonance arises here and response appears there without interruption. Therefore even ordinary people, once they have purified themselves through fasting and ablution, can use this to serve the Lord on High and the ghosts and spirits. Whether sacrifice receives a response depends above all on sincerity of heart. To understand sincerity is enough to serve Heaven.

In sacrifice one burns firewood and fragrant plants, using the rising smoke to worship the celestial spirits; one offers millet, panic grass, liver, and lung, together with yu chang (aromatic wine brewed with fragrant herbs), to worship the earthly spirits. All of this is sincerity reaching through, so that the numinous descend. As for the workings of the celestial spirits—thunder rolling, wind and rain nourishing, frost and dew nurturing the myriad things, light and dark changing swiftly, forms multiplying without end—if not for power of utmost numinosity, who could accomplish it?

Ghosts and spirits are hidden and deep; they cannot be sought by tracking physical traces. Yet at sacrifice people gather in awe and grief; ghosts and spirits sometimes show sound or form, sometimes come through resonance, sometimes seem to arrive from longing and remembrance. They may be lofty and without form, or low and near with visible shape; what stagnates without transforming, what bends without extending, also belong to this category. The saying “when refined qi (jingqi) gathers, things take form; when the wandering soul (you hun) disperses, transformation occurs” describes how they are governed by the waxing and waning, bending and extending of Yin and Yang. This is why yang essence and yin soul give rise to the many forms of ghosts and spirits. Observing the traces left by Heaven-and-Earth’s creation, one can discern the thread between being and non-being.

Someone asked: “The principle that ghosts and spirits exist is indeed as you say. Yet when people fall ill in the world, they say a certain ghost or spirit is causing harm and that one must pray with blood offerings before one can escape misfortune. If the prayer is answered, everyone spreads the word that ‘the spirit has shown its power.’ If there is no answer, or someone dies young or one’s allotted span changes, people resentfully say…” [The text here repeats the same account of blaming a ghost, blood-offering prayer, and proclaiming efficacy when answered.]

Some people, when things go wrong or when someone in the household dies suddenly or their allotted span of life seems to change, resentfully blame a particular ghost and even claim that divine beings help ghosts harm the living. They consult diviners, and the answers often sound convincing. Yet what they worship are not the proper spirits that Heaven and Earth and the altars of soil and grain are meant to receive, but deities of illicit, excessive cult worship. They scarcely deserve to be called shen; how then could they help ghosts injure a person’s allotted destiny (tianming)? To think in this way is profoundly foolish.

This attitude did not arise overnight. It is a custom long handed down in streets and alleys. Ordinary men and women repeat worldly tales and use strange events to frighten people, until such beliefs become habitual. If one understands that the qi of the living is shen, and the qi of the dead, when it cannot extend freely, is gui—qi that extends is called shen, qi that is bent and suppressed is called gui; hun-qi arises from Heaven, while bodily form and po arise from Earth—one will not be misled by absurd and heterodox claims.

If one preserves inner sincerity, clarity, and purity, and aligns one’s own efficacy with Heaven and Earth, one can resonate with the power of Heaven and Earth. The stories of Lu Yang waving his spear so the sun stood still, of a chaste widow whose weeping brought frost, and of Han Yu parting the clouds over Mount Heng and driving off a plague of crocodiles can all serve as examples. The early Confucians also said: “Where there is sincere intention, the spirits have their place; without sincere intention, whence would the spirits come?” What people call the Daoist “commanding of ghosts and spirits” is simply the cultivation of one’s own focused, luminous mind so that it merges with the transforming spirits of Heaven and Earth. Dong Zhongshu’s phrase about “ releasing yang and restraining yin” points to the same idea.

Shichen said: “The qi of Prior Heaven is the true imperial norm of Heaven; the spirit in my heart is the officer of the Thunder Department, the lord of mountains and peaks.” He was speaking of precisely this principle. Those who do not grasp it dismiss it as “outside the fold” doctrine. Can such people truly understand the patterns by which shen transform or the ways gui manifest?

Mang Miaozi walked among mountains, forests, and marshlands and observed all kinds of trees: some tall ones bent downward, while short ones bore lush foliage; some twisted branches coiled without spreading freely, while straight trunks rose high with dense crowns. Some trunks were several feet around, others so slender they were thinner than a finger. They flourished on cliffs, along streams, and in valleys; mist rose and fell among their tips, and birds perched there, calling in harmony.

Mang Miaozi turned and smiled. “I have always loved things full of life and vigor, and among them nothing pleases me more than plants. Birds that fly, fish that swim, and beasts that run each have their own nature; yet the logic of how plants grow is easiest to see and most delightful.

“As the seasons turn, every flower and every blade of grass has its proper time: some bloom red, some purple, some white, some yellow. They do not miss their season, nor do they alter their native colors. Cold and heat alternate according to the calendar, and tender shoots and new branches appear in turn. Their colors are brilliant and they vie in beauty—brocade and rouge can hardly capture it—yet plants that grow in spring cannot be forced to flower in winter, nor can those lush in summer be compelled to thrive in autumn. Once the season has passed, you cannot hurry them; before the right moment arrives, you cannot slow them down.

“Even when plants are kept in halls and planted in pots and jars, with branches bent for display and care adjusted to human convenience, it seems as though their innate nature is resisted and their original character harmed; yet people often do not notice that cramped space and forced bending injure them and keep them from growing naturally. Even so, they still bloom and flourish according to season and climate. Who makes them do this? It is the subtle working of the power that presides over transformation (zaohua). The most minute and abstruse principle can be glimpsed here: the ten thousand things each receive their endowment and possess distinct natures. This is perhaps what is meant by “each of the ten thousand things embodies a complete Taiji (Supreme Ultimate).” Still, that plants can receive human cultivation may also be because the right season has come, which enables them to grow and bloom.”

Heaven and earth do not wear away what things naturally possess, nor do they suppress their growth; that there are gaps in the way things work is nothing to marvel at.

Consider the plants of mountains, forests, lakes, and marshes: without manure or irrigation, they receive the nurture of rain and dew and the assault of frost and snow; now dry, now wet, with heat and cold unevenly distributed and each influence different—yet they grow only by the grace of wind and rain and the firmness of soil and rock. Tall and short, bent and straight, large and small—each follows its inborn nature, flourishing and strong, with nothing beyond its reach.

Those plants that fully receive the nature of things—even wild flowers on the hills—compete in fragrance and beauty and are no worse than flowers raised in pots; they are far more than any single blossom or blade of grass. Thus pine, cypress, and other timbers can serve as pillars and beams; other woods can frame tools and edges; bright resin becomes oil or lacquer; dead wood becomes utensils or fuel; sweet fruit is eaten, good roots become medicine, and black, auspicious wood is recorded in writing. Each suits its use; never, for lack of a human purpose, do they hide in deep mountains and thick forests merely to preserve their original nature.

Each keeps its own nature and holds to what it was given—this is how the true nature of the ten thousand things cannot be bound, vast and subtle. The Dao spreads through all under heaven like water running through the earth, reaching everywhere. Can plants be said to be without feeling or awareness, and yet be like this? I now understand that though the ten thousand things differ in countless ways, they share one root; this principle is the same in ancient and modern times, filling heaven and earth and unchanging. I rejoice in this beyond measure.

Someone behind me laughed and asked: “Why are you so delighted by this sight?” I said: “That is not for you to grasp. In observing the nature of plants, I can fully exhaust my own nature—that is why I rejoice.”

The man smiled and said: “What you observe is only what you have seen with your own eyes in your leisure. How could you know what the trees themselves know?”

I believe that observing the inherent nature of plants and trees is enough to let me grasp my own inherent nature, so without noticing I become absorbed in it. Someone laughed and said: “What you see is only the grasses and trees you pass on your leisurely walks and witness with your own eyes. How do you know how long those trees with lush branches and dense green foliage take to rise and fall, to grow and wither with the seasons? If they do not grow on remote, rugged mountain ridges, safe from thieves competing to cut them down and from axe and saw, then whether old or young, crooked or straight, hard or soft, large or small—none would be spared. They endure the battering of wind, frost, ice, and snow, and are cut, carved, bent, and worked day and night without pause: some are made into boats, some into bedding, houses, or carts, some split for firewood—uses too many to count. Human cleverness becomes their calamity, and human craft becomes their enemy. When the trees’ inherent nature is thus ruined, what vitality is left worth contemplating? Yet as Zhuangzi said, trees in the mountains with broken branches and swollen trunks may precisely because they are useless preserve their full span of years; as for cases where timber, once made into window frames or posts, still lasts long and stays thick—I have never seen that.”

I did not choose those trees and leave; instead I admonished him: “This is exactly what Mencius meant when he said the trees of Mount Niu were once luxuriant but became bare because people cut them every day. When the inherent nature of trees is injured, it is like the inherent nature of human beings being harmed—yet people do not know to preserve it. Does this principle apply only to trees?”

Furthermore, Shao Yong (Northern Song philosopher, courtesy name Yaofu) often used “number” (shu) to investigate the patterns of all things. Even wood, stone, tile, and rubble each have their own principle. Why should I grieve? Every thing has its allotted endowment; by nature it cannot be arbitrarily damaged. Whether it can be put to some use decides whether its lot is fortunate or unfortunate—and that too has its fixed measure. Fine timber suited to become qin and se, flutes, pipes, and xiao will be offered in the clear temple (the ancestral hall where sacrifices are performed) to play the sacrificial court music.

Wood of hard quality, suitable for trays, bowls, and ordinary mats, is placed in the hall; wood of poorer quality is put in low, humble places; rotten wood is discarded in the dust. What situation each meets depends only on its own condition. Yet the nature that wood originally has, given by Heaven—who can utterly destroy it? This is called fully realizing one’s nature (jinxing). The one who laughed said: “Exactly so.”

Reading “Guanwu Pian” (On Contemplating Things)

After the works of Confucius and Mencius circulated, their Way became clear. Later the Way grew obscure, and the kingly teaching declined. This was not because the classics failed to survive, but because those who explained the Way did not make it clear. After the warring states and feudal strife, down through the flourishing Han and Tang, few truly understood and practiced the sages’ Way. When the Song rose, the sage Way shone again: Zhou Dunyi (Master Zhou) unfolded what was still unclear in the doctrine of Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), and Shao Yong (Master Shao) went further to reveal the boundless rationale of xiantian (prior-to-heaven) learning. Seen in this light, for clarifying the intent of Fuxi, King Wen, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius, and continuing a broken transmission, none stood out more than they.

The root of the sages’ Way lies in the heart-mind (xin); the Yijing is also a study of probing heart-nature (xinxing). Shao Yong said: “The heart-mind is Taiji.” The gist of learning lies in cultivating heart-nature; xiantian learning also takes the heart-mind as root. He spoke of heart-nature with great penetration, clarified principle and affairs clearly, and used the square diagram and circle diagram to disclose the Yi’s subtlety. The vastness of Heaven and Earth, the fineness of Yin-Yang change, the hiddenness of ghosts and spirits, the depth of image and number, change between being and non-being, the breadth of the myriad things’ scope, and the wonder of principle’s transformations—all issue from Taiji and in the end return to Taiji; gather these principles together, and they are in the one heart-mind. When the mind expands it can fill the cosmos; when gathered in it is fine as a hair’s tip. The pure, subtle, deeply probing rationale within is thorough and strict.

This is what is meant by contemplating with the heart-mind and also contemplating with principle (li). Shao Yong also said: “Do not look at things only through your own heart-mind; do not measure things by the self as standard; do not be led by the surface forms of things.” The ways of Yao, Shun, Yu, and Tang in passing the throne differed—some by virtue, some by merit, some involving banishment or execution; the Zhou, Qin, Han, and Chu had unequal spans of fortune—the key lay in choosing good or evil. From this one knows that order and disorder under Heaven depend on whether the Way and righteousness (daoyi) or private profit is honored; crooked and straight arise from words and conduct. The deeds of the Three Sovereigns, Five Emperors, Three Kings, and Five Hegemons are as clear as a water mirror—nothing can be hidden. To be able thus to turn back and view the myriad things is the sage’s state of observing the feelings of things and penetrating through. This is the rationale of exhausting principle, fully realizing nature, and reaching Heaven’s mandate (tianming).

By fully deducing and integrating things until they cohere, one can grasp the patterns of yin–yang transformation in heaven and earth. Those patterns take the formless, bodiless “One” as their root and appear of themselves. What is called “not using” this One is a way of likening it to the Dao (the Way). “Using” it has three levels, likened to heaven, earth, and humanity. Hence it is said: before the Wuji (the undifferentiated root before things divide), yin already holds yang within it; once forms appear, yang then differentiates yin. The cycling of “Heaven’s root” and the “Moon’s cavern” (symbols for the comings and goings of yin–yang qi) unfolds within the Wuji. How could this fail to accord with Zhou Dunyi’s teaching?

Since the Yijing (Classic of Changes) appeared, hundreds upon hundreds have annotated and debated it—yet how many truly caught the sage’s intent? How many could penetrate the reasoning that precedes the drawing of the hexagrams? Still, those who admire these teachings often seek amusement in leisure and ease, without necessarily entering the Way they contain.

