《冲虚经》

Liezi lived in Zheng Garden in the state of Zheng. For forty years, no one paid him any attention. The ruler and the high officials regarded him no differently from ordinary people. Later, when Zheng fell into hardship, Liezi planned to move to the state of Wei. His disciples said to him, “Now that you are setting out, we do not know when you will return. We venture to ask what you wish to teach us. Have you not heard what Huqiu Zilin said?”

Liezi laughed and said, “What did Huqiu say? My teacher once spoke to Bohun Wuren, though, and I heard him from the side. Let me try to tell you what he said. There is something that does not itself arise, yet brings all things into being; there is something that does not itself change, yet brings all things to change. What has already come into being cannot help but be born; what has already changed cannot help but change. Thus all things are continually coming into being and changing. The movement of Yin and Yang and the succession of the seasons are the same. The source that brings all things into being seems to exist independently; the source that brings all things to change moves in cycles of going and returning. These cycles have no end, and their underlying principle cannot be fully fathomed.

“The Yellow Emperor’s Book says: ‘The Valley Spirit—the Dao, empty and still, yet able to bring all things into being and transform them—never dies. This is called the Mysterious Female, the deep source endowed with the power to give birth. The gate of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth. It continues without end, seeming almost to exist and almost not to exist; use it, and it is never exhausted.’ Thus, the source that gives rise to all things does not itself arise, and the source that drives all things to change does not itself change. All things come into being and change of themselves; each takes on its own shape and color, applies its own intelligence and strength, and in its own way fades and comes to rest. It is wrong to say that these processes of coming into being and changing are caused by some ruler, or that shape, color, intelligence, strength, fading, and rest are arranged by one.”

Liezi added, “The sages of old followed the Yin influence, but did not suppose that Yin itself underwent change. All things come into being and change of themselves; each takes on its own shape and color, applies its own intelligence and strength, and in its own way fades and comes to rest. It is wrong to say that these phenomena are caused or arranged by some ruler.”

Liezi said: “In ancient times, the sages governed Heaven and Earth by following the transformations of Yin-Yang. Since things with form arise from what has no form, from where did Heaven and Earth themselves arise? Thus, the creation of the cosmos passed through four stages: Great Change, Great Beginning, Great Origin, and Great Substance.

Great Change was the stage when Qi could not yet be seen; Great Beginning was when Qi first came into being; Great Origin was when forms first appeared; Great Substance was when material things first took shape. Qi, form, and substance were all present, yet had not separated from one another. This was called ‘undifferentiated wholeness’: all things were mixed together as one and had not yet divided.

At that time, nothing could be seen, heard, or touched, so it was called ‘Change.’ Change had no fixed form or boundary. It transformed into One; One transformed again into Seven, and Seven into Nine. When transformation reached Nine, it reached its limit, then returned once more to One. One is the beginning of the transformation of forms.

The clear, light Qi rose to become Heaven; the turbid, heavy Qi descended to become Earth; and the harmonized Qi of Yin-Yang gathered and became human beings. Thus, Heaven and Earth contain vital essence, from which all things come into being.”

Liezi said, “Heaven and Earth each have their own functions; neither can take care of everything. The sage has no power to do all things, and every thing has its own proper use. Heaven is responsible for giving life and covering; Earth for forming and bearing; the sage for teaching and transforming; and each thing for the use suited to it.

“Thus Heaven has things it cannot do, while Earth has its own strengths. There are things the sage cannot accomplish, while every thing has what it can do well. Why is this so? Heaven can give life and cover, but cannot form and bear. Earth can form and bear, but cannot teach and transform. The sage is responsible for teaching and transforming, but cannot go against what is fitting to the nature of each thing. Once things are settled in their proper places, they too cannot go beyond those places.

“So the workings of Heaven and Earth are either Yin or Yang. The sage’s teaching is either about benevolence or righteousness. The nature suited to each thing is either soft or hard. All of these can only follow what is appropriate to them; none can go beyond its own bounds.

“Thus there are things that are born, and there is a source that enables them to go on being born; there are things that take shape, and a source that enables them to take shape; there are sounds that are produced, and a source that enables them to be produced; there are colors that appear, and a source that enables them to appear; there are flavors that are tasted, and a source that enables them to be present. Particular things that are born eventually die, but the source that continually gives life to all things never comes to an end. Particular things that take shape exist in reality, but the source that gives them shape does not itself appear. The same is true of sounds, colors, and flavors: people can hear, see, and taste them, yet cannot see the source that brings them forth. These are the workings and understanding of Wuwei (non-action): it does not reveal itself, yet enables all things to be as they are.

“It can take the forms of Yin and Yang, soft and hard, long and short, round and square, life and death, heat and cold, floating and sinking, gong and shang (notes in the five-tone scale), appearing and disappearing, dark and yellow, sweet and bitter, rank and fragrant. It has no fixed perception or ability of its own, yet knows all things and can do anything.”

Liezi was traveling to the state of Wei when he stopped by the roadside to eat. One of his companions spotted a century-old skeleton, brushed aside the weeds, and pointed it out to him. Liezi turned to his disciple Baifeng and said, “Only this skeleton and I know that we have never truly been born and have never truly died. Is it because we have been nourished too much, or because we have enjoyed ourselves too much?”

The kinds of things in the world undergo many transformations. A frog, for example, can turn into a quail. When it gets into water, it becomes xu, an aquatic plant. Where water meets earth, it becomes what the ancients called frog’s clothing, a kind of aquatic organism. On high ground and hills, it becomes lingxi, a plant. When lingxi gets yuqi, a substance or growing condition mentioned in old books, it becomes wuzu. The root of wuzu turns into a grub that lives beneath plant roots, and its leaves turn into butterflies. Butterflies can in turn change into insects that live beneath the hearth and look like discarded scraps. These are called quduo. After a thousand days, quduo transforms into a bird called ganyugu. The saliva of ganyugu becomes simi; simi becomes shixiyilu; shixiyilu produces shixihuangkuang; shixihuangkuang produces jiuyou; jiuyou produces maorui; and maorui produces fuguan.

A sheep’s liver can transform into digao, a horse’s blood into zhuanlin, and human blood into wild fire. A sparrowhawk can turn into a goshawk, which can turn into a cuckoo; after a long time, the cuckoo turns back into a sparrowhawk. Swallows turn into clams, field mice into quail, rotten melons into fish, and old chives into amaranth. An old ewe can turn into an ape, and fish eggs can turn into insects.

The beasts of Mount Danyuan can conceive and reproduce on their own; they are called “lei.” Birds in the marshes can lay eggs when they see others of their kind; they are called “yi.” Those that are entirely female are called “da xxxx,” and those that are entirely male are called “young bees.” A woman longing for her husband can become pregnant through sympathetic response, even without having a husband; a man longing for his wife can likewise father a child through sympathetic response, even without having a wife. According to tradition, Hou Ji was born among the footprints of a giant, and Yi Yin was born inside a hollow mulberry tree.

Juezhao arises in damp places, and wine midges arise in wine. Yangxi and buxun are closely related; old bamboo produces qingning, qingning produces cheng, cheng produces a horse, and the horse then produces a human being. When people live long enough, they too re-enter ji, the source of the transformations of all things. Everything emerges from ji, and in the end everything returns to ji.

The Book of the Yellow Emperor says: “When a body moves, it does not produce the body itself, but it produces a shadow; when a sound is made, it does not produce the sound itself, but it produces an echo. Even amid the formless and motionless, something formed and substantial may come to be.” A body is bound to reach its end. Will Heaven and Earth come to an end? They will end along with me. Will they continue after that? I do not know. The end of the Dao returns to what had no beginning; its continuation, too, has no enduring span that existed from the outset. What has life will eventually return to what has no life; what has form will eventually return to what is formless. To speak of having no life does not mean there was no life to begin with; to speak of being formless does not mean there was no form to begin with. The principle of life has no beginning, and its continuation has no fixed duration. What has life will eventually return to what has no life; what has form will eventually return to what is formless. To speak of having no life does not mean there was no life to begin with; to speak of being formless does not mean there was no form to begin with. By its very nature, life must reach its end. That end cannot be avoided, just as life itself cannot be avoided. To wish for life never to fade and for death to cease is to be deluded about the natural order.

The spirit belongs to Heaven, while the bones and body belong to Earth. The spirit that belongs to Heaven is light and clear, and disperses; the bones and body that belong to Earth are dense and heavy, and gather together. When the spirit leaves the body, each returns to its original destination. This is why it is called “gui” (ghost): gui means “to return,” to go back to one’s true destination. The Yellow Emperor said: “The spirit enters its gate, and the bones return to their root. Can I still exist as the self I was before?”

From birth to death, a person undergoes four great changes: infancy, youth and adulthood, old age and decline, and death. In infancy, the breath is unified and the mind is pure; body and mind are in perfect harmony. Nothing external can harm the infant, and no De (Virtue) is more complete. In youth and adulthood, Qi and blood surge vigorously, and desires and thoughts grow abundant along with them. External things readily intrude, and the De one once possessed consequently wanes. In old age and decline, desires and thoughts diminish, and the body is nearing its rest. External things no longer rush in to disturb it. Though the wholeness and purity of infancy have not returned, one is closer to them than in youth and adulthood. At death, life comes to rest and returns to its original state.

Confucius was traveling on Mount Tai when he saw Rong Qiqi in the countryside of Cheng. He wore a deerskin coat, tied a cord around his waist, and sang as he played the qin. Confucius asked, “Sir…”

When Confucius was traveling in the region of Mount Tai, he came across Rong Qiqi walking in the countryside outside Cheng. Wearing a deerskin coat with a cord tied around his waist, he played the zither and sang. Confucius asked, “Sir, what makes you so happy?”

Rong Qiqi replied, “I have many reasons to be happy. Heaven brings forth and nurtures all things, and among them, humans are the most precious. To have been born human is my first joy. People consider men noble and women lowly; since I am a man, that is my second joy. Some die before ever seeing the sun and moon, while others spend their whole lives confined in swaddling clothes. I have already lived to the age of ninety; that is my third joy. Poverty is the scholar’s ordinary lot, and death is the end of life. Since I accept what is ordinary and will in time reach life’s end, what have I to worry about?”

Confucius said, “Well said! You truly know how to put your mind at ease.”

Lin Lei was nearly a hundred years old. In late spring, still wearing a fur coat, he walked through an old field picking up the ears of wheat left behind, singing as he went.

Confucius was traveling to the state of Wei. On the way, he saw him in the fields and turned to his disciples. “That old man is someone you can talk with. Go and speak to him.” Zigong asked to go. He walked to the edge of the field and, facing Lin Lei, sighed. “Sir, you are truly unlike other people! You sing while picking up ears of wheat. Have you never regretted anything?”

Lin Lei kept walking, and his song did not stop. Only after Zigong pressed him again and again did he raise his head and reply, “What would I have to regret?”

Zigong said, “When you were young, you did not work hard. As an adult, you did not strive to seize your opportunities. Now, in old age, you have no wife or children, and your death is near. Picking up ears of wheat like this and singing as you walk—what joy can there be in that?”

Lin Lei smiled and said, “Everyone has the very reasons for my joy, yet people take them to be causes for sorrow. I did not work hard when I was young, and as an adult I did not strive to seize opportunities; that is why I have lived so long. Now that I am old, I have no wife or children, and my death is near; that is why I can be as joyful as I am.”

Zigong said, “Long life is what people hope for, and death is what they dread. Why do you regard death as joyful?”

Lin Lei said, “Death and life are like coming and going in a cycle: two sides of one process. If I die here now, how do I know I will not be born again there? So I know that death is not necessarily worse than life. How do I know that being busy and striving to stay alive is not a delusion? And how do I know that dying now will not be better than the life I had before?”

Zigong did not understand what he meant. He returned and told Confucius what had been said. Confucius said, “I knew he was someone you could talk with, and so it proved. Yet though he has grasped something, he has not grasped it fully.”

Zigong, a disciple of Confucius, had grown tired of learning and said to Confucius, “I would like to rest for a while.”

Confucius replied, “There is no time for rest in this life.”

Zigong asked, “Then where can I rest?”

“There is a place where you can rest,” said Confucius. “Look at the graveyard: broad and spacious, deep and quiet, with its mounds rising one after another. There you will find a place of rest.”

“Death is truly great!” said Zigong. “The noble person rests there, while the petty person lies hidden there.”

Confucius said, “Ci”—Zigong’s personal name—“you understand. People know the pleasure of being alive, but not the hardships of life. They know the weariness of old age, but not its peace. They know that death is frightening, but not that death is also rest. Yanzi, a minister of the state of Qi during the Spring and Autumn period, once said, ‘How good it is that the ancients had death! The benevolent rest there, and the unbenevolent lie hidden there.’ Death is where De finds its home. The ancients called the dead ‘those who have returned.’ If the dead are called those who have returned, then the living are travelers. To keep traveling without knowing that one should go home is to lose one’s home. When a person loses their home and has nowhere to belong, everyone in the world reproaches them. Yet when everyone under Heaven loses their home and has nowhere to belong, no one thinks anything is wrong.

“Someone leaves their homeland, parts from their family, abandons their livelihood, and wanders from place to place without returning. The world would surely call such a person wild and unrestrained. Another person is born in a worthy age, relies on their own intelligence and ability, builds a reputation, and boasts of themselves before the world, never knowing when enough is enough. The world, by contrast, may regard them as a person of strategy. In truth, both have lost their way. The world approves of one and condemns the other; only the sage knows what to approve and what to cast aside.”