When Han Yu read Xunzi, he picked out what aligned with Confucius; he also wondered whether Yang Xiong could be counted among the sages. Comparing Yang’s Taixuan to the Yijing, Shao Yong held that the learning of the “prior heaven” speaks of the heart-mind, while the learning of the “later heaven” speaks of traces—the outward shapes things take. Only what can move in and out among being and non-being, life and death, is the Dao. To chase the Way by clever contrivance and numerological art, following a fixed path, is to suppress heavenly principle and follow human desire. Such a view is far indeed from the real Dao.

From this one sees that Shao Yong’s vision was extraordinarily broad, his hearing extraordinarily deep, his discourse extraordinarily subtle, and the joy in his breast extraordinarily vast. He could accomplish what was broad, deep, subtle, and vast, yet inwardly not cling to any single achievement. Is that not a state wonderfully subtle and close to the sage? Such praise is no empty phrase. Who can find someone skilled at nurturing the heart-mind and talk with him about the learning of the mind?

Alas—some say that what lies beyond the four quarters of heaven and earth, the sage keeps in mind but does not discuss. Someone like Shao Yong may already be said to have exhausted the subtle and mastered transformation; could anything remain that the sage would not discuss?

Reading the biography of Dong Zhongshu…

After the Three Dynasties, the Zhou declined and the kingly way was no longer put into practice. The Qin carried on the habits of the Warring States period—shallow in character and twisted in purpose—and burned the Books of Poetry and History to ashes, so that the transmission of the Way was all but lost. When the Han rose and the realm was broadly at peace, pedantic and narrow Confucian scholars still clung to old routines and could not make the teaching of the former kings shine again after it had nearly died out. The pattern was much the same throughout.

Emperor Wen of Han was counted a wise ruler, yet he could not employ a talent like Jia Yi. A thousand years later, reading Jia Yi’s words still stirs grief and indignation—how much more so for those who fell far short of him?

Dong Zhongshu shut his door to teach and recite the classics and for three years did not stroll in his garden. In advancing and retreating he observed ritual propriety, so that scholars honored him as their teacher. When Emperor Wu of Han selected men of worth and literary learning, Dong Zhongshu submitted his written responses to the imperial questions. The occasion on which ruler and minister met was nothing the Qin could have matched. His proposals were enough to expose the ills of Zhou’s decline and to clarify the right principle of the kingly way: to take benevolence, righteousness, ritual, and music as the root. He clearly distinguished human nature, fate, emotion, and endowment, and he also treated in concrete terms the relation between yin and yang and the relation between punishment and virtuous governance.

Seen in this light, Heaven and humanity respond to each other: when people cultivate ritual in themselves, acts of good and evil also resonate in Heaven. What Yao, Shun, Yu, and Tang handed down from age to age was adherence to one and the same principle—not carrying out policies that breed harm. That level of attainment was hardly within reach of the mediocre men of Qin and Han.

Given Emperor Wu’s intelligence and decisiveness, after he had read Dong Zhongshu’s three memorial responses he still could not put even a little of the program into effect, and instead appointed Dong minister to the King of Jiangdu. On this point the author too feels regret for the age. Gongsun Hong rose by flattering the times, won a marquisate through mastery of the classics, yet resented straight talk and had Dong Zhongshu transferred to the kingdom of Jiaoxi. Dong could not enact his policies, but he rectified himself to lead those below him; he served two proud feudal lords, and both treated him with respect. In the end he died at home, pursuing study and writing. Was that not a man who understood when to advance and when to withdraw?

Dong Zhongshu said that in discussion one should conform to right principle and not seek private gain; one should clarify the Great Way and not haggle over personal merit. Not until the two Chengs (Cheng Hao and Cheng Yi) of the Song did these ideas receive clear exposition again, sufficient to serve as a standard for later generations. The writings of Dong Zhongshu in his own day were already beyond what Ban Gu, Jia Yi, Liu Xiang, Yang Xiong, and the like could match; writings of later ages find it even harder to stand comparison with his.

The Grand Historian (Sima Qian) held that Liu Xiang praised Dong Zhongshu’s talent, saying he was not inferior to Yiyin and Lü Shang, and that Guan Zhong and Yan Ying could not equal him—yet even that assessment, he thought, fell short. Liu Xiang’s remark was indeed inappropriate. Had Dong Zhongshu met a ruler able to put his program into practice, he too could have achieved the kind of accomplishment of Yiyin and Lü Shang; how could Guan Zhong and Yan Ying alone be weighed against him? Guan Zhong and Yan Ying were men who assisted hegemons; at most they could accomplish hegemony—how could that compare with the full kingly Way (wangdao)?

Moreover, judged by the line of teachers and friends, Dong Zhongshu’s scholarly lineage still falls short of comparison with Confucius’s disciples Ziyou and Zixia; Zhou Dunyi (style Yuan Gong), by contrast, took up learning whose transmission had been broken, and in the Song revived clarity about the lineage of the Way (daotong). Down to the present, scholars still honor him, and the lineage of the Way has never truly been cut off. How then can one say there was error in the transmission of learning?

Even Sima Qian viewed Dong Zhongshu in this light; how could later ages wholly fail to understand him? Some who recognized his contribution once wished to sacrifice to him in the temple and have him attend upon Confucius, to record his merit in exalting Confucian learning and suppressing the hundred schools—yet in the end this was not carried out, which is truly regrettable. Still, the teaching Dong Zhongshu expounded does not depend on whether anyone sacrifices to him. Alas, for him to meet someone who truly appreciated him was so difficult—across a hundred generations it has been the same. Emperor Wu of Han was already a ruler of some discernment, yet he still set aside Dong’s proposals and did not adopt them; rulers whose insight fell short of Emperor Wu’s need hardly be mentioned; Dong Zhongshu could hardly move them either.

Postscript to Orthodox Tradition of Literature

The vital energy (qi) of heaven, earth, sun, moon, and the Five Sacred Mountains manifests as literature; literature serves to carry the Great Way (Dào). When literature appears, the Great Way becomes visible, yet the root of literature must lie in qi. As primordial qi circulates between heaven and earth, the Great Way is thereby established. People of ancient times who possessed virtue inevitably left behind their words, because they had accumulated within themselves a peaceful and pure virtue, and their talent naturally flowed outward. If the Great Way had not filled their hearts and principles had not been clear to them, how could this have been expressed in their speech?

For this reason, Zhēn Déxiù (posthumously honored as Wénzhōng), compiled Orthodox Articles (Wénzhāng Zhèngzōng), calling works whose sources were pure and correct "orthodox." The book's categories are divided into four types, with ancient writers as the foundation for literary forms and the classics as the basis for meaning; works that did not meet these standards, even if their language was refined, were not included. The four categories are, in order: imperial edicts and commands, discursive essays, narrative accounts, and poetry and rhapsodies. The writings of the Yu-Xia period, the Warring States, the Western Han, and early Tang take Zǔozhuàn (The Commentary of Zuǒ) as their foundation; those who may be emulated thereafter include Bān Gù, Sīmǎ Qiān, Hán Yù, Liǔ Zōngyuán, followed by Ōuyáng Xiū, Sū Shì, Zēng Gǒng, Wáng Ānshí, and others. Other works were not included. Its principles of selection are rigorous, its categories clearly distinguished, because literature must take virtue as its foundation and principle as its purpose, and the emotions and nature expressed in writing must also be pure to meet the standard.

Viewed in this light, even among the writings of the ancients, very few truly meet these requirements. People of later times who do not understand this principle yet casually call their works "literature," and wish to become famous masters or conform to orthodox literary style—how can this be achieved? This is simply because they have not made the Great Way manifest and have not enriched their literary qi. The purpose of learning is to investigate principles thoroughly and apply them in practice; one must take the Way as the foundation and cultivate one's temperament. When one knows how to cultivate, literary qi becomes abundant and the Great Way is established; how then could one's writing fail to succeed?

I have devoted myself to the study of literature for more than twenty years, constantly seeking its essential principles. Regarding the works of the Six Classics and the various masters from the Han and Tang dynasties, I have carefully contemplated each; I have also traced back to the discourse of the Three Dynasties, hoping to discern their correspondence with the classics, inner and outer. I am ashamed to say that my learning is insufficient, my progress slow and tardy, my reading not broad enough, and my understanding not yet comprehensive—I often feel anxious because of this. Only upon studying this anthology did my thinking become clear and expansive, my conviction in its principles deepen, and my gains grow richer. Which works deviated from the proper direction, which authors lacked sufficient cultivation and thus did not qualify for inclusion—all became clear to me.

Alas, few in the world understand these principles. Many pursue only ornate language and deliberate refinement, producing works that are fragmented and weak, far removed from this conception of literature—as distant as a thousand li or ten thousand ren. Who would have thought that they simply have not yet reached the proper destination? To arrive there, one must also follow the correct path. If someone understands how to investigate the sources of literature, distinguishing and selecting from among its finest works, then even without instruction, he may gain insight from Zhēn Déxiù's intended meaning. I am fortunate to continue his work—how could I not feel grateful?

The Xunzi comprises thirty-three chapters. It opens with “Encouraging Learning” and “Self-Cultivation,” taking Confucius’s teaching as its foundation. Later chapters treat “The Efficacy of the Ru,” “The Way of the Ruler,” “The Way of the Minister,” “Kings and Hegemons,” and “Rites and Music,” as if grasping the essentials of the kingly way—yet they also mix in strategems for enriching the state and strengthening the army. Xunzi explicitly holds that human nature is evil and that this nature cannot be changed; he treats that as human endowment. He falsely ascribes his views to Yao and Shun, rejects the teachings of Zisi and Mencius, and in the end helps set Li Si on the path that led Qin to ruin—can he really escape the temper of Warring States coalition politics? Li Si studied under Xunzi; that Li Si served Qin and Qin perished shows the reach of Xunzi’s thought.

Mencius and Xunzi were contemporaries, and their disputations were famous. Yet in the sayings of Mencius recorded by Wan Zhang and others, why is there no trace of this debate? If Mencius truly held that human nature is good, why did he answer King Hui of Liang at the outset only with: “It is enough to speak of benevolence and righteousness”? That line may not have been enough for people of the time to take as a standard, and for later ages it may not suffice as a model. If Xunzi’s teaching has these faults, how far is it from Yang Zhu and Mozi?

Han Yu thought that after the Ru way was lost, Mencius stood up to champion the goodness of human nature, yet though he spoke of it daily he did not treat it exhaustively. Perhaps he had no leisure to dissect the harm in Xunzi’s claim that human nature is evil, or perhaps something remained unsaid. Han Yu set Xunzi’s words alongside Mencius’s—not necessarily because he thought them wholly wrong, but perhaps because his faith in Mencius’s position was not yet complete.

Consider also: under King Xiang of Qi, Xunzi was honored as an aged and eminent Ru—is it plausible that no one could debate with him the difference between the kingly and hegemonic ways, yet everyone revered him as teacher? Is this not rather because he borrowed stories such as Duke Ai of Lu questioning Confucius and Yao questioning Shun to impress and lead people on? Perhaps it was precisely because he stressed a shaman-and-prayer-like aura of mystery and trusted arts of omens and auspicious signs. Hence later ages know only the better parts of Xunzi’s words, while few scrutinize what is problematic in them.

On Discerning the Classic of the Hidden Talisman (Yinfu jing)

Historical writings grouped the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) and Laozi under the label “Huang-Lao” because their teachings were thought to align, yet no writings attributed to the Yellow Emperor himself have come down to us. Liezi once mentioned a Huangdi shu (Book of the Yellow Emperor) whose overall outlook largely matched Laozi’s. Among Huangdi works in circulation, only the Yinfu Jing (Scripture of the Hidden Talisman) survives. Its language is plain yet refined, its meaning deep yet concise—only someone who had attained the Dao could have composed such a text.

In the Tang, Li Quan obtained the Yinfu Jing on Mount Song and claimed it had been preserved by Kou Qizhi (a leader of Northern Wei Daoism) in the reign of Emperor Taiwu of Northern Wei. Li Quan held that the scripture uses three hundred characters in all: one hundred expound the Dao, one hundred set forth fa (method/law), and one hundred discuss shu (strategy/technique). Here “Dao” means the path of cultivation for immortals who embrace and guard the primordial unity (yuanyi); “fa” means methods to enrich the state and settle the people; “shu” means plans to strengthen the army and secure victory. In the sense of its lines, all three are present.

Shao Yong thought the Yinfu Jing was written in the Warring States period; Cheng Yi thought it might date to the late Shang or late Zhou—in any case, before the Qin. His reason was: while the early kings lived, the sages’ Dao was bright and clear, and people did not dare put forward rival doctrines; when the Zhou declined and the transmission of the Dao grew dim, few among the talented knew what to pursue, so each relied on personal judgment to infer and establish views. Cheng Yi also said that stating a principle directly can sometimes fail to be perfectly pure, whereas this scripture alone uses inverse formulations yet still accords with the correct path—it must have taken something as its model.

The gist of the scripture takes “utmost non-being” (zhi wu) as its root and the patterns and regularities of heaven and earth as the basis for its reasoning. It holds that all things and affairs in the world arise from non-being into being; for a person to return from everything that already exists back to non-being is the good state.

Zhu Xi said that some also believe the Yinfu Jing was written by Li Quan. Yet Li Quan did not deeply grasp the meaning of “taking non-being as the foundation and heaven-and-earth patterns as the basis,” so he could not have written at this level. Since Cheng Yi and Shao Yong already placed its composition in the late Shang or late Zhou, Li Quan in the Tang could all the more not have produced such a work. Is it only because Confucian scholars shrink from discussing immortals that they must deny it came from the Yellow Emperor?