Someone asked Liezi, “Why do you value ‘emptiness’?”

Liezi replied, “There is nothing valuable about emptiness in itself.”

He went on to say, “Stillness and emptiness matter more than the name ‘emptiness.’ Only with a quiet, open, and clear mind can one settle in one’s proper place. Greed and giving alike can make a person lose that place. Once things have been ruined, advocating benevolence and righteousness afterward cannot restore them to how they were.”

Zhou Xiong said, “Things are constantly moving and changing, and Heaven and Earth are quietly shifting. Who can perceive it? Thus, only when the myriad things are empty and make no claim for themselves can they rest in their proper place. If they insist on taking and giving, they will instead lose the place they once held. Only after things have fallen into ruin do people advocate benevolence and righteousness; even then, these cannot restore them to their former state.”

Zhou Xiong also said, “Things are constantly moving and changing, and Heaven and Earth are quietly shifting. Who can perceive it? Therefore, when something is diminished in one place, something else is enriched elsewhere; when something is accomplished here, something else is diminished there. Diminishment and enrichment, accomplishment and loss, follow the passage of worldly affairs and the changes of life. Things come and go in an unbroken succession, with scarcely a gap between changes. Who can perceive it? Qi does not suddenly grow stronger, and a body does not suddenly decline. People notice neither that it is growing nor that it is waning. It is like a person’s journey from birth to old age: appearance, complexion, wisdom, and bearing change only slightly each day. Skin, nails, and hair, too, keep falling away as the years pass; they did not remain unchanged from infancy. The intervals between changes are hard to perceive; only later do we come to know them.”

A man from the state of Qi feared that heaven and earth might collapse, leaving him nowhere to live. So anxious was he that he could neither sleep nor eat. Another man, concerned for him, went to reassure him. “Heaven is nothing but gathered Qi, and there is nowhere that is not Qi. When people raise their hands, bend down, or breathe, they move within heaven all day long. Why worry that it will collapse?” The man asked, “If heaven really is made of gathered Qi, won’t the sun, moon, and stars fall down?” His comforter replied, “The sun, moon, and stars are simply things that shine within the Qi. Even if they fell, they would not harm anything.” The man then asked, “What if the earth collapses?” His comforter replied, “The earth is nothing but piled-up clods of soil, filling all directions; there is nowhere that is not soil. People walk and stand on it, moving across it all day long. Why worry that it will collapse?” Hearing this, the man immediately felt relieved and was very happy; the man who had comforted him was just as happy.

When Changluzi heard about this, he laughed and said, “Rainbows, clouds, mist, wind, rain, and the changes of the four seasons are all formed in the sky from gathered Qi. Mountains, rivers, seas, metals, stones, fire, and wood are all formed on earth from gathered material. Since we know that heaven is made of gathered Qi and earth of clods of soil, how can we say they will never be destroyed? In the vast expanse of space, heaven and earth may be small, yet they are the greatest things within it. That they are difficult to exhaust or measure is simply how nature is. To worry that heaven and earth will be destroyed is indeed to look too far ahead; to insist that they will never be destroyed is also mistaken. In the end, heaven and earth will move toward destruction. As for when that destruction will occur, it is difficult to know. Since that is so, why not worry about it?”

When Liezi, the Daoist thinker, heard this, he laughed and said, “To say that heaven and earth will be destroyed is wrong; to say they will never be destroyed is wrong too. I cannot know whether they will be destroyed or endure. Even so, destruction and endurance each have their own side. The living do not know what comes after death, and the dead do not know what it was like to be alive. Those who arrive in the world do not know what comes after they leave it, and those who depart do not know what it is like to arrive. Whether heaven and earth will be destroyed or endure—why should I insist on deciding?”

This passage first uses the story of the man from Qi who feared heaven’s collapse to show how people become anxious about things they cannot know for certain. It then presents the differing views of Changluzi and Liezi to suggest that whether heaven and earth will be destroyed is difficult to determine, and that there is no need to insist on reaching a definite conclusion.

Shun asked Zheng, “Can the Dao be possessed?” Zheng replied, “Your body does not belong to you, so how could you possess the Dao?”

Shun asked, “If my body does not belong to me, then whose does it belong to?” Zheng said, “It is merely a form that Heaven and Earth have entrusted to you for a time. Life is not yours; it is the harmonious Qi that Heaven and Earth have entrusted to you for a time. Your nature and life are not yours; they are the principle of transformation that Heaven and Earth have entrusted to you for a time. Your descendants are not yours either; they are beings entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth as they pass through transformation. So when you walk, you do not know where you are going; when you dwell, you do not know what sustains you; and when you eat, you do not know where your food comes from. Heaven and Earth are nothing but Yang Qi in ceaseless motion—how could they be possessed?”

The Gu family of Qi was wealthy, while the Xiang family of Song was poor. Xiang traveled from Song to Qi and asked the Gu family how to become rich.

The Gu family said, “I am skilled at ‘stealing.’ When I first began, I could support myself within a year; after two years, I had a surplus; and after three, I was quite wealthy. Since then, my wealth has also benefited the people of my village.”

Xiang was delighted to hear this. But he understood only the Gu family’s words about “stealing” and failed to grasp the method they described. So he climbed over walls and broke into houses, stealing anything his hands could reach or his eyes could see. Before long, he was caught and convicted for the stolen goods, and his own property was confiscated.

Xiang thought the Gu family had deceived him, so he went to complain. The Gu family asked, “How did you go about stealing?” Xiang told the whole story. The Gu family sighed. “Alas, you have understood the art of stealing in a most peculiar way! Let me explain. I have heard that Heaven has its seasons and Earth its resources. I make use of the seasons provided by Heaven and the advantages offered by the land, drawing on the power of clouds and rain to nourish all things and on the produce of mountains, forests, lakes, and marshes. I grow grain, build fences, and put up houses. I take birds and beasts from the land, and fish and turtles from the waters. Is this not all a form of taking? Crops, timber, birds and beasts, fish and turtles—all are produced by Heaven and Earth. Do they belong to me alone? I take what Heaven and Earth produce, and this brings no calamity. Gold, jade, treasures, grain, silk, and other goods, however, are things people have gathered together; they are not directly bestowed on you by Heaven. If you steal them and are punished, whom can you blame?”

Xiang was deeply puzzled. Thinking the Gu family was deceiving him again, he went to ask Mr. Dongguo.

Mr. Dongguo said, “Is your own body not something you have taken, too? You came to life through the harmonizing of Yin-Yang Qi, and you rely on it to maintain your form. How much more so with things outside your body? Indeed, all things under Heaven and Earth are interconnected. To insist that some thing belongs to you alone is delusion. The ‘stealing’ the Gu family described follows what is fair to all, so it brings no calamity. The stealing you practiced came from selfish desire, so you were punished. Whether one acts for the common good or out of self-interest, one can call it taking; even without distinguishing between public and private, it is still taking. Letting what is public remain public and what is private remain private is the constant way of Heaven and Earth. For one who understands this constant way, who is a thief, and who is not?”

During the first fifteen years after ascending the throne, the Yellow Emperor believed Heaven had entrusted him with the duty of governing the realm. He therefore worked hard to care for his body and nourish his vital energy, while indulging to the full the desires of his ears, eyes, nose, and mouth. The result was that his face grew gaunt and his mind confused. For another fifteen years, he worried that he was failing to govern the realm well. He exhausted the acuity of his senses and put his intelligence and abilities to work, laboring for the people. Yet again his face grew gaunt and his spirit became confused.

The Yellow Emperor sighed and said, “I have gone too far. When I focused only on caring for myself, this was the result; when I governed all things, the result was still the same.” So he set aside the affairs of state, left his sleeping quarters, dismissed the guards and attendants, took down the hanging bells and chimes, and reduced his meals. He withdrew to the Great Court Lodge, a quiet residence within the palace, purified his body and mind, restrained his form, and attended to no government affairs for three months.

One day, while sleeping in the daytime, he dreamed that he was roaming through the land of Lady Huaxu. This land lay west of Yanzhou and north of Taizhou, an unknown tens of millions of li from the state of Qi. No boat or human strength could reach it; one could travel there only in spirit. It had no ruler or officials, and everything followed its own nature. The people had no greed and, likewise, followed their own nature. They knew neither attachment to life nor aversion to death, so no one died young. They neither favored themselves nor shunned external things, so they felt neither affection nor hatred. They knew neither resistance nor submission, and so made no distinction between benefit and harm. There was nothing they were unwilling to give up, and nothing they feared or hesitated to do.

There, entering water did not drown them, and entering fire did not burn them. Blows and cuts caused neither injury nor pain; even the touch of a finger caused no soreness or itch. People walked through the air as though on solid ground, and lay in empty space as though sleeping in a bed. Clouds and mist could not obscure their sight, thunder could not disturb their hearing, beauty and ugliness could not affect their hearts, and valleys could not impede their steps. All of this came about through the natural movement of the spirit.

When the Yellow Emperor awoke, he felt joyful, at ease, and content. He summoned Tian Lao, Li Mu, and Taishan Ji and said to them, “I have spent three months in seclusion, purifying my body and mind and restraining my form. I wanted to find a way to care for myself and govern all things, but I could not. Exhausted, I fell asleep and dreamed of such a realm. Now I understand: the highest Dao cannot be sought through human feelings and thoughts. I know it and have attained it, yet I cannot explain it to you.”

Another twenty-eight years passed. The realm was governed so well that it came close to the state of Lady Huaxu’s land. Later, when the Yellow Emperor died, the people wept and cried out in grief; even after two hundred years, their mourning had not ceased.

Mount Lieguye lies in the middle of the Hezhou Isles. Supernatural beings live on the mountain. They breathe the wind and drink dew, and eat no grains. Their minds are as deep as springs, and they look like young women. They show no special closeness or favoritism toward anyone. Immortals and sages willingly serve as their subjects. They fear nothing and grow angry at nothing, while honest and respectful people willingly follow their commands.

They do not deliberately bestow favors, yet all things naturally flourish. They do not hoard possessions, and so incur no blame. Yin and Yang remain in harmony; the sun and moon always shine brightly. The seasons follow their regular course, and wind and rain are evenly distributed. All things grow and reproduce in their proper time, and the grain harvest is abundant year after year. The land is free of epidemics and disasters. People do not suffer sudden, untimely deaths or grave illnesses. No harm or sickness afflicts the myriad things, and ghosts and spirits do not manifest or cause trouble.

Liezi took Lao Shangshi as his teacher and became close friends with Bai Gaozi. After grasping the Daoist arts of these two men, he was able to ride the wind. Yin Sheng heard of this and went to live with Liezi as his follower, staying for several months without leaving. He waited for a chance to ask Liezi to teach him the art of riding the wind. He asked ten times, and all ten times received no answer. Angered, Yin Sheng announced that he was leaving, but Liezi did not try to stop him. Yin Sheng had no choice but to go.

Several months later, still unable to put the matter out of his mind, Yin Sheng returned to follow Liezi. Liezi asked, “Why do you come and go so often?” Yin Sheng replied, “Before, I asked you for guidance, but you would not tell me, and I held a grudge against you. Now I have let it go, so I have returned.”

Liezi said, “I once thought you understood the Way. Now I see how shallow you are. Come, let me tell you what it was like for me to follow a teacher and learn the Dao.

“For three years, as I served my teacher and associated with fellow practitioners, I dared not think about right and wrong, nor speak of gain and loss. Only then did my teacher give me a glance. After five years, I began thinking again about right and wrong and speaking again of gain and loss. Only then did my teacher’s brow relax and a smile come to his face. After seven years, my thoughts no longer divided things into right and wrong, and my words no longer weighed gain against loss. Only then did my teacher invite me to sit beside him. After nine years, whatever I thought or said, I no longer judged right and wrong or gain and loss for myself or others. Nor did I distinguish my teacher as my master or my fellow practitioners as my friends. The boundary between my inner self and the things around me dissolved. The sensations of my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth seemed to flow into one another. My spirit settled, and my body seemed to come apart; even my bones and flesh felt as though they were melting. I no longer felt that my body rested on anything or that my feet stood on anything. I only felt myself carried east or west by the wind, like a withered leaf or an empty husk. In the end, I could no longer tell whether the wind carried me or I rode the wind.

“You have only recently come to study under the master, yet you are already resentful again and again. Your body cannot contain even a little Qi, and not one part of you can bear the support of the earth. How, then, could you tread on emptiness and ride the wind?”

Yin Sheng was deeply ashamed. He held his breath and remained silent for a long time, never daring to complain again.

Liezi asked Guanyin, “A perfected person—someone who has attained an exceptionally high level of cultivation—can dive underwater without suffocating, walk on fire without feeling the heat, and stride above all things without fear. How can one attain such a state?”

Guanyin replied, “This comes from preserving the pure, harmonious Qi. It cannot be achieved through cleverness, skill, bravery, or resolve. Ji, let me tell you: everything with shape, form, sound, or color belongs to the external world. How great can the differences between external things really be? What could make one thing superior to all the others? They are simply varied in shape and color. All things arise from the formless and ultimately return to a state of changelessness. If you grasp and investigate this principle deeply, how could you take only ordinary people’s understanding as correct? Such a person dwells where there are no fixed boundaries, hides within endless transformations, and roams among the birth and ending of all things. They make their nature single-minded, cultivate primordial Qi, and hold De within, thereby reaching an understanding of the transformations through which all things come into being.