Zhu Xi's commentary, because its wording branches and spreads, becomes vague; I worry that readers will see only the scattered formulations and miss the thread that runs through the whole work.

To observe Heaven's way and grasp the patterns by which the Way operates is to become one with Heaven and Earth, so that the Dao is present within oneself. That is the fundamental aim of the entire classic. Innate nature and the human mind are one in principle, yet in how they show up at decisive junctures their workings take two forms. Establish Heaven's way to settle those junctures; where reckless excess appears, let change and return have something to rely on. Then Heaven and the human can answer each other, unite with Heaven and Earth, and the Dao dwells in the person. That again is the fundamental aim of the entire classic.

The principle of nature and mind is the same, but at the joints their operation splits in two. Establish the Way of Heaven to stabilize those joints; if one moves rashly beyond measure, change turns erratic. Only when the Way is established and held steady do the transformations of the ten thousand things have a firm root, and movement and stillness each keep their proper place. From this one can also understand the path of cultivation.

What are called the "Five Thieves" (five factors that affect the person and the cycles of Heaven and Earth), the "nine orifices," the "three essentials" (three pivotal points in practice), and talk of giving life, taking life, and mutual restraint all describe how one grasps and applies the heavenly mechanism (tianji). When these patterns are applied at the right moment, the three powers—Heaven, Earth, and humanity—are settled. The noble person stays steady in hardship and does not act rashly; the petty person slight life and fate and thereby invite disaster. The subtlety of the Dao is truly hard to see and hard to know; that is not because it lacks knowledge or efficacy, but precisely because the Way is so hidden and fine that it appears numinous.

The sage's achievement arises here; the spirit's efficacy manifests here. Therefore one returns three times by day and night (sanfan)—turning again and again to restore the original state. Cut off private interest, guard the root, and one can penetrate day and night, life and death. Though blind, one can listen well; though deaf, one can see well—meaning that when the will is unified, its use can surpass ordinary people tenfold.

Thus Heaven's greatest grace is born where grace seems not to be given; the most impartial principle dwells where things seem most private. Life and death, grace and harm—in the Dao all follow this pattern; all are natural principle. Only when joy and stillness reach their utmost can one accord with the way of the "threefold return" and, in movement and stillness, bring the original state forth again. What appears then is the texture and order of Heaven and Earth. When people see this realm they call it sagehood; yet the events and patterns at my side never differ from the principle of Heaven and Earth, and for that reason one speaks of clear wisdom.

Foolish people treat sages as simpletons and also marvel at them as wonders; I alone neither take sages for fools nor hold them up as curiosities. For this reason the natural Dao rests in stillness, and heaven, earth, and the myriad things come into being from it. The patterns by which heaven and earth operate gradually appear; Yin and Yang advance and retreat against each other, and change unfolds in due order. Heaven and earth, through utmost stillness, give birth to the myriad things; as things grow in sequence, firm and yielding take turns in ascendancy, Yin and Yang shift back and forth, and change knows no end. Such is the principle of spontaneous operation within deepest stillness.

The myriad things keep growing and changing because heaven and earth themselves are like a marvelous vessel. Even the calendrical systems used to reckon seasonal nodes and the line figures of the Yi Jing cannot plumb its depths fully, so it is said to hold subtle, spirit-like turns of fate, hidden and hard to measure. The eight trigrams together with the sexagenary cycle—the “nesting the Heavenly Stems” (najia) method associated with Master Shao (Shao Yong)—are numerological arts that read the hexagrams from the waxing and waning of Yin and Yang. From first line to last, the text’s wording and argument were originally one continuous thread.

Yet the Chu and Cai editions in circulation both stop at the phrase “the seasons, things, patterns, reason, and wisdom”; the twenty-one sentences after that were specially prized by Master Zhu (Zhu Xi). On that basis, the Chu and Zhang versions should be the more trustworthy. By the same reasoning, the doctrine in the later portion also runs straight through. Although the three chapters each take up a single theme—from clarifying the root and penetrating function to the root’s being fixed so that function can be carried out—such insight is not within reach of anyone who has not grasped the pivot of movement and stillness or understood the teaching on life and death. This work was not written by the Yellow Emperor; it must be the work of a recluse-scholar of the Shang and Zhou era, and that is quite believable. Who would cling only to the Dao, or only to talk of methods and techniques?

End of Xianquan Ji, Volume One.

Annotations: ① In “yipao yan,” the character read as pao is probably yi. ② The character ma is probably wrong and should be yan. ③ In “standing alone chi xing without change,” chi is probably a mistake for te (“specially”). ④ Gu should be su (“common/custom”). ⑤ According to the “Preface by the Grand Historian” in the Records of the Grand Historian, xiao should be shao.

Xianquan Ji, Volume Two.

Therefore one must use the ineffable Dao (the Way) to explain what is fundamental: observe the beginning of Heaven and Earth in a nameless state, and with a mind free of desire discern the subtle wonder within. Hence one adopts the practice of wuwei (non-action) and carries out teaching that does not rely on words; without contending or taking what is not one’s own, one keeps the people from being driven by cunning knowledge and excessive desire. This was the measure taken in the waning days of the Zhou dynasty to restore plain customs, rescue teaching, and return people to their original simplicity.

If, when customs had decayed and instruction had grown shallow, one had instead taught the people with doctrines of the named, the desired, deliberate action, and explicit speech, how could they have understood that yielding can preserve, bending can straighten, the low can be filled, and the worn can be renewed? Therefore one must use nameless simplicity to settle hearts, so that people no longer wrangle over what counts as the Dao or as benevolence and righteousness, and society can return to antiquity.

For this reason Laozi’s teaching could be put into practice after the brutal rule of Qin; when the Han rose, they again governed through quietness and wuwei, with an effect like quenching fierce fire with water. Perhaps this is why Huang-Lao learning was first exalted and only afterward the Six Classics were honored. Here one speaks from the temper of the age: Laozi held that what is most precious in the Dao is emptiness and following change without reckless action, and so he wrote his book; its language is subtle and hard to grasp, and there is indeed a reason for that.

Later rulers of the realm took Laozi as teacher and applied his thought. From the traces of that thought, some hid it away as celestial scriptures and cavern records; others unfolded it as spirit books and secret formulas. Applied to self-cultivation, it can reach realization of truth and soaring through the air; applied to the world, it can save the age and benefit things. This is precisely the way that joins inner refinement with ordering the realm.

If one clings to the pronouncements of eminent Confucian scholars and lumps Laozi entirely with Zhuangzi and Liezi, treating the Dao De Jing as mere diffuse empty talk that in the end only speaks of “nature,” and further conflates it with the Legalist “names and forms” school of Shen Buhai and Han Fei, that will not do. Worse still are those who attack it as bombastic and false, void and useless.

The Shilu (Veritable Records) records the matter in such full detail—can this be only the author’s personal reverence, deliberately elevating Laozi so as to mislead the world? Otherwise, how could it have circulated so long of its own accord?

The Records are recorded in such full and meticulous detail—how could that be merely private exaggeration born of reverence for someone, meant to mislead the world, yet still circulate for so long? Today the emperor has received Heaven’s mandate; benevolent and sage, since he began to rule the realm he has first turned to the upper and lower parts of the Daode Jing, using them to support clear and settled governance. That is the great good fortune of our Daoist community—is there anything more worth rejoicing over?

In the fifteenth year of Hongwu, the court established the Daozhu Office (the agency that oversees Daoist affairs), and Cao Xiwu of our Mount Longhu served in it. Xiwu’s conduct in the Way was lofty and his sincerity steadfast; day by day he enjoyed the emperor’s favor, receiving treatment that surpassed that of earlier generations. Was that not because he helped advance the teaching of pure stillness and wuwei (non-action)? In his spare time he collated this Records, had it carved and printed so it could spread widely, and asked me to write a preface. In private I was deeply awed and hesitant—how could I dare to preface it? Yet in the reasoning of wondrous change and profound, far-reaching penetration, there are things beyond the four quarters of heaven and earth that even sages keep in mind but do not discourse upon. From this one may glimpse the point; therefore I respectfully offer this preface.

Preface to the Mount Longhu Gazetteer

The Dao is concealed in the utmost subtlety and also displayed in the utmost conspicuousness.

Though the Dao hides in the utmost subtlety, it also appears in the utmost plainness. Heaven and earth are vast, yin and yang turn and return without end, and within that the principle shows itself; the ten thousand things are many, rise and fall in cycles, and within that the pattern shows itself as well. These subtle openings hidden inside what is obvious cannot be seen directly. Often they are not recognized until a thousand years have passed and they still have not vanished.

What is called the Dao’s emptiness, mystery, and stillness comes from heaven and earth. In depth, haze, and what is hard to grasp, the refined, pure essence and its signs are still there. Though they cannot be seen, they can be known.

The teaching of the Supreme One (Taishang), from Xuanyuan (the Yellow Emperor) down through Emperor Wen and Emperor Jing of the Han, often used quietude and wuwei (non-action) to govern the world, and it was tested in practice. Some likened it to the “form and name” doctrines of Shen Buhai and Han Fei; others rejected it as the strange talk of fangshi and shamans. Can it for that reason be written off as heterodox?

Grand Historian Sima Qian held that the Daoist school, in acting, can follow formless patterns and bear the ten thousand things, and that its teaching is spare and easy to put into practice. That this school has existed from antiquity is beyond doubt. Thus the words of Guan Yin, Zhuangzi, Liezi, and others drew out what in the Dao had not yet been fully said. Advocation of softness, humility, and yielding is enough to repair the ills of the Zhou decline and to set norms for the world and shift custom—how can it be treated as abstruse, idle, and useless to the age? And when the sage establishes teaching through the wondrous Dao, is that deceiving later ages and misleading people?

After the feudal lords fought in the Warring States, in Qin there was Lord Mao; in Han, our ancestor the Celestial Master (Tianshi); and in Wu the Xu and Ge families stood out among the rest. The Celestial Master was endowed with rare qualities and received transmission in person from the Supreme One. From then on, in the line of the Three Caverns (Sandong) scriptures and registers and talisman lore, secret scriptures and deep intent stored in the nine heavens and ten extremes could all reach the human realm. The Celestial Master later traveled to Shu and refined the elixir on Mount Longhu. Mount Longhu became known throughout the world as a blessed land, on a par with Mount Sanmao and Mount Gezao.

Our Zhang line, from Marquis of Liu (Zhang Liang) downward, has been transmitted for forty-eight generations—something the lineages of the other two mountains cannot match. Through Wei, Jin, Tang, and Song, the Zhang house was honored and exalted in each age, and the rites and institutions connected with it are complete.

When it comes to the beauty of mountain and river scenery and the scale of official temples and monastic halls, this place has been transmitted through forty-eight generations; in some respects it cannot be matched by the other two mountains. From the Wei, Jin, Tang, and Song dynasties onward, each age has honored and elevated it, and the rites of sacrifice and the institutions of ritual and law are fully in place.

Here the mountains and waters are fine, the temples magnificent, and the people numerous; traces of immortals are extraordinary, the practice of the Dao is wondrous, and titles and renown are illustrious. Those who have admired this place through the ages have set it in poetry or carved their deeds in metal and stone; related lore has circulated for more than two thousand years. The longer the transmission, the more it has flourished; the longer those who have presided have served, the wider the influence. That it could endure so long and stand out so clearly is surely because earlier generations aided the myriad things and benefited living beings, warded off disasters and protected the people; their profound De (Virtue)—that deep and far-reaching moral power spoken of in the Daoist tradition—extended through time, silently blessing the people and supporting the state’s work of teaching and transforming. Perhaps also the spiritual weight of the mountains and waters nurtured and sustained this place. For that reason, a shanzhi (mountain gazetteer recording mountains, temples, and the deeds of those associated with them) cannot go unwritten.

In the spring of the second year of Huangqing of the Yuan dynasty (1313), Master Hao, successor master (sijishi) of the Xuan lineage of teaching, compiled three fascicles and presented them to the court. The emperor ordered the Hanlin academicians Lord Yuan Wenqing and Lord Cheng Wenxian to write prefaces. My great-grandfather Lord Liu and my grandfather Lord Tai Xuan both received imperial favor; their names shone brightly in their time, their deeds entered the canonical records, and honor had reached its height. My predecessor Lord Chongxu, in the early years of the previous emperor’s accession, was summoned to audience many times and received exceptionally generous treatment. I am shallow in talent and learning; in my youth I inherited the Daoist line, again received special grace, and the temples were rebuilt anew. Later, when the present emperor took the throne, I was first called by imperial decree to attend; I have received favor from two reigns in succession—imperial kindness deep and blessings vast, truly beyond full recounting.

When I examined the old gazetteer, I found much of what it recorded sparse, shallow, and commonplace, and I felt regret. Some said: we are now in an age of flourishing rule; if we do not further investigate antiquity and seek what is hidden, and compile a work adequate to display this mountain’s splendor, would we not leave singular and fragrant deeds and great, unmatched traces buried and dust-covered—like pearls hidden in deep waters and marsh grass, precious in substance yet with no one to gather them? Would that not be a betrayal of what one holds dear?