In such a person, the innate capacity to preserve wholeness remains intact, and the spirit is undiminished. How could external things intrude upon them? A drunk person who falls from a moving cart often survives, even when the cart is traveling fast. Their joints and bones are like anyone else’s, yet they suffer different injuries because their spirit is in a state of undivided unawareness. They do not know they are riding in a cart, nor that they have fallen from it. Life and death, alarm and fear have not entered their heart; so when they encounter external things, they are not thrown into panic. If a person can preserve themselves in this way through drunkenness, how much more can a person who has attained the Dao preserve their spirit by following the Way of Heaven? The sage takes refuge in the Way of Heaven, and so external things cannot harm them.”

Lie Yukou performed archery for Bohun Maoren. He drew the bow to its full extent, balancing a cup of water on his elbow, then loosed his arrows one after another. They flew in an unbroken stream, each following the last and resting on the spot from which the previous arrow had been shot. At that moment, Lie Yukou’s expression was like that of a wooden puppet, utterly still.

Bohun Maoren said, “This is the skill of shooting with intention; it is not yet the state of shooting without intention. I will take you to the top of a mountain. Standing on a perilous rock and facing an abyss a hundred ren deep, could you still shoot?”

Bohun Maoren then climbed the mountain and stood at the edge of a dangerous rock, facing the abyss with a cliff behind him. He slowly stepped backward until two thirds of his feet hung over the precipice. He bowed to Lie Yukou and invited him forward. Lie Yukou was so terrified that he threw himself to the ground, and sweat streamed down to his heels.

Bohun Maoren said, “One who has truly attained the Way looks up to the blue heavens, dives down into the Yellow Springs, and lets the spirit roam in all directions, yet the spirit and Qi remain unchanged. Now you are trembling with fear, and panic shows in your eyes. Your mind and spirit are already in turmoil—how could you possibly hit your mark?”

The Fan family had a son named Zihua, who was skilled at building his personal reputation. Everyone in the country admired him. He was favored by the ruler of Jin and, though he held no official post, ranked above the Three Ministers. Whomever he approved, Jin granted a noble title; whomever he disliked, Jin removed from office. The people who came and went through his family courtyard were as numerous as the officials at court.

Zihua made his household retainers pit their wits against one another and let the strong bully the weak. If someone was injured in front of them, no one paid it any mind. From morning to night they treated this as a game and amusement, until it had nearly become the custom throughout the country.

Hesheng and Zibo were senior retainers of the Fan family. Once, while traveling, they passed through the countryside and stayed at the home of a farmer named Shangqiu. In the middle of the night, the two spoke of Zihua’s reputation and power, saying he could make the living die and the dead come back to life, and turn the rich poor and the poor rich. Shangqiu, who was suffering from hunger and cold, hid behind a window and overheard them. He borrowed some grain, slung a carrying basket over his shoulder, and went to seek an audience at the Fan residence.

The Fan family’s retainers were all sons of aristocratic houses. They wore white robes, rode in splendid carriages, walked with an unhurried air, and looked down on others. Seeing Shangqiu old and frail, with a dark face and untidy clothes and hat, they despised him. Then they mocked, deceived, and shoved him, doing whatever they pleased. Shangqiu never grew angry, and in time the retainers lost interest in tormenting him.

They climbed a high platform with Shangqiu and casually announced in front of everyone, “Whoever dares to jump down from here will be rewarded with a hundred pieces of gold.” Everyone eagerly agreed to do it. Shangqiu took them at their word and leapt down first. He landed as lightly as a bird, without a single injury. The Fan family’s retainers assumed it was just a stroke of luck and thought nothing of it.

Next they pointed to the deep part of a bend in the river and said, “There’s a pearl down there. Swim across and fetch it.” Shangqiu did as he was told once again. When he emerged from the water, he had indeed found the pearl. Only then did the others begin to feel astonished and uneasy. Zihua ordered that Shangqiu be listed among the retainers entitled to eat meat and wear silk.

Not long afterward, a fire broke out in the Fan family’s storeroom. Zihua said, “Whoever can go into the fire and bring out the silk floss may keep as much as they take.” Without hesitation, Shangqiu went in and out of the burning building. Not a speck of ash clung to him, and he was not burned. The Fan family’s retainers thought he possessed Daoist arts, so they all apologized to him, saying, “We didn’t know you had such arts, so we deceived you. We didn’t know you were a person of supernatural power, so we humiliated you. Were you deliberately pretending to be foolish, deaf, and blind to mislead us? Please tell us how this works.”

Shangqiu said, “I have no special arts, and I myself don’t know why things turned out this way. But there is one thing I can tell you. When your two guests stayed at my home, I heard them praise the power of the Fan family. They said the Fan family could make life and death, poverty and wealth change places. I believed them completely, so I came here without caring how far I had to travel. Once I arrived, I also took everything your retainers said as the truth. I feared only that my sincerity might be insufficient or that my actions might not be quick enough. I gave no thought to what might happen to my body, or to gain and loss; my mind was fixed on believing just this one thing. As a result, nothing in the external world could obstruct me. That is all there was to it. Now I know you were deceiving me. Suspicion has begun to enter my mind, and I have started paying attention to what I see and hear around me. When I think back on how I escaped being burned in the fire and drowned in the water, I feel frightened and unsettled, as if heat were rising inside me and my whole body were trembling. How could water and fire dare come near me now?”

From then on, whenever the Fan family’s retainers met beggars or veterinary healers on the road, they no longer dared to humiliate them. They always got out of their carriages and bowed in greeting.

After hearing this, Zai Wo, a disciple of Confucius, told Confucius about it. Confucius said, “Do you still not understand? Someone whose inner sincerity is utterly complete can resonate with external things and move Heaven, Earth, and the spirits. They can travel everywhere without obstruction. Do you think such power is expressed only in crossing dangerous places and entering water and fire? Shangqiu Kai sincerely believed words that were false, and even external things could not obstruct him. How much more so when people are sincere with one another! Remember this.”

While King Xuan of Zhou was overseeing the royal pastures, a servant named Liang Yang became known for his skill in raising wild birds and animals. He set out food in the gardens and courtyards, and even fierce beasts and birds of prey such as tigers, wolves, eagles, and ospreys grew tame under his care. Animals of different kinds gathered together and bred in groups, living side by side without fighting or devouring one another.

King Xuan feared that Liang Yang’s skill would be lost when he died, so he ordered Mao Qiuyuan to learn from him. Liang Yang said, “I am only a lowly servant. What secret could I possibly teach you? I only fear that Your Majesty may think I am keeping something from you, so I will tell you how I raise tigers.

“When you follow a creature’s nature, it is pleased; when you go against it, it becomes angry. This is the common nature of all living things with blood and vital energy. Yet pleasure and anger do not arise without cause: they are stirred when something goes against a creature’s nature. Those who feed tigers dare not give them live prey, lest killing it excite them and make them angry. Nor do they give them whole carcasses, lest tearing apart their prey make them angry. They feed them according to whether they are hungry or full, and help ease their anger.

“Tigers and people are not of the same kind, yet tigers grow close to those who raise them because their keepers follow their nature. If someone harms them, they take it as an affront. How, then, would I dare to go against them and make them angry? But neither do I deliberately cater to them and make them excessively pleased. Pleasure taken to its extreme often turns to anger, and anger often turns back to pleasure. Neither is fitting in excess.

“Now I have no intention of deliberately pleasing them or going against them. The birds and beasts see me as one of their own kind. So the birds and beasts that roam my garden do not think of flying back to the tall forests or rushing toward the broad lakes. Those that rest in my courtyards do not long to return to the deep mountains and secluded valleys. The underlying principle is what makes them so.”

Here, “raising tigers” means following animals’ nature and avoiding overstimulating them. Liang Yang goes on to explain that when people do not deliberately control or provoke birds and beasts, the animals can live together in peace.

Yan Hui asked Confucius, “I once crossed the Deep Pool of Shang and saw the ferryman handle the boat with a skill so wondrous it seemed he had divine help. I asked him, ‘Can someone learn to steer a boat?’ He said, ‘Yes. A good swimmer can teach you, and someone who swims well can usually learn very quickly. As for someone who can dive, even if they have never seen a boat, they can master it quickly.’ I asked him to explain the reason, but he would not tell me. Why is that?”

Confucius said, “Alas! We have been pondering these words for a long time, yet you still have not grasped what they really mean. You want me to explain them again. A good swimmer can learn to steer a boat because water does not frighten him. Someone who swims well can learn quickly because he has already forgotten the water. As for someone who can dive, though he has never seen a boat, he can master it quickly because he regards a deep pool as a hill and a boat capsizing as no more than a cart rolling backward. Even if a capsized boat and a cart rolling backward were both before him, they would not unsettle his mind. How could such a person fail to remain at ease wherever he went?

If a tile is the stake, the gambler’s mind is nimble; if a belt hook is the stake, he becomes somewhat apprehensive; if gold is the stake, his mind grows clouded. The gambler’s skill is actually the same in each case. It is because he cares about what he stands to lose that he fixes his attention on things outside himself. Anyone who places too much value on external things will find their inner ability growing clumsy.”

Confucius was watching a waterfall at Lüliang. The waterfall plunged from a height of thirty ren, and the water surged so fiercely that its spray rushed for thirty li. Even soft-shelled turtles, alligators, fish, and turtles could not swim in it. Confucius saw a man swimming in the rapids. Thinking the man must be in distress and seeking to end his life, he sent his disciples to follow the current and prepare to rescue him. After swimming several hundred paces, the man came ashore. With his hair hanging loose, he sang as he walked along the bank.

Confucius caught up with him and asked, “The Lüliang waterfall is thirty ren high, and its waters thunder along for thirty li. Even soft-shelled turtles, alligators, fish, and turtles cannot swim through them. When I saw you in the water just now, I thought you were in distress and seeking to end your life, so I sent my disciples to follow the current and rescue you. Yet you came ashore and sang with your hair hanging loose. At first I thought you were a ghost; only after looking closely did I realize you were a person. May I ask, do you have a method for swimming through the rapids?”

The man replied, “No, I have no special method. At first I followed what was familiar to me; gradually, I adapted to my nature; in the end, I settled into my fate. I was drawn into the water with the whirlpool and rose with the current. I followed the water’s force and did not impose my own will on it. That is why I can swim in the water.”

Confucius asked, “What do you mean by ‘at first I followed what was familiar to me; gradually, I adapted to my nature; in the end, I settled into my fate’?”

The man said, “I was born in the hills and grew accustomed to living there; that was what was familiar to me. Later I grew up by the water and became accustomed to it; that was my nature. As for not knowing why I can do this, yet doing it naturally—that is fate.”

Confucius was on his way to the state of Chu when he passed through a grove and saw a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas with a sticky pole. He moved with such ease, as if picking something up from the ground. Confucius asked, “What remarkable skill! Do you have a special method?”

The old man replied, “I do. First, I practiced balancing two clay balls on top of each other without letting them fall. Once I could do that, I rarely missed a cicada. Then I practiced balancing three; the chance of missing fell to one in ten. When I could balance five without dropping them, catching cicadas became as easy as reaching down to pick something up. I stand as steady as a tree stump, and hold out my arm like a dead branch. Though Heaven and Earth are vast and all things are countless, my mind is fixed only on the cicada’s wings. I neither turn nor lean, and I let nothing else draw my attention from those wings. What, then, could I fail to accomplish?”

Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “When the mind is wholly focused, the spirit can gather itself. Is this not just what we see in this hunchbacked old man?”

The old man said, “You wear wide robes and are little more than shallow scholars. What do you know, coming here to ask me about such things? Master your own skills first; then you can talk about these principles.”

There was a man by the sea who loved seagulls. Every morning he went to the shore to play with them. Flocks of seagulls, sometimes numbering in the hundreds, would fly to him and stay. His father heard about this and said, “I hear the seagulls enjoy playing with you. Tomorrow, catch a few and bring them back so I can play with them too.”

The next day, when the man returned to the shore, the seagulls circled overhead but would not come down.

Thus, the deepest words are not expressed through words, and the highest actions appear as if nothing is being done. When wisdom is confined to what one already knows, one’s understanding remains shallow.

Zhao Xiangzi led an entourage of a hundred thousand to hunt at Zhongshan. They cut down the weeds and set fire to the forest. The flames raged so fiercely that their heat could be felt a hundred li away. Suddenly, a man emerged from a sheer rock face, rising and falling amid the smoke and ashes. Everyone thought he was a ghost. After the fire had passed, the man walked out slowly, as though nothing had happened to him.

Finding this strange, Zhao Xiangzi kept the man there to examine him closely. His appearance, complexion, and seven orifices were just like those of an ordinary person, as were his breathing and speaking voice. Zhao Xiangzi asked, “How can you stay inside a rock? And how can you enter fire?” The man replied with a question: “You find this strange, so you keep me here to examine me closely: my appearance, complexion, and seven orifices are like those of an ordinary person, as are my breathing and speaking voice. You ask how I can stay inside a rock and enter fire—but what do you mean by ‘rock’? And what do you mean by ‘fire’?”

Zhao Xiangzi said, “The place you just came out of was rock, and the place you just walked through was fire.” The man replied, “I don’t know.”

When Marquis Wen of Wei heard what had happened, he asked Zixia, “What sort of person was that man?” Zixia said, “From what I have heard from Confucius, a person whose mind is at ease and in harmony can become one with all things. Then external things cannot harm or hinder him. He can even pass among metal and stone, and tread on water and fire.”

The Marquis of Wei asked, “Why don’t you do this?” Zixia replied, “I cannot yet empty my mind and cast off cleverness. But when I have time, I can try to explain it.” The Marquis then asked, “Why doesn’t Confucius do this?” Zixia said, “Confucius can do it, but chooses not to.” The Marquis of Wei was delighted to hear this.