Although I devoted myself wholeheartedly to this work of compilation, there were still many points I could not fully carry through. The lecturer Li Tangzhen cultivated clarity and stillness and was steadfast in character; he therefore had people search out what had been lost or omitted. His younger brother Yuqing, resolute in purpose and quick in mind, also did his utmost to help bring the task to completion. The manuscript was then arranged into ten fascicles. Just as the book was nearing completion, a worthy patron offered to fund its printing—how could one fail to set down a brief account and preserve this karmic tie?

The Dao moves in the world, proceeding in parallel with Heaven and Earth without going against them; as it is handed down among people, it only grows more flourishing day by day. To record these deeds so that the thread is not broken is to carry on well what those before us achieved and to leave a blessing for those who come after—something that ought to endure like mountains and rivers, without end. Yet years pass and the world changes; not every event can be fully set down in writing. Those who later look up to the legacy and achievements of their predecessors may still find something to gain in this book. I venture to place this preface at the head of the volume.

Preface to the Lineage of the Han Celestial Masters

The Yijing says: "Make the Great Dao manifest, reveal the wondrous De, and thus one can respond to all affairs and assist the spirits." What fills heaven and earth, runs through past and present without ceasing, is the Great Dao. When the Great Dao is made manifest, its wondrous efficacy appears; when De accords with the Dao, one can meet every change and assist the spirits. This is what is meant by taking part in heaven and earth’s transforming and nourishing of the ten thousand things.

Grand Historian Sima Qian said: "The Daoist school advocates wuwei (non-action), keeping the spirit unified; acting in accord with the formless Great Dao, observing the ten thousand things, and shifting with the times to answer each situation as it arises. In setting worldly institutions and handling mundane affairs, nothing is unsuitable." These words are indeed well founded.

The Supreme Old Lord (Taishang Laojun), revered as the patriarch of the Dao, was born in the Yin dynasty, served as Keeper of the Zhou royal archives, and later as Historian under the pillar. Through marvelous deeds beyond ordinary reckoning, he descended to the human realm again and again, becoming the founding ancestor of the profound teaching. My patriarch, the Celestial Master of Han (Zhang Daoling), received the blessing left by the Marquis of Liu (Zhang Liang) and personally received the Dao from the Supreme Old Lord. From then on, scriptures and secret records of immortality, long hidden through kalpas and never circulated, were transmitted to the world.

Later the Celestial Master of Han subdued demons and monsters, ingested and refined the divine elixir, and upon completion ascended to the immortal realm, passing sword and seal to descendants for nearly fifteen hundred years to the present. Though dynasties rose and fell and the world changed, the transmission has never broken. Is this not because the wondrous efficacy of the teaching of quietude and wuwei (non-action) conforms to heavenly De and suffices to assist heaven and earth in transforming and nourishing the ten thousand things? Even now, numinous traces remain in the depths of famous mountains everywhere; from this one can see that his descendants’ fame has endured and flourished, and that it truly aids royal teaching and broadly benefits the people.

Since the end of the Han, those dwelling on Dragon and Tiger Mountain mostly lived in rocky valleys and stream-side retreats, cultivating life and nurturing essence. In the early Song their practice gradually became known to the world. In the Daguang and Chongning periods appeared the Perfect Sovereign of Empty Stillness (a Daoist honorific title). Through actual cultivation of refining the body with breath, he showed wondrous results and responsive signs; thereafter his reputation grew still greater, enough to stand alongside figures of earlier ages. Among his successors, the most notable were my great-grandfather Lord Weishan and my grandfather Lord Taixuan.

When divine manifestations and miraculous responses occur, they truly cannot be separated from the practice of cultivating qi and refining the body; after such events, one's reputation grows all the more, enough to stand comparison with earlier generations. In the Zhang family, the most renowned were my great-grandfather Lord Weishan and my grandfather Lord Taixuan. Accounts of their efficacious prayers spread widely, and they received exceptionally generous imperial favor. In their time, the clarity of their spiritual efficacy and the weight of their achievements commanded respect from officials and scholars alike; in some respects they even surpassed those who came before.

By the time of my late father Lord Chongxu, in this enlightened age when the realm was united under Heaven, his standing and renown flourished for a while and he enjoyed unbroken honor—how could earlier generations be compared? As descendants of the divine lineage, was this not as it should be?

My own talents are modest, yet I bear the work handed down from my ancestors and fear I may fall short of it; moreover I have received the court's grace and still feel deep unease in my heart. When people ask about the origins and course of the Zhang house, I worry that these matters are not yet widely known and that the record may have gaps. In the past, while serving my late father, he personally gave me an old manuscript, entrusting it to the eminent Daoist Tongxu, and invited the Song-dynasty historiographer Song Lian to write a preface; yet at the time it could not be arranged, edited, and printed for circulation. Now I have revised and corrected the old text, reordered the sections and added material, and had it carved and published, hoping thereby to fulfill my late father's wish.

Alas, all things know rise and decline. How to carry forward the ancestors and open the way for those who follow is truly no easy matter. In recent times many have abandoned solid learning to chase what is merely showy, and many contend for power and profit. If one cannot study deeply, make virtue manifest, and bring glory to the clan, how can one say one has inherited the work of those before? How would they understand that the loftiness of the virtue and the greatness of the achievements transmitted from the Highest Lord, able to pass from age to age without end—what is it that makes this so? The way of the divine must be grasped in spirit, yet the decisive factor lies in the person. Those who come after should still urge themselves on and achieve deeds worthy of making the ancestors shine, so that the ancestors' teaching is not cut off. This "Lineage of the Zhang House" is compiled according to the format used in historical annals.

Postface to the Zhang Family Lineage

In antiquity, people received surnames and clan names largely in descent from sages and worthies; whether a family’s reputation could endure also depended on later generations cultivating themselves and recording the deeds of their forebears. Only then would the teachings left by ancestors not be lost. What is called a “distinguished lineage” (shijia) is established on the basis of what historical records preserve.

Postscript on the Zhang Clan Lineage

In antiquity, receiving a surname and clan name often traced back to descendants of sages. Some families took the name of a state; even when the state perished, the surname continued. Cases in which many generations had passed and clan affiliation could no longer be clearly distinguished were also common. In former times the court maintained special offices to manage genealogical registers; after those offices were abolished, scholar-officials compiled clan genealogies on their own. Compiling a genealogy was meant to fix the senior and junior order within the clan, distinguish near from distant kin, and enable later descendants to understand reverence for ancestors and respect for the ancestral line—matters that the gentleman took very seriously.

The Zhang originally bore the surname Ji. Tradition holds that they descended from Qingyang, son of the Yellow Emperor Xuanyuan. Qingyang’s fifth son Hui served as master of the bow (gongzheng): he was the first to make bow and arrow, spread nets to capture birds and beasts, and presided over sacrifice to the Bow Star, holding this office generation after generation; for this he received the surname Zhang. In the Yin dynasty, Zhang Muzi; in the time of Emperor Yao of Tang, Zhang Guo—both remained famous as transcendent figures. Under King Xuan of Zhou, Zhang Zhong served as minister; later Zhang Hou became a grand officer of Jin. After the three clans partitioned Jin, five generations of the Zhang in succession served as chancellors of Han. Grand Historian Sima Qian held that the Zhang were originally the ducal house of Han. When Han fell, Marquis of Liu Zhang Liang raised troops against Qin to avenge Qin Shi Huang and thereupon changed his surname to Zhang. The old genealogy begins with Marquis of Liu Zhang Liang and lists him as founding ancestor of the Zhang; earlier generations are not recorded. Having read the summary of the old genealogy, I continued to investigate in order to supply what was missing.

Zhang Liang was a native of Fengyi in Pei Commandery. He assisted Emperor Gaozu of Han in securing the realm and was enfeoffed as marquis. From him, seven generations of his house appear in biographies, many distinguished by notable achievement. In the Tang, the Zhang were counted among forty-three distinguished ancestral seats (junwang), including Ding’an, Fanyang, Taiyuan, Nanyang, Dunhuang, Xiuwu, Shanggu, Peiguo, Liangguo, Xingyang, Pingyuan, and Jingzhao; the clan produced seventeen chancellors and eight enfeoffed nobles.

By the tenth generation descended from him was born the father of the Han Celestial Master (Tianshi), the Tongbai True Person. The Tongbai True Person moved from Pei to Hangzhou and once passed through Dantu County in Zhenjiang. There was a shrine to the Marquis of Liu locally, and in Changzhou a numinous trace called Zhang Gong’s Cave—presumably both places where people, moved by his kindness, built shrines to offer sacrifice. Thereafter the Zhang settled in Zhejiang. The Han Celestial Master was born on Tianmu Mountain in Hangzhou and was founding patriarch of the Mystery Teaching (Xuanjiao). He refined the divine elixir and also employed talismanic methods to subdue and govern demons; later he traveled to Shu and made his home on Dragon-and-Tiger Mountain in Xinzhou. The Zhang line from this point extended far in time, its prestige greater than before. Historical works did not examine these circumstances; they assumed that two generations after the Marquis of Liu the enfeoffment was abolished and inferred that his line had ended—without knowing that Zhang descendants were scattered north and south and had flourished to such a degree.

Ten generations below the Han Celestial Master, the tombs remain intact and the clan generations are recorded. The Zhang residing on Dragon-and-Tiger Mountain extend to the twenty-eighth generation. Counting also the generations before the Marquis of Liu that cannot be verified, the total is five generations…

The Zhang family’s line of descent has continued for more than ten generations. How the various branches split or reunited, and how their official careers and reputations rose and fell, can no longer be traced with certainty. Some say that the Zhang families of Shixiao in Fujian and Shangrao in Xinzhou belong to the same clan. When one asks local descendants and elders, they can still recount old stories; yet to establish the order of generations there is no reliable evidence.

The Zhang families of Jiangdong and Jiangxi have for generations been known for eminent rank and fine reputation, and successive courts have honored them again and again—few clans could compare. Unless our forebears achieved wondrous merit and teaching, with virtue spreading in all directions, how could the line have flourished so long?

I have often reflected that some people in the world love to boast and frequently compile genealogies to display themselves, and many of these attach themselves to the powerful or force strained connections. How much genuine devotion to honoring the ancestors do they really have? Our Zhang clan are descendants of the divine; the transmission has lasted more than a thousand years. Those who speak of this know only that we inherited the profound methods of the Daoist tradition—they do not know that generation after generation someone rose to distinction and the line continued without break. It is only that documents are sometimes insufficient to prove it fully.

That the deeds of the Zhang family are not widely known is because earlier generations were not firm enough in seeking their roots, so even learned scholars of the time did not mention them. This is truly a source of shame and regret. Today the descendants of the clan are perhaps only one-tenth what they once were; yet the rise and fall of the family is still enough to move one—how can we allow the work of compiling the genealogy to be neglected any longer?

My talent is slight and my strength small; I am unfit for so great a task, and I often fear that the family’s origins will finally be cut off, so that later generations will not know whence their ancestors came, nor how to enlarge the clan and guard its foundation. Some say that in compiling a genealogy the close branches should be recorded in detail and the distant branches briefly; each household’s descendants should record their own near branches in full, and where records are brief they can supplement one another. Later generations should grasp how deep the ancestors’ kindness was, fix their will and strive to establish themselves, so that the customs and grace handed down in the family are not broken—only then have they truly inherited the good conduct of those who went before.

In former times Chancellor Han said that carefully recording the family register and not forgetting the ancestors’ glory is an important part of serious learning. How can we fail to take this as a warning to ourselves and an encouragement to those who come after? From this one sees that the ancients instituted the system of genealogical records to strengthen the root—not as empty form. I now set down these words at the end of the genealogy book to explain how this work came about. As for making manifest the deeds of ancestors that still lie hidden, that must await a writer of insight in our own time.

Human beings are born from the concentrated vital energy of sun, moon, mountains, and rivers between heaven and earth. When people cultivate themselves, what they accumulate inward inevitably shows outward—especially in speech. Laozi and Zhuangzi’s teachings urge forgetting the body, discarding cleverness and wisdom, rejecting all activity pulled by external things, and turning wholeheartedly inward; yet to pass the Way to later generations and establish teaching, they still had to rely on words to express it clearly and transmit it. From this we see that those who transcend the world do not treat speech as useless. Their words are like clouds moving through empty sky, ripples on a clear deep pool—passages formed naturally with the rise and fall of mind; one cannot grasp their meaning by surface traces alone. This differs from the speech of Confucians: when successful, they often show bold, expansive feeling; when frustrated, they voice the weariness of travel, sorrow, and lament over the times.

Yet when someone’s cultivation is profound and mysteriously transformed, long aligned with the Way of Heaven, must we judge him a transcendent solely by whether he left writings?

The Thirtieth Celestial Master, Perfected Lord Xujing, was gifted with spiritual insight and deep cultivation from past lives, born in an age of stable rule and flourishing culture. During the Chongning and Jingkang reigns, Emperor Huizong of Song especially honored the Dao; many accomplished practitioners appeared, including Xu Shenfang, Wang Wenqing, and Lin Lingsu alongside the Perfected Lord. He performed rites to restrain demons and calm tidal disasters, offered sacrifices at Rong Hui’s tomb, and many times manifested wonders. When the dynasty later faced grave trials, he foresaw omens of disaster; summoning wind and thunder or fair weather required only a brief gesture or question to take effect. His Daoist power was marvelous and his fame great—enough truly to assist the court and protect the people. Though centuries have passed, people still recount and admire him; he was not one who blazed briefly and then sank into silence. The old Record of Responsive Transformation already records his merits and deeds in detail.

The admonitions to the world and essays on refining one’s temperament that the True Lord left behind are enough to awaken the deluded and enlighten the ignorant. Unless he had roamed in spirit to the time before heaven and earth took form, when light had not yet divided, and transcended the turmoil of the dusty world with not a trace of distracting thought in his heart, how could he have reached such a level? Accounts of his achievements and cultivation are already very full.

Many people everywhere recite these writings and long to see them complete, yet for a long time it was hard to obtain a full edition. They were once carved and circulated in print; over time some portions were lost or damaged. Later someone searched far and wide and had them carved again so they could spread widely. May those who cultivate the Way and those who revere the True Lord look beyond the words for their meaning, grasp the mystery of the Huofu (fire talisman—the neidan teaching on the phases of “fire” and symbolic seals), and exhaust the subtlety of “lead and mercury” (metaphors in internal alchemy for yin–yang vital essences); and taking this as their teacher, go further into the realm of Dao and De.

On vast boundless plains, in empty luminous stillness, or among layered peaks and tall trees, on nights when the wind is clear and the moon bright, chanting and savoring those ethereal songs and divine rhythms, hearing the forest answer and the springs respond—who could know whether rainbow banners and rosy cloud ornaments might not descend from heaven? Works such as these—should they not be handed down together with the writings of Laozi and Zhuangzi?

I, Yuchu (the author’s style name), have been fortunate to inherit this tradition, yet my talent is insufficient to praise the True Lord’s virtue as it deserves. I often fear something may be omitted; therefore I have ventured to write this preface, to await someone of greater ability to complete the task.

Preface to Collected Works from the Leisure Pavilion

All things, from the moment they sprout, put forth branches, and show their first signs of growth, already carry the will to grow and reproduce. By the time their foliage is lush and they stand full-grown, people seldom pay attention to how they got there. What people usually see is only their flowering in splendor or withering in decline as cold, heat, winter, and summer succeed one another—they may not grasp their earliest condition. If even things in nature are like this, how much harder it is for a person’s inner mind to be clearly perceived by oneself.

Human nature is originally good. Once awareness arises, this goodness is present in everyone, resting quietly in the heart, the same as the vital impulse in all things. Yet private desires and emotional rumination can obscure one’s nature and pull one into partiality, just as all things cannot help but rise and fall with the four seasons. If one can notice what obscures oneself and set aside craving, the good nature will remain at peace. Therefore the path of learning begins with benevolence and righteousness and follows ritual, using them to guard the heart and recover what was originally there. Then the quiet goodness that was always within will show itself—like the kernel of virtue already inside the fruit, with no need to seek it outside.

For a scholar to establish oneself in the Way and bring honor to one’s parents, one must not pursue these outcomes for their own sake alone; without seeking this kind of principle, one cannot truly be said to be learning.

Poyang (in what is now Jiangxi) flourished more than the other prefectures and counties of Jiangxi; the wealthy built up fortunes through farming and trade and expanded their estates. In the Five Dynasties period, worthy men and great clans rose in competition, and among them the Zhou lineage was foremost. In the Yuan dynasty, Master Nanweng, zhizhi in the Hall of Assembled Worthies, was renowned for learning and lived among the fields and lakes. The mountains there were clear and bright, the waterways open; delighted by the view, he built on the hill a “You Ran Pavilion”—perhaps taking the phrase from a poem by Tao Yuanming of the Jin. Before long Master Nanweng entered official service, and the literati of the day all wrote poems and prose to record it.

Master Nanweng and the Left Counselor Master Bowen both held high office, and the clan flourished. Master Kefu and his brothers upheld the family tradition and did not let their forebears’ reputation fade. At the end of the Yuan, war broke out and You Ran Pavilion was destroyed. Kefu later left office and returned, gathering what his ancestors had written and their old belongings and keeping them intact. Kefu and I are close friends; he brought out what he had preserved and asked me to write a preface. This collection adds luster to its words, enough to show Master Nanweng’s rise in office and the clan’s prosperity; yet the name “You Ran” was chosen before he had achieved prominence.

These inscribed poems were written by officials and scholars who were well known in their time. When they had won success and reputation, they praised this place; and though they also felt a strong attachment to their native region and loved the lakes and hills of home, their frame of mind was still not the same as the ideal pursued by Jin-dynasty recluses (those who, like Tao Yuanming, left the world to live in the mountains and forests).

Seen in terms of how long a family’s accumulated heritage (the virtue and influence built up and passed down from generation to generation) lasts, the leisurely ease that later members of the Zhou clan enjoyed, and the way they used landscape to express what they felt, differed again. Scenery shifts with season and time, and is often tied to a person’s flourishing or decline. All things are held within the limits of qì (in classical thought, the basic principle and vital breath that govern how things come to be and change): where accumulation is deep, roots go deep; whether a line of descent lasts long or short is also connected to how much or how little each age has laid up.

In the great age of the Yuan, men of letters gathered from everywhere; of those who were Zhou’s contemporaries, how many remain today? Kèfù carries on the family tradition well and has also had the chance to edit and recompile the books, leaving them for those who come after. From this one sees that what is meant by a leisurely, easeful mind includes just such a meaning.

My grandfather, Grand Master Taixuan, and Nán Wēng Bówēn were friends across generations; I too have enjoyed Kèfù’s kindness, so that our ties now span three generations. How could I refuse to write this preface? I only wish his descendants will go on treasuring these texts. The “leisurely” legacy (the family tone and influence that flow from that unhurried spirit) is not confined by a clan’s rise or fall; it must arise from deep humane virtue and can endure for a long time. I therefore set forth my hopes in this matter and respectfully write this preface.

After the teachings of the Yellow Emperor and Laozi flourished, what we call the Dao also rose to prominence. Historical records say the Yellow Emperor once sought the Dao on Mount Kongtong from Guangchengzi. Guangchengzi’s words were not obscure or abstruse; they were concise, to the point, easy to understand, and easy to put into practice. After King Mu of Zhou built a thatched pavilion and invited recluses with ceremony, people began to honor and believe in such teachings all the more.

Guan Yin, Zhuangzi, Liezi, and others lived in the Warring States period. They explained the Way according to the changes of the times and from different angles, so their formulations sometimes agreed and sometimes differed, yet the line of transmission was one. The root of this teaching appears in the classics collected in the Daoist canon—the Three Caverns (Dongzhen, Dongxuan, Dongshen), the Nine Heavens, and the like (the classification and system of Daoist scriptures). Applied to governing the world, it is the way of “inner sage, outer king”—inner cultivation of sagely clarity and outward governance of all under heaven. Gai Gong and Cao Shen governing the state through quietude and wuwei (non-action) are examples.

Its essential aim is to let the formed return to the formless and the full return to emptiness and stillness; to follow the circulation of primordial qi (yuanqi, the fundamental breath of heaven and earth) so that the foundation is firm, then return to the root and revert to the origin. Thus nature and life (xing and ming—the spiritual nature and the root of life) merge into one; one holds to pure authenticity and ultimately transcends the distinction between being and non-being.

Under the First Emperor of Qin and Emperor Wu of Han, people were misled by fangshu (methods of seeking immortality, alchemy, and the like), and Daoist teachings became mixed with such things. Later, what was called the “golden fluid great elixir” (jinye dandan—elixir methods aimed at completion through pill refining) began to appear in texts such as the Jinbi Longhu Jing and the Taishang Shibi Ge. In the Han, Wei Boyang wrote the Cantong Qi based on the Jinbi Jing, using the imagery of the Yijing to explain the way of elixir refining, setting out theories of the Five Phases, the Eight Trigrams (Bagua), and the interweaving of yin and yang, and discussing in detail the mechanisms of fire phases, waxing and waning, and generation and transformation. Some passages use metal, stone, and plants to illustrate the substance and function of the elixir method; others use infants, dragons, tigers, and similar figures to express deep meaning in veiled language.

Those who later followed these formulations took wooden and stone metaphors for the elixir method itself, burying the main point and using it to mislead the world. This not only confused the transmission of both neidan (internal alchemy) and waidan (external alchemy), but also led the uninformed to treat mineral drugs as the elixir tout court, abandoning the actual work of body-and-mind cultivation and the principles of xing and ming. They therefore mocked elixir methods as strange and empty talk and used that to measure and judge those who cultivated the Way. Such conduct did not merely confuse people for a time; it also created harms that lasted for generations.

The human body belongs to yin; it is formed and transformed through the condensation of jing and qi. The essences of the eight minerals are refined according to firing phases and the Yinfu (secret registers governing timing and sequence in alchemy)—the same principle as the rules of qi ascent and descent, advance and retreat in Neidan (internal alchemy) cultivation. Thus the principles behind Waidan (external alchemy) and Neidan are one and the same.

The human body belongs to yin and is formed from the condensation of jing and qi. To refine and transform it, one must rely on the essences of metal and stone, as well as the spiritual qi of clouds, mists, and sunlight. Only through such refinement can one attain wondrous transformation and a body light enough to soar. Cinnabar furnaces and medicinal tripods in famous mountains and great rivers have all left traces of this path. Figures such as Celestial Master (Tianshi) Zhang Daoling of the Han, Imperial Clerk Xu Xun, and Immortal Ge Xuan are especially widely celebrated in legend. Therefore, to deny both the Neidan and Waidan lineages is sheer delusion.

In the late Yuan, some men of vicious character and shallow understanding vied to spread heterodox teachings, presenting methods such as yin-yang complementation through sexual practices as cultivation arts. They stole fragments of doctrine, compiled them into books, and cited words of eminent Daoists of earlier ages to corroborate one another, deceiving the world. Many wealthy merchants and powerful patrons believed them and sought to extend life—only to indulge without restraint until death ended their folly. What karmic retribution awaits those who first promoted such evil arts? I have long wished to refute these views forcefully, though I have not yet been able to proclaim this widely.

Some also take books on ingesting herbs, breathing exercises with cloud-mist visualization, massage, and daoyin (guiding and pulling—regulating qi and blood through breath and bodily movement) as gateways to the Way. Such methods can nourish life and prolong years, but to treat them as the root of immortality and Dao cultivation is like climbing a tree to catch fish or carrying firewood to put out a fire—close to heterodox delusion.

The so-called Northern and Southern schools: Quanzhen (Complete Perfection) honors Wang Chongyang of the Jin, while the Southern school honors Zhang Boduan (Ziyang). Zhang’s writings are rich in language and subtle in meaning; Wang’s are plain and concise. Zhang’s line requires the union of inner cultivation and outer refinement to succeed; Wang’s teaches Neidan alone. Yet the transmitted mysteries of both houses must be pursued through the disciple’s own insight—they cannot be fully exhausted by books.

Since I inherited leadership of the teaching, I have received the emperor’s deep favor; he once urged me to advance the study of the Daoist tradition. More than ten years have passed since then.

I have discussed the pursuit of the Dao with scholars from every region, never daring to slacken in the least. My own endowment is shallow and my learning narrow, so I have not been able to repay the state’s kindness as I should or to spread the Daoist teaching as widely as it deserves. This book gathers the scriptures, treatises, and poetic formulas I have read over the years. I trace how they were handed down from divine sovereigns, masters, and teachers, compare what the various schools say, and select what is essential—material solid enough to serve as a standard for those who study the Dao.

The work is titled Essentials of the Elixir Anthology (Dan Zuan Yao). It is meant not only for easy reading but also to make clear the principles of xing and ming (nature and life) and the main points of refining shen (spirit) and qi (vital energy), so that the whole hangs together as one coherent account. Readers may take its meaning from repeated reading and chanting, without being led astray by false teachings, and need not worry about mockery from people who mix cultivation with worldly success. As for the lineages of the Yellow Emperor, Laozi, Zhuangzi, and Liezi, this book should, in the main, keep their thread intact. If it circulates widely and lasts, later generations may share in the grace of this Way—and that will have its own cause.

Besides, for one who can withdraw to mountains and forests, advancing day by day without ceasing, is it impossible to continue on the path of dengzhen (ascending to the perfected state) and niejing (treading light and cloud)—the road of immortals who mount the empyrean? Still, that above all requires someone with deep roots and outstanding capacity to verify it in person. This preface stands at the opening of the volume.

Preface to the Commentary on the Chapter of Generating Spirit (Shengshen Zhang Zhu Xu)

The Yijing says that “Shen” (spirit) is a concept used to describe the subtle mystery of the ten thousand things. It can bring about transformation and mobilize ghosts and spirits; the highest spiritual wonder has no fixed form, and even sages cannot fully fathom it—this is called “Shen.” The Yijing’s exposition of Shen is already extremely thorough.

The ten thousand things all arise from one qi (the fundamental qi that constitutes heaven, earth, and the myriad beings). When one qi divides, Taiji (the primordial state before things are differentiated) splits into the two aspects of Yin and Yang, then forms the Four Images and the Five Phases; each rests within the movement of qi. As the qi of the Five Phases spreads, the ten thousand things continually grow and multiply. In the circulation of the Five Phases, yang reaches its extreme at nine and yin at six; the way of “two-five-nine-one” is also contained within the Five Phases. “One” is the root of all numbers, and qi is the mother of the ten thousand things. The movement of qi is governed by Shen, and thus the ten thousand things undergo change. Heaven is formed by the accumulation of qi, and “Di” (the Sovereign) is the title for what governs Shen.