A spirit-seer from the state of Qi came to Zheng. His name was Ji Xian. He could discern whether people would live or die, prosper or perish, meet good or ill fortune, and how long they would live. He could even predict the exact year, month, ten-day period, and day when these things would come to pass. He seemed almost divine. The people of Zheng avoided him whenever they saw him. Liezi, however, was deeply impressed. He went home and told his teacher, Huqiuzi: “I thought your Dao had reached its utmost limit. I never imagined there could be someone more accomplished.”

Huqiuzi said, “I have not yet taught you all the patterns and substance of the Dao. How can you say you have attained it? No matter how many hens there are, without a rooster, how can they lay eggs? When you use the Dao to compete with worldly people, of course they will see through you. Bring Ji Xian here and let him examine me.”

The next day, Liezi brought Ji Xian to meet Huqiuzi. Afterward, Ji Xian said to Liezi, “Alas, your teacher is near death and cannot be saved. He will not live another ten days. I saw him like damp ashes, without a trace of vitality.” Liezi went inside, wept until his robe was wet with tears, and repeated what Ji Xian had said to Huqiuzi.

Huqiuzi said, “Just now I showed him the ‘pattern of earth’—a state as still as the earth. I was settled and unmoving, so he thought he saw damp ashes. He probably caught a glimpse of my virtue hidden away. Bring him again.”

The next day, Ji Xian saw Huqiuzi once more. Afterward, he said, “Fortunately, your teacher has encountered me. His condition has improved. Vitality has returned to the ashes; I saw signs of life stirring.” Liezi went in and relayed this to Huqiuzi.

Huqiuzi said, “Just now I showed him ‘the expanse between heaven and earth’—the state in which change flows through the world. Reputation and outward appearance cannot enter my heart, while the vital breath of life rises from my heels. That is the stirring of life. He probably caught a glimpse of my goodness beginning to show. Bring him again.”

The third day, after seeing Huqiuzi, Ji Xian said, “Your teacher is sitting there with his mind unsettled. I cannot read his signs. Let him fast and quiet his mind, and then I will come back to examine him.” Liezi went in and told Huqiuzi.

Huqiuzi said, “Just now I showed him ‘the great stillness beyond all signs’—a state of utter emptiness and quiet, with no trace to follow. It is only natural that he could not read it.”

The fourth day, Ji Xian came to see Huqiuzi again. Before he had even steadied himself, he fled in panic. Huqiuzi told Liezi to chase after him, but Liezi could not catch up. He returned and reported, “He has disappeared. I could not catch him.”

Huqiuzi said, “Just now I showed him a state in which the original form has not yet appeared. In his presence, I was empty and changed with whatever came, giving him no way to tell what I was. So I was like grass and trees bending in the wind, or water flowing with the terrain. That is why he fled.”

From then on, Liezi felt as though he had never truly studied at all. He stayed at home with the door closed for three years. He cooked over the fire for his wife and regarded feeding pigs as no different from serving people. He stopped favoring some things over others and clinging to his judgments, cast off ornament, and returned to simplicity. Quiet and self-contained, he let no external things disturb his heart, and remained in that state throughout his life.

When Liezi set out for the state of Qi, he turned back halfway and met Bohun Wuren. Bohun Wuren asked, “Why have you turned back?” Liezi said, “I was frightened.” He asked, “What frightened you?” Liezi replied, “I stopped to eat at ten soup vendors’ stalls, and five of them hurried to serve me first.”

Bohun Wuren asked, “What is there to be afraid of in that?” Liezi said, “My inner sincerity is not yet fully cultivated, yet my outward appearance gives off a brilliance. That brilliance stirs people’s hearts, causing them to slight their elders and superiors and making it easy to invite their displeasure. Those soup vendors merely make their living by selling food; their profit is small and their authority slight, yet they were already so attentive. How much more should I fear the ruler of a state with ten thousand chariots—a lord with vast territory and great power—who exhausts himself managing affairs of state? If he entrusted me with a task and then tested me by my achievements, I would be afraid.”

Bohun Wuren said, “You see clearly. Just remain settled in yourself, and people will naturally come to you.” Before long, Bohun Wuren went to visit Liezi. Shoes belonging to guests were already spread all across the space outside Liezi’s gate. Bohun Wuren stood facing north, leaning on his staff with his chin resting on it. He stood for a while, then left without saying a word.

A guest told Liezi what had happened. Liezi picked up his shoes and hurried barefoot to the gate. He asked, “Since you have come, sir, will you not stay and have something to eat?” Bohun Wuren said, “There is no need. I told you before that people would come to you, and now they have. You can neither make people come to you nor keep them from coming, so why let it move you? Once it moves you, you will show an unusual expression. Besides, when you react to something, your body and mind are unsettled. There is no point in that. Has no one who spends time with you ever told you this? The shallow things people say are enough to poison them. If people neither notice nor awaken to this, how can they truly understand one another?”

Yang Zhu, a thinker of the Warring States period, traveled south toward Pei, while Lao Dan (that is, Laozi) went west to Qin. The two met in the outskirts, and later, when they reached Liang, Yang Zhu encountered Laozi again. Laozi looked up at the sky and sighed, “At first I thought you could be taught. Now I see that you cannot.” Yang Zhu did not answer. When they reached their lodgings, he first brought water and a towel to rinse and wash, then fetched a comb to arrange his hair, and afterward took off his shoes…

Yang Zhu traveled south toward Pei, while Lao Dan journeyed west to the state of Qin. They met in the countryside, and when they reached Liang, Yang Zhu encountered Laozi. Laozi had gone only halfway when he looked up at the sky and sighed. “At first I thought you could still be taught. Now I see that you cannot.”

Yang Zhu did not reply. When they reached their lodging, he brought out washing things and a comb, took off his shoes and set them outside the door, then knelt and edged forward. “Just now, Master, you looked up at the sky and sighed. You said that at first you thought I could be taught, but now you could not teach me. I wanted to ask what you meant, but you were busy at the time, so I did not dare disturb you. Now that you have time, please tell me where I went wrong.”

Laozi said, “Your gaze is arrogant and your eyes are brazen. How can someone like that get along with anyone? What is truly pure can appear to have blemishes; a person rich in De (Virtue/Power) can appear to be lacking.” Hearing this, Yang Zhu’s expression immediately grew respectful. “I will remember your teaching, Master.”

Earlier, when Yang Zhu had passed through an inn, the innkeeper’s family had welcomed him. The host himself had laid out a banquet, his wife had brought washing things, the other guests had risen to give him their seats, and even those tending the fire had moved away from the stove. But when he returned from Laozi, the guests no longer rushed to give up their seats; they got along with one another much more naturally.