If we say one qi gives birth to three qi, three qi to nine qi, and nine qi to inexhaustible qi filling the four directions above and below—all of these are formed by qi transformation and are called “all the heavens.” All heavens ultimately return to emptiness, meaning they cannot be sought through concrete forms.

Therefore, the teaching of Daoism takes emptiness and naturalness as its root. Emptiness and naturalness are precisely Shen and qi. To understand how to nourish Shen and qi is to possess the way of cultivating nature and life. Methods of cultivation may differ in detail, but the aim of the Three Caverns and the nine heavens is one. The supreme qi of the three realms condenses into seal script; these texts are not worldly speech imitated by human discourse. The Scripture of the Nine Heavens Generating Spirit in Chapters penetrates the great Dao and its meaning is clear; its division into chapters and phrases are all traces of the profound and mysterious Dao; each chapter corresponds to a destiny-origin and a level of heaven, and the path of cultivation is thereby complete. Inwardly one cultivates oneself; outwardly one delivers the souls of the dead…

By cultivating oneself inwardly and delivering departed souls outwardly, one recites scripture either nine or seven times, each count following the hidden principle within those numbers. Thus a person may sit in stillness and attain natural ease, or in daylight ascend to the heavens—yet this is not achieved by recitation alone. Ten is the number of completion; within it lies the pattern by which heaven and earth nurture the myriad things. The human body possesses the same generative power as heaven and earth; can the state of ascending to perfection, following the Dao and responding to transformation, truly be beyond reach?

According to the essentials of Golden Elixir Return (Jinye fanhuan—a Neidan (internal alchemy) term for refining essence into qi and returning to the origin), nine is the yang number. When Yuanshi Tianzun (the Highest Lord of Primordial Beginning) expounded the wondrous law and the divine kings pleaded for instruction, the kinds of calamities and the teachings for meeting them were already set forth in full detail. Since the kalpas of Chiming and Kaihuang, the celestial offices’ assessment and promotion of immortals have all proceeded by graded ascent. How can those who do not cultivate good conduct or seek the utmost Dao fail to be deeply alarmed by this?

Those who can practice may not only survive tribulation and become true immortals but also rise through the ranks of heaven step by step. Is this not because they nourish qi and refine spirit, gathering the nine qi into the myriad numina and merging the three realms (the desire realm, the form realm, and the formless realm) into one breath? It is said: “One may know the spirit that is wondrously spirit, yet not know how that which is formless and non-active can give birth to such wondrous spirit.” When it comes to life and death, refining and nurturing one’s own spirit-consciousness can deliver souls in the dark underworld. Even when proclaiming the merciful grace of the Supreme Lord (Taishang), one cannot separate it from the merit established by cultivating oneself.

Therefore the purport of this scripture and texts such as the Duren (Salvation of the People), the Dadong (Great Cave), and the Jiuku (Salvation from Suffering) interpenetrate within and without as one whole. Those who study and recite well should grasp the meaning according to the text; then day by day they may penetrate the depths of the Great Dao. Dong Guishan of Qingyuan wrote a commentary that is lucid and thorough—truly a bridge between the dark realm and the human world. In my leisure I had it carved and printed, hoping it would spread more widely; his intention to store up goodness and benefit others runs very deep. Later someone wrote asking me to compose a preface for the opening of the scroll. My talent is shallow and my learning thin—how could that suffice to clarify the aim and guide the multitude, so that all know how to turn toward the Great Dao and understand the great principle between the hidden and the manifest? Yet if one practices according to these teachings, in time spirit-consciousness grows bright and the bodily form turns subtle; treading clouds and riding the void, one returns the self to the primordial heaven above emptiness and wanders in realms far, lofty, empty, and clear.

Preface to the Gazetteer of Wuyi Mountain

Writers of geographical works such as the Fangyu, Zhifang, and gazetteers of commanderies and prefectures often fail to record fully the traces of divine spirits in famous mountains and great rivers, along with accounts of their numinous deeds. This is not because ancient texts are deficient, but because many learned scholars of later ages treat such matters as empty and absurd, and therefore avoid discussing them. Yet the places where immortal worthies and divine spirits dwell are everywhere. Whenever people pray in the face of calamity or misfortune and their prayers are answered, is that not a hidden support for the laws and order of the realm? How can one, simply because something seems fantastic, refuse to speak of it? Do immortal worthies truly lack merit in aiding the world? Sometimes histories do not record events, or later accounts are incomplete; after a thousand years they vanish entirely from memory. This, too, is work that those who cultivate the Dao ought to pursue with full devotion.

Mount Wuyi in Jianning is listed among the grotto-heavens as the “Grotto of Ascendant Perfection and Mysterious Transformation” (Sheng Zhen Xuanhua Dongtian)—a blessed grotto-heaven where perfected immortals ascend and numinous qi gathers. According to the biography Jin Hongjian, in antiquity a divine being, commissioned by the Celestial Emperor to oversee earthly immortals, once descended upon the summit and called himself the “Lord of Wuyi” (Wuyi Jun); the mountain’s name derives from this. The Lie Xian as transmitted by Bai Ziqing states that the Qin-era figure Qian Keng once lived in seclusion here, accompanied by two sons named Wu and Yi. Which of the two accounts is trustworthy can no longer be clearly determined. The Han Dynastic Records of Sacrificial Worship records that Emperor Wu of Han once offered sacrifice to the Lord of Wuyi in the Jian region and ordered the sacrificial officers to conduct the rites. Remains of Han-era sacrificial altars still stand on the mountain.

Another tradition holds that on the fifteenth day of the eighth month in the second year of the reign of the First Emperor of Qin, the Supreme Deity, the Grand Matriarch Primordial Lady (Tai Mu Yuan Jun), and Wei Zhen, a gentleman of Zi, held a banquet on the summit of Manting Peak. A rainbow bridge spanned the sky, and hundreds upon hundreds of people lined up to climb to the top. The immortals addressed the locals as “great-grandsons” and entertained them with wine and fruit. The colored halls and splendid canopies where the feast was held were laid out on a grand scale, and immortal music sounded in succession. Then wind and rain were about to rise, and the crowd vanished without a trace.

Ziqian first studied the Dao in the mountains, cultivating together with Zhang Zhan, Sun Chuo, and twelve others. Later he met the Control Crane immortal, received the Daoist methods, and they all became immortals and left the mortal world. From the Tang and Song through the Yuan, those who attained the Dao and became immortals appeared again and again.

Chongyou Temple was first built in the Tianbao era of the Tang. In the eighth year of Baoda of Southern Tang, Li Xuanfu, having achieved success in cultivation, moved the temple to its present site and received the plaque “Assembly of Immortals” (Huixian). In early Song, halls, corridors, and other buildings were repaired and renewed, and Emperor Taizong of Song personally bestowed an imperial letter. In the second year of Xiangfu, the court granted the temple certain fields; in the early Xining period, an official of the two-thousand-shi salary grade oversaw temple affairs. During the Shaosheng, Yuanfu, Duanping, Jiaxi, and Shaoding reigns, prayers for rain were often answered, and the court repeatedly granted titles, land, and tax exemptions. In the Tianshi period of Yuan, favor was shown as in former times. Through the ages, accomplished cultivators never ceased. Chongyou Temple therefore became famous throughout the realm, on a par with the Three Mountains.

The place is called “Cinnabar Mountains and Jade Waters” (Dan Shan Bi Shui), because strange peaks and fine ridges unfold in layers, encircling winding streams; the forms and green hues of the cliffs seem like folding screens embracing one another. Caves and places for altar cultivation are too many to count, and most are scenes of exceptional beauty—surely dwelt in by immortals and extraordinary beings. For this reason Zhu Wengong (Zhu Xi), Cai Wenjie, Liu Wenjian, and other eminent scholars of the time also came here to study and teach. The fame of the Nine Bend landscape spread in all directions—not without reason.

I once marveled at how the two Supervisors Yang and Xu of Maoshan met in the Huayang grotto-heaven, and at Magu’s meeting with Cai Jing and Fang Ping on the immortal altar. Consulting old records, Liu Xiang of Han was renowned for wide reading; what he recorded was not necessarily empty. From this one knows that the assembly at Man Ting was certainly not mere legend—how could one fail to set it down in writing?

The accounts in the gazetteer are already quite detailed and are indeed sufficient to be handed down to later generations. I once wished to visit the place myself but never had the opportunity. So-and-so, the abbot of White Crane Monastery, has from time to time asked me to write a preface for this gazetteer. I could hardly decline on the grounds of my shallow learning, yet I also intended to inquire further among local elders and collect surviving documents to fill in what still remains incomplete.

Preface to the Gazetteer of White Crane Monastery

Since the Yellow Emperor obtained the precious tripod, …

When the Yellow Emperor obtained the sacred tripod and learned to refine the elixir of immortality, he later ascended to heaven and became an immortal. By the time of King Mu of Zhou, he built a grass pavilion to summon immortals, and from then on talk of seeking transcendence grew fashionable. In the Qin and Han periods the craze intensified, and fangshi (technical masters) appeared one after another. With outlandish tales and inflated claims they beguiled rulers who longed for immortality, so that empty boasts mingled with the subtle arts of the Way—and mockery from their contemporaries was only to be expected.

Yet can there truly be no real immortals in the world? Perhaps they hide in remote, secluded places, renouncing fame and trace, and devote themselves wholly to cultivation. Thus furnaces for alchemy, mortars for compounding medicine, efficacious scriptures and secret oral formulas—some lie hidden in cliff caves, some appear and vanish in the human world. Though the traces they leave differ, these lineages have existed from antiquity, passed down generation after generation.

The White Crane Abbey at Fengcheng in Jiangxi was founded in the Dajian era of the Chen dynasty, commemorating the holy site of the true immortal Master Gan. From youth Gan was known for filial piety and conduct praised in his home district. After many years of cultivation he heard that Lord Xu of Jingyang (Xu Xun, a legendary Daoist immortal) was deeply skilled in the Way, and went to study under him. Lord Xu took him to pay respects to the female immortal Mother Zhan of Danyang as their teacher, and Gan received the secret transmission. Thereafter his reputation for practicing the Way grew ever stronger; he followed Lord Xu along the Yangtze and Han region, accumulating merit.

Gan painted pine trees, mastered and subdued strange beings, slew flood dragons and water monsters, and cut down evil and calamity—establishing his achievement with a three-foot sword. His merit was enough to benefit later ages; his name and deeds would surely endure. Moreover, much of his merit cannot be recorded one by one. Lord Xu transmitted a path of rectifying conduct, clarifying principle, loyalty to the ruler, and filial piety toward kin, which circulated in the world. This path took upright, balanced principle as its root—unlike other talisman registers, incantations, and pacing the Big Dipper. Gan was famed for filial conduct and ultimately ascended as an immortal; much of his achievement and what he gained from cultivation surely stemmed from loyalty and filial piety as well.

Becoming an immortal is a path beyond the ordinary, yet it never means abandoning human relations and caring only for oneself. After Gan succeeded in the Way, he served his mother until her death before leaving the world—thus he combined cultivation with fulfilling filial duty. Moreover, immortals who truly cultivate often choose places where mountains and rivers are grand and beautiful; Fengcheng’s scenery is fine, and perhaps for that reason it nurtured a perfected being such as Master Gan.

This spring I went to pay my respects at Yulong Palace on Western Mountain; on the return journey I passed by Baihe Guan (White Crane Observ). That night, though wind and rain raged together, I still sought out and gathered scattered old accounts. What I found was especially worthy of admiration—a true meeting of two good things at once.

Wherever immortal perfected ones (xianzhen, sages who have attained the Dao) make their home, the mountains and rivers are invariably grand and fair. Fengcheng’s landscape is fine in just this way; no doubt it is what nourished the spiritual endowment of the perfected ones of this place. Though Baihe Guan stands in a remote spot, its scenery is quiet and lovely. I inquired about two halls in the observatory and learned that they had been the dwelling of my ancestor Zhenjing Zhenjun, an immortal perfected one honored in the Daoist tradition. The Dragon Pool before the observatory was where that perfected one had practiced the arts of transformation.

Zou of the dao assembly and the elder scholar Xiong oversaw affairs at the observatory. They showed me the Danjing (scripture on alchemical and cultivation methods) composed by Lord Gan, the chronicle of Baihe Guan, and letters from the perfected one to Abbot Ren. These writings are deeply instructive. Though the deeds they describe have already shifted with time, the names and reputations still circulate—how could one not feel all the more moved and regretful?

After summer began, a certain person came into the mountains and asked me to write a preface for the Guan Chronicle. From childhood I have loved famous mountains and fine waters and often sought out hidden, beautiful places, yet I have always regretted that I could not visit every celebrated site, old and new. Immortal Gan’s conduct was miraculous and his fame bright. Having now read his words and walked in person through his dwelling, I could hardly refuse the preface. Above all, the renown and traces left by my ancestor could be set down in detail through this work.

That person served with full devotion, arranged the material into a book, and prepared it for printing and circulation—truly skilled at tracing matters back to their roots. If, hereafter, the spirit-traces and wondrous transformations of true immortals can endure undiminished together with this record, would that not be a great event for our Daoist tradition? Those who later take up this task should strive likewise.

Preface to Zhang’s Jiading Collection

My friend Dazhuang compiled the poetry collection of Master Zhang, known as Danmo (Tranquil Indifference), and asked me to write a preface. I truly could not refuse. As a child I served at my father’s side in Master Zhang’s presence and received much instruction from him. At that time, Lu Bolian and Xia Bocheng, both gentlemen of our district, were his fellow disciples and friends; their learning was on a par with his, and it was hard to say who stood higher. Master Zhang was a scion of a distinguished local family; since the Song and Yuan dynasties, generation after generation had produced officials, and many were also known for their writing.

In youth he was quick and clever, with abundant talent and a sharp edge; when grown he was widely read with a strong memory, and especially skilled at poetry. In the late Yuan, celebrated poets of neighboring regions—Zhang Zhongju, Huang Junrui, Wei Dapu, and others—had matched wits with him. Messrs. Li Zhonggong and Zhu Fanyuan were teachers he honored. He went to the Yan and Zhao region with a full store of learning to seek office, yet never met with recognition; he then traveled through Wu and Chu and returned home. Before long the realm fell into turmoil and heroes rose on every side. Some who had taken improper titles and carved out territories, hearing his name, invited him to serve, but he withdrew and would not accept. His wanderings and loyal indignation went into his poems; their style was bold and free, their spirit and bone firm.

In the early years of our dynasty, after the realm was unified, the court first summoned eminent recluses and called Master Zhang to court, appointing him prefect of Jiading. When his term ended, the court, mindful of his age, allowed him to return home. He traveled back along the Yi River and across the Huai and Xiang. In his later years he built a dwelling in the hills, closed his doors to teach his family, and his poetic craft grew even finer. Once in the prefecture someone was falsely accused and dozens were implicated and arrested; Master Zhang investigated and upheld justice so they were preserved. To this day the local people still remember his kindness.

The forms and style of Master Zhang’s poetry took root in the fengya tradition represented by the Book of Songs, and broadly absorbed the achievements of Han, Wei, and Six Dynasties poetry; he disdained to follow fashions after the High Tang. His bearing was grand and his presence handsome, so when he put brush to paper ideas came swiftly, as if with divine aid—he need not labor and revise endlessly to finish a piece. The poems are vast and deep, like cloud-mass in the high sky or waves on the long river—hard to measure and not to be grasped by surface traces alone. Shallow and narrow minds cannot reach such a level. He therefore enjoyed renown among princes, scholars, and gentlemen of the realm, and the name was truly deserved.

Alas, Master Zhang’s everyday writings suffered in the wars and many works were lost. Mr. Lu once gathered part of them, intending to carve and circulate them, but died before finishing; the manuscript was lost again. I cherished what remained and could not bear to discard it, and with my own hand copied one tenth of it; much overlapped with what Dazhuang had collected. It grieves me that my talent is dull; though I received Master Zhang’s teaching, I did not fulfill his hopes—how dare I lightly write a preface for him? Yet Master Zhang’s learning was deep and his prose swift; he was not only admired in his time for splendid literature. His great virtue and reputation were also shown in real governance. The fame and luster he left—will they utterly vanish and sink into silence? Moreover, Dazhuang is diligent in learning and holds to righteousness; to carry on Mr. Lu’s intent is not difficult. I am also glad to preface this collection, so the world may know this elder of the literary world.

Master Zhang’s given name was Shuai, his style Mengxun, his sobriquet Danmo; disciples called him Master Danmo.

My friend Ni Junzheng was upright from youth. In his early years he studied under Master Xia, and later received from Master Peng Mengyue the Lu school teaching on the “original mind” (the doctrine that stresses recognizing heavenly principle through the original mind). He was steady and reliable in all he did and widely trusted in the community; even ordinary folk knew him as a true gentleman.

He lived in a humble lane, poor yet firm in integrity, careful in choosing companions and sparing of speech; he never slackened in seeking instruction from teachers and friends, yet in bearing and expression he always seemed almost too modest. He wrote little; when he did write under compulsion, he always took the classics as his ground, and what he wrote was pure and free of extraneous matter. When I sought from Master Peng instruction in the learning of nature and principle, Ni gave me much help in our exchanges of refinement. We were friends for more than ten years, and our affection never wavered.

In a certain year Ni was recommended and appointed Instructor of Xinjiang County (the official charged with education and ritual at the county school). Before long he returned home. I was able to study with him the words and deeds of the sages of old, conversing among sparse woods and deserted terraces, or by lamplight beside moonlit pools. His learning and conversation were rich and penetrating; compared even with men of antiquity, he did not fall short.

In the spring of the seventeenth year of Hongwu, after his mourning period ended Ni set out for the capital; on the journey a slight illness appeared, and he soon passed away. I was deeply grieved and urged his son Ni Heng not to let the literary traces his father left behind be scattered and lost. Four years later Ni Heng brought me a number of essays and said: “When my late father served at Xinjiang, the county school had originally been the Zonglian Academy of Chancellor Jiang of the Yuan. For that reason he gave these pieces the collective title Collected Writings of Zonglian. My father’s friendship with you was deep; no one knew him better than you. I beg you to write a preface for the collection.” Unable to refuse, I read through it twice and said with feeling: Among scholars who pursue learning, many seek to satisfy others, few seek to fill themselves. Ni received the harmonious qi of heaven and earth and the spiritual excellence of mountains and rivers, and also enjoyed the grace of former generations; his nature was sincere, his temperament clear, his conduct upright and pure—this is not what ordinary vulgar scholars can reach. His inner life was already full, and in the world he had little need to lean on others.

You (the one praised in this text) nurtured the harmonious qi of heaven and earth, received the spirit and refinement of mountains and rivers, and enjoyed the grace of your forebears; hence your nature was sincere and your temperament clear, your conduct upright and pure. This was not a level ordinary Confucian scholars could reach. Your inner cultivation was ample, so you did not depend on external affairs; thus your words and views always took plain, accessible principle as their root. Your grasp of subtle points in the Way needed no repeated probing to become clear, and your sincerity needed no deliberate display to show itself. This was likely because you had awakened to the Way from your own mind.

Therefore you put principle into practice and into teaching and exposition, never clinging to oral tradition or verbal dispute, but focusing on rectifying the root and cultivating sincerity. With the root rectified and the self sincere, the sage’s Way and the methods of ordering the world were both in hand—what need was there for elaborate rhetoric?

Your examination answers, lectures, and essays all expounded upright great meaning and the means of nurturing the mind. Among Lu Jiuyuan’s followers, Yang Jian and Qian Shi were no more than this. Your poems expressed genuine feeling, combining the leisurely elegance of Wei Yingwu and Meng Haoran with the quiet simplicity of Tao Yuanming and Liu Zongyuan.

Sadly you were not fully employed and could not deploy the warm, pure talent you had stored up. In an enlightened age, should there not be more such men? Among students in Xinjian who heard your teaching, many still achieved distinction. Was this not the fruit of your long instruction and strict self-discipline?

Sadly your learning took the Lu school as its foundation, while the world mostly honored Zhu Xi’s teaching, and some therefore did not approve of your doctrine. That you stood apart undistracted and few understood you is hardly surprising. Yet if one examines where the schools meet and assents to the truth in them, how could your learning finally be lost? If it is handed down through generations, it will surely enrich the teachings of Zhou Dunyi, the Cheng brothers, Zhu Xi, and Lu Jiuyuan.

The epitaph was written by your friend Wu Bozong; I regret my limited ability cannot fully honor your deeds—but out of friendship I do not decline to write this preface for your collected poems.

Mencius said that when the Zhou dynasty’s footprint of good governance faded, poetry declined with it; after poetry waned, the Spring and Autumn Annals began to be compiled. Poetry is not something one can discuss lightly.

From the three hundred poems of the Book of Odes and the ancient fu compositions onward, Su Wu and Li Ling of Han, and Cao Zhi, Wang Can, Liu Zhen, and Ying Chang of Wei, were still not far from the elegant tradition the Odes represent, and their writing began to shift accordingly. In the early Western Jin, Ruan Ji, Lu Ji, Pan Yue, Zu Si, and others had not yet let that tradition collapse entirely. Later, in the Six Dynasties, Bao Zhao, Xie Lingyun, Yan Yanzhi, Zhang Rong, and others rose to prominence; the music of poetry grew softer and the style more ornate, and the thick fragrance of elegant simplicity thinned day by day.

In the early Tang, Song Zhiwen, Du Shenyan, Chen Zi’ang, and Liu Xiyi appeared, and in the High Tang, Wei Yingwu, Liu Zongyuan, Wang Wei, and Meng Haoran followed. Their spirit and rhythm were bold and free, vast and transcendent, surpassing those who came before. The one who gathered all strands into one was the “Young Master of the Grove,” Du—that is, Du Fu. Gao Shi, Li Bai, Cen Shen, Jia Zhi, and others of that age could not match him. Whether in hardship or success, Du Fu’s joy and sorrow found voice in verse; his work carried forward the elegant tradition and could serve as a model.

By the end of the Tang, manners had grown extravagant. In the Song, those praised as skilled poets included Su Shi, Mei Yaochen, Shi Yannian, Wang Anshi, as well as Ouyang Xiu, Su Shunqin, Zhu Changwen, Yang Yi, and others. In the Yuan, Fan Piao, Yang Zai, Yu Ji, and Jie Xisi, after the breath of poetry had nearly died out, revived the ancient style and looked straight back to the High Tang. For a time, Hanlin scholars at court and literati everywhere took them as teachers without exception. Especially in Jiangdong and Jiangxi, many were adept at poetry.

Their poetic talent seemed to spring naturally from within: at a distance they could depict the vastness of cosmos, mountains, and rivers; up close they could capture the fine detail of flowers, grasses, trees, birds, and beasts. Great or small, fair or foul—whatever entered the eye could gather in the heart. Then they arranged words and shaped ideas like a river in flood, impossible to hold back.

Among the literati of successive ages, many have won fame through poetry, and their works are often splendid and prolific; yet if one looks for compositions that are grand and complete, able to stand beside the ancients and serve as models for later generations, how many are there? In the three hundred pieces collected in the Book of Songs, even when some poems came from the mouths of common people and women, their satire, praise, and lament were still sufficient to be presented at court and to assist in the spread of government and teaching—showing that the ruler’s beneficence still lingered in the world.

Some say that after poetry declined, the Spring and Autumn Annals took up its role. Viewed in this light, those who write poetry ought to strive to carry on the tradition of the Odes. For this reason, scholars of later times who do not trace the source or understand how the stream has changed, who do not start from a clear and tranquil nature or rely on genuine cultivation, but only chase imitation and polish, peering after scraps of what the ancients left behind and piecing together broken phrases—showing off their talent on themes of orchids, dew, moonlight, and the like, to dazzle for a moment and please themselves—are hardly worth engaging in talk about poetry.

My friend Yang Mengxu comes from a family long renowned for poetry. When I was young I once read poems by his uncle Yang Xianmin, though unfortunately not the full collection. This spring I asked Mengxu to instruct my nephew; from his conversation and his views on poetry I gained much, and I regret that we met so late. He also brought out a number of poems he had written in ordinary times, and I was able to read them all. Later I inquired into his lineage: the Yang forebears from Boqi onward were famous Confucians already in the Han, and men of the age called him “the Master of the Pass in the West.” In the Sui and Tang periods many in the clan held office. Still later, a certain ancestor served in a post in Jiangxi and moved to Shuibei Village in Jinxian County; that was in the first year of the Linde era of Emperor Gaozong of Tang. In the Song, Yang Zhongbo passed the jinshi examination, first served as magistrate of Changsha, then became transport commissioner for Jiangxi, and finally died there. There was also Yang Longwei, who passed the jinshi and served as assistant magistrate of Poyang County. Zhongfu Jizi in the Yuan held the post of archival reviewer in the Secretariat, was later promoted to vice minister of Rites, and after death was ennobled posthumously as minister of Rites. The Yang clan thus grew ever more prominent; those who now dwell at Shuibei have reached the twenty-ninth generation.

The family’s learning takes Shuneng as its standard. Shuneng once studied under the Song dynasty student of the Directorate Jianxin, Master Wei Jifu. Yang Xianmin and Jizi also studied with Shuneng, and the household learning was in large part handed down from generation to generation within the family.

Ji Fu’s aspirations were leisurely and refined, his disposition detached and plain. In his later years he also took an interest in Daoist teachings on daoyin (guiding and stretching) and breath retention, and invited accomplished masters to instruct his sons with care. Meng Xu’s moral character was solid and his learning broad; his bearing and the tone of his speech were clear, elegant, and open. He took Du Fu as his model and mastered many poetic forms.

The Meng family had been prominent for generations, with a deep hereditary tradition of literary study and a long-standing custom of composing poetry. I know well that he would not let success or hardship, honor or disappointment disturb his inner mind. If he were placed among outstanding talents, who could say he could not continue writing poems as solemn and refined as those for the ancestral temple, or unfold songs praising a flourishing age? That too is how he set his heart on the grand poetic tradition of the Guofeng, Ya, and Song.

My own talent is shallow; I have withdrawn beyond deep mountains and dense woods and can only lodge my feelings in quiet, empty landscapes. My understanding is truly limited—though Meng Xu and I exchanged views, how could I fully know him? Yet when I think how few in the world truly understand poetry are like Meng Xu, how then could he surpass those before him and vie with creation itself? What Shu Wen entrusted to me is hard to refuse on grounds of friendship; I shall set it aside for later; what is to be done is surely more than this alone.

Preface to the Xu Clan Genealogy

I once read the Zhouguan (Offices of Zhou), which records that the xiaoshi (minor scribe) was charged with establishing lineages and clarifying generational ranks within the clan, so as to set up the institutions of the state. In antiquity there were no pudie (genealogical registers), yet people strictly observed the zongfa (patrilineal clan law) of the major and minor lineages. Later, as zongfa decayed, people came to prize family status by descent, and only then did the practice of compiling pudie arise. Pudie could clarify generational order within the clan and also distinguish near from distant kin.

Yet those who compiled clan genealogies in each generation often wished to glorify their ancestors and revive their posterity. Whenever they found someone of the same surname who was prominent, they would attach themselves to him or falsely claim him, and enter him in the clan register. That might deceive themselves and win a moment’s boastful display, but it violated the principle of honoring ancestors and clarifying the clan—so scholars and gentlemen did not approve. When one traces ancestors far back in time, details can no longer be fully verified, and there may be invented or inaccurate entries.

Some people do not examine their family’s original standing or plain, honest customs; they look only at whether property is ample and fame, power, and influence are great, and then they exalt those wealthy and eminent houses. As for how remote or near the ancients were in time, or the reasons they were granted surnames and named clans—how can those be verified?

The Gaoyang Xu clan, according to the Chunqiu (Spring and Autumn Annals), descended from the rulers of Qi and Xu. After the Spring and Autumn period Xu as a state ceased to exist, and later generations took the place-name as their surname. According to the clan register, in Han times seven men of the Xu surname were enfeoffed as marquises; after Wang Mang’s fall the Xu lost their marquisates. The descendants of Xu Pan, a model official of the Eastern Han from Runan, were also well known. Xu Jing served as Grand Tutor in Shu-Han; Xu Chu served Wei and was enfeoffed as marquis. In Jin, Xu Zi was summoned as a filial and incorrupt candidate but did not accept; thereafter the Gaoyang Xu gradually flourished. Xu Shao was enfeoffed in Tang as Duke of Anlu; Jingzong once served as prime minister of Longxiang, and his grandson Riyuan died upholding righteousness during the rebellion of the Tianbao era.

During the Xiangfu era of Emperor Zhenzong of the Song, Xu Sui served as Director of the Palace Buildings (jiangzuo jian zhubo). Xu Yi later served as Commissioner for the Huai, Jiang, Jing, and Hu regions and the two Zhe circuits under the Yuan dynasty; thereafter the Xu clan grew ever more prosperous, with many members, some of whom repeatedly held office at court. Later one clansman was transferred from a certain post to Yihuang in Fuzhou and settled there, and the Xu thus became a leading family of Jiangxi.

A certain Xu clansman was related by marriage to the Tan family. My elder cousin Biyuan once gave me the Xu clan genealogy and asked me to write a preface for it. I have often reflected that the rise and fall, glory and hardship of a family, and how they shift across long years, can be so drastic!

When I was young I heard that under the Yuan the old customs of great clans and eminent houses were at their strongest. Likely because the Yuan ruled for a long time, with generous favor, and families amassed considerable wealth. Every lineage with a fine name and lingering blessing wished to revive its estate and restore its former standing. Thus there was not only a taste for luxury and excess; the ethos of passing down poetry and learning, and the household virtue of filial piety and brotherly love, could still be seen at times.

Now more than thirty years have passed; fortune has turned, affairs have changed, and some families have declined in a single day, their halls deserted and overgrown with weeds. Perhaps rise and fall follow a fixed pattern—so it truly seems.

For a clan like the Xu, which for generations has valued learning and conduct and passed that down as its way, if there were no genealogy recording the nearness or distance of each branch and the threads of kinship among them, how could the good deeds and achievements of the ancestors fail to fade away bit by bit? Yet few families can preserve a genealogy. The Xu have kept theirs carefully, tracing the roots of the line; the forebears they record are all figures of high rank and fine repute— a family that honors its roots and knows how to remember its ancestors. I regret that I do not yet know Yongheng. Still, what Biyuan told me is already substantiated, so I do not decline and write this preface for the genealogy.

Preface in Gift to the Master of Wind-Riding

In the world there are those with bodily form, endowed temperament, and illustrious rank and fair renown— one might call them people who honor their roots and know how to remember their ancestors. I regret that I do not yet know Yongheng; what Biyuan said is already substantiated, so I do not decline and write this preface.

Preface in Gift to the Master of Wind-Riding

Everything in the world that has form and possesses qi arises from “non-being” (wu) and in the end returns from “being” (you) to “non-being.” Thus form is borne by qi, and qi in turn governs form. Primordial qi (yuanqi) moves through heaven and earth, and yin and yang move with it. Heaven covers all things, earth supports all things, sun and moon give light, the four seasons follow one another, day and night alternate in cycle, ghosts and spirits manifest all kinds of change, and the myriad things are numerous and never cease in their movement—all of this is the result of “being” and “non-being” mutually generating and transforming.

Those in ancient times who were skilled at teaching people merely guided them toward the Dao (the Way). To know how to turn toward the Dao is to understand the principle of how non-being and being give birth and transform. Yet those who seek learning in the world often pursue fame alone, adorn the outer appearance and forget the inner, so how could they deeply observe and silently grasp the principle of how non-being and being give birth and transform?

I dwell on Mount Qi; in leisure I stroll among cranes and pines and meet a Daoist priest. With disheveled hair and a relaxed expression, he bows to me and says: “I have wandered the rivers and seas for a long time and once asked an extraordinary person about the way of the golden elixir and returning the cinnabar (jinye huandan—a term in Daoist cultivation for refining elixir and attaining perfection). I believe what is said of Liezi riding a corpse-chariot and divine horses, and I believe he had the wondrous transformation of riding the wind. Though I do not yet know whether I can achieve it myself, is this teaching true or false? I hope you will explain it for me.”

I said: “Wind is such a thing—it has sound yet no visible form; Zhuangzi called it the breath issued by the great mass (heaven and earth). To ride the wind, is there truly something to rely upon? If what one relies upon is emptiness, how could one repeatedly bring about proof and verification? If what one relies upon is not emptiness, how could one bring about proof and verification—and repeatedly at that? Therefore one still cannot avoid having something to depend on. How does that compare with acting without relying on anything at all, so that one does not depend on external things?

Thus, complying with the right principle of heaven and earth, riding the six qi (the natural transformations of yin, yang, wind, rain, dark, and bright), and roaming in the realm of the infinite—what need is there to depend on anything? What Liezi said about riding a corpse-chariot and divine horses speaks in fact of the single qi coming and going in movement without end; if one says he was relying on wind, then what was he still depending on? Therefore his roaming had no stopping point and could not be measured by boundaries—how could it be like the legend that he returned only after fifteen days?”

Therefore his roaming never ceased—not because any boundary could be measured, and all the more so when he waited fifteen days before returning. He seemed to pause when he came back, yet after returning there was not a single moment when he truly stopped. It was simply that being relied on non-being to move, and non-being in turn relied on being to govern the ten thousand things. When one reached the state that was neither being nor non-being, the pivot of growth and change in all things was fully disclosed.

If you pursue learning, you should investigate the correct principle of how Heaven and Earth operate, clarify the transformations of the six kinds of Qi (Yin, Yang, wind, rain, obscurity, and brightness), and apply what you learn to your own person, accumulating day by day until both body and spirit are transformed. Then you can drive the corpse-wheel chariot and spirit horse of Daoist lore and roam without limit; at that stage you can advance naturally even without relying on wind. As for praying for blessings and protection, that is not a method I can use. If you abandon these principles and chase after things blindly, even with Feilian and Lieque (the wind god and thunder god of legend) attending at the wind-chariot and thunder-chariot, driving along paths of cloud and stars—how could you truly steer?

Yet whoever would reach the realm of the Dao must strip away empty vanity and illusion and cut off awareness that is stained by external things; the body should be like withered wood and the inner mind like dead ashes. Regard what the world prizes as dust, and treat your own body as ordinary clay. Then attachment to the self becomes very light, and nothing in the world, however small, can hold the heart. He seems to travel through empty space without relying on any carriage, yet does not know where the limit lies. Even beyond Heaven and Earth, his course cannot be confined by tracks.

Zhuangzi, with resolute steadfastness and learning pursued to the depths, could discern what lies outside the boundary between being and non-being and roam in the realm of carefree wandering and the vast wilds. Even when the ten thousand openings screamed and every hollow fell silent, he could rest at ease among them: sounds might multiply yet he heard nothing; forms might shift yet he saw nothing. Why then speak again of the earth’s pipes as the voices of the many openings, the human pipes as the tones of bamboo flutes, and the Heaven’s pipes as the sounds the ten thousand things give forth of themselves? If one can hear what has no sound and see what has no form, then everything between being and non-being is only the breath of the ten thousand things sharing one Qi. That is the realm one seeks—the ground on which the Maker relies. I cannot reach it alone; you must strive to advance.

The man of the Dao then asked to take this as his style name, set these words down in writing, and composed another essay besides.

Preface to Seeing Off the Zither Master Zhu Zongming

Music can harmonize the myriad things. Its roots are vast and deep: it reaches up to the heavens and extends down through the earth, moves between Yin and Yang, and can also resonate with ghosts and spirits. For this reason, the highest music responds in harmony with heaven and earth. When music is stirred by external things, feeling arises and is expressed as sound; when sound takes on order and pattern, it is called “tone” or “music” (yin). In music one can express joy, anger, delight, grief, wickedness, and uprightness.

Therefore a gentleman should not for a moment be parted from the qin and se. The qin is the head of ritual and music; the gentleman should use it to cultivate body and mind. Whatever enters the ears and eyes and shapes conduct must be restrained by ritual; the qin can drive out evil thoughts, wash away faults, settle the heart, nourish character, and bring emotion back to what is upright. Thus the sound of the qin, like the ring of the phoenix bell, the jade pendants, and the hymns and odes of elegant music, should not lightly be set aside in daily life.

From Fuxi, Shennong, and Yu Shun through King Wen of Zhou and Confucius, and in the works of Boya, Qu Yuan, and Song Yu, some pieces rise from anxious thought and turn into lament; others show delight and brightness. At the opening the qin tone is deep and reserved; suddenly it grows fierce, as if anger were bursting forth; at the close it is clear and forceful, yet tinged with desolate sorrow. When fast, it is like wind and rain shaking the cliffs and splitting stone; when slow, like waves rising and dragons stirring. In its grandeur it is like spirited horses galloping or martial dancers wielding shield and battle-axe; in its subtlety like dripping springs or insects chirping softly. The qin’s transformations are countless and cannot all be told; truly it can blend with Yin and Yang and set heaven and earth astir.

To achieve this, one must grasp it inwardly and bring it forth through both hands; without long practice it is hard to attain. The player must also have upright character before he can carry on the lingering tone of the sages’ music. Is that merely to please a worldly audience? In antiquity Shi Xiang, Shi Kuang, and Shi Wen were famed for the qin, but their age is long past; later those who inherited and enriched the Way of the qin included Yongmen Zhou.

After Yongmen Zhou, Sima Xiangru, Cai Dang, Sun Deng, Ji Kang, Huan Tan, and Yang Shou, the currents of qin study each added something and each formed its own account. In recent times, those famed for the art of the qin were only Xiaoshan Xu Zifang, Yuan Minzhong, and Mao Bozhen. Yang studied with Xu and Yuan; later, the one whose name in the qin resounded for a time was Qijing Ling. His understanding of Jiang’s two pieces differed from Xu’s and Yuan’s, but thereafter everyone who studied the qin took Xu and Yuan as masters.

From childhood I have loved qin study. In great cities wherever I went, whenever I met someone who understood the qin, I always sought instruction from him. Most who studied the qin at the time were much the same—only competing to boast of many pieces and flashy performance; those who could truly achieve bold, free phrasing and a remote, subtle artistic intent were very few.

The Fujian scholar Zhu Zongming was a friend of Yuan Ling and had also studied the qin with Yuan Ling. This spring he came to visit my mountain retreat; together we swept the stone drums beside Xian Spring. The pieces and modes he played were all clear, deep, and restrained, elegant and plain, yet also bold and flowing—truly not what those who merely chase many titles and vie with one another could match. When he spoke of qin study, he always took alignment with the proper disposition of one’s nature as the main point.

In his youth Zhu Zongming traveled widely and sought learning on every side; at the founding of our dynasty he was recommended to go to the capital, but firmly declined and was able to return. Great clans and eminent houses in Fujian vied to invite him. Only in his later years did he grasp the subtlety of qin tones—naturally not something achieved in a single day.

The ancients called kindred spirits in music “ lofty mountains and flowing water.” I was fortunate to play out my feelings with him beneath wind and woods, in moonlight. When we parted, he would surely miss in dreams the sound here where heaven’s music mingles with cloud and surge. Yet how could that be only the elevated tones of yellow bell and white snow? I fear we shall both find this music hard to forget.

As he was about to leave, I took up the qin and played beside the stream the piece Playing the Qin at the Stream; on the second pass through, I forgot that it already held notes of parting. So I wrote this preface and gave it to him.

I have observed people in the world and found that each person differs in how they balance quiet and agitation, toil and ease. Whether one chooses to serve in office or withdraw into seclusion, to speak or to hold silence, each inevitably shows a distinct temperament and bent. Such outward bearing cannot be produced by sheer forcing; and even if one could force it, how could one touch genuine feeling and charm?

Once I played the qin by a stream, holding it in my arms. When I played through a second time, I did not notice that the music already carried the mood of parting. I therefore wrote this preface and offer it as a gift.