Yang Zhu passed through the state of Song and lodged at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines: one was beautiful, the other plain-looking. The plain-looking woman was treated with respect, while the beautiful one held a lower place. Yang Zhu asked why. A young man at the inn replied, “The beautiful one knows she is beautiful, so I no longer see how beautiful she is. The plain-looking one does not think herself ugly, so I no longer see how unattractive she is.”

Yangzi said, “Disciples, remember this: if you do good and worthy things without boasting of your worth, how could you fail to be loved wherever you go?”

There is a constant way to prevail in the world: those who think themselves beautiful are not seen by others as beautiful; those who think themselves ugly are not necessarily seen by others as ugly. Yangzi said, “Disciples, remember this: act with goodness and integrity, yet do not consider yourself a worthy person. How could you fail to be loved wherever you go?”

There is a way in the world that often brings victory, and a way that does not always bring victory. The way that often wins is softness and weakness; the way that often fails is hardness and force. People have heard of both principles, but may not truly understand them. Thus an ancient saying goes: the hard and forceful always first overcome those weaker than themselves; the soft and yielding begin with what they themselves can manage. If the strong keep defeating the weak until they encounter an equal, they are in danger. The soft begin with what they can manage and face no such danger.

To govern oneself by this method is like leading a group of people; to govern the world by it is also like leading a group. This is called winning without deliberately seeking victory, and taking responsibility without forcing oneself to bear it.

Zhouzi, an ancient thinker, said: “To be firm, you must be guarded by softness; to prosper, you must be preserved through weakness. When softness accumulates to a certain point, it becomes firmness; when weakness accumulates to a certain point, it becomes strength. Observe the direction in which things accumulate, and you can tell where fortune and misfortune will come from. Hardness can overcome only opponents weaker than itself. When it meets an equal, it is drawn into a contest of force. Softness can overcome those who rely on their own strength; its power is unfathomable.” Lao Dan (Laozi) said: “An army that exerts its strength will perish; a tree that grows hard is easily broken. Softness belongs to the living, while hardness and strength belong to what is heading toward death.”

One need not look like a child to have a childlike purity of mind; nor need one have a childlike mind to appear like a child. The sage draws upon a childlike mind and does not prize a childlike appearance. Ordinary people, by contrast, are drawn to a childlike appearance and distance themselves from a childlike mind. People grow close to and love those whose appearance resembles their own; they distance themselves from and fear those whose appearance differs from theirs. “Having a frame seven feet tall” means that a person has a body about seven feet in height.

A childlike wisdom does not require a child’s appearance, and someone with such wisdom need not look like a child. Sages value this unspoiled wisdom and do not care whether a person looks childlike. Ordinary people, however, are drawn to those who look like children and keep their distance from those who possess childlike wisdom. They are drawn to and fond of people who look like themselves, but distance themselves from and fear those who look different.

A person seven feet tall, with distinct hands and feet, hair on the head and teeth in the mouth, able to walk with support, is called a human being. Yet a human may have the heart of a beast; even with the heart of a bird or beast, someone is welcomed because their appearance is human. Birds and beasts have wings, horns, sharp teeth, and claws, and can fly or run, so people call them birds and beasts. Yet they may possess human intelligence; even so, they are shunned because their appearance is different.

Among the sage rulers of antiquity, such as Fuxi, Nüwa, Shennong, and the Xia sovereigns, some were said to have had serpent bodies and human faces, or the heads of oxen and noses like tigers. Though they looked unlike ordinary people, they possessed the highest sacred virtue. Jie of Xia, Zhou of Shang, Duke Huan of Lu, and King Mu of Chu looked no different from ordinary people, with all seven human orifices, yet their hearts were like those of beasts. Ordinary people judge by appearance alone; they cannot attain the highest wisdom by relying on it.

When the Yellow Emperor and the Flame Emperor fought at Banquan, they led fierce beasts—bears, brown bears, wolves, leopards, wildcats, and tigers—in the charge, and used birds such as eagles, pheasants, hawks, and kites as banners. In this way, they commanded beasts through force. Yao put Kui in charge of music; when he struck the stone chimes, the hundred beasts danced to the music. When the Shao music reached its ninth movement, even the phoenix came in response. In this way, music drew the beasts to them.

From this, why should the intelligence of birds and beasts necessarily differ from that of humans? They differ only in shape and sound; people simply do not know how to make contact with them and communicate. Sages know and understand everything, so they can guide and command them.

Some of the innate intelligence of birds and beasts is close to that of humans. Like people, they know how to satisfy their desires and preserve their lives without needing to learn from humans: males and females mate, and mothers and offspring are affectionate; they avoid flat ground and stay near rugged places, shun the cold and seek warmth. They roost in groups and travel in ranks, with the weak in the middle and the strong on the outside. When drinking, they look out for one another; when foraging, they call to their companions. In ancient times, they lived alongside humans and walked among them. It was only in the age of emperors that they began to startle and flee; by the later age, they hid and ran away to escape calamity.

Today, in the east there is a country called Jie, whose people can often understand the speech of the six domestic animals. Perhaps they are especially skilled in this. The divine sages of antiquity understood the nature of all things and could also comprehend the sounds of other kinds of beings. They gathered different creatures and taught them how to live alongside humans. First they learned to communicate with spirits and demons, then they came to understand the peoples of the four regions, and finally they gathered birds, beasts, and insects. This shows that among beings with blood, breath, and life, the differences in intelligence are not great. Sages understood this, and so their teaching left out no kind of being.

In the state of Song, there was a man called Ju Gong, who kept monkeys. He loved them dearly and raised a large troop of them. He understood what was in the monkeys’ minds, and they understood what he meant. He would rather cut back on his family’s own provisions than fail to meet the monkeys’ needs.

Before long, his household ran short of supplies. He planned to limit the monkeys’ food, but feared they would not submit to his control. So he first tricked them, saying, “I’ll give you acorns: three in the morning and four in the evening. Will that be enough?” The monkeys all leapt up in anger. After a while, he said, “I’ll give you acorns: four in the morning and three in the evening. Will that be enough?” The monkeys all lay down, delighted. The total amount had not changed; only the order was different. In the world, things often deceive one another because people are clever or foolish, and the principle is much the same. The sage governs the people through wisdom just as Ju Gong governed the monkeys through a stratagem. As long as names and realities suffer no loss, they can be brought to contentment and joy.

Ji Shengzi, who was skilled at training fighting cocks, was training one for King Xuan of Zhou. After ten days, the king asked, “Is the cock ready to fight?” Ji Shengzi replied, “Not yet. It is still putting on a show of strength and relying on a burst of spirit.” Ten days later, the king asked again. Ji Shengzi said, “Not yet. It is still stirred by the calls and movements of other cocks.” Ten days later, the king asked again. Ji Shengzi said, “Not yet. It still glares angrily at other cocks, and its fighting spirit is strong.” Another ten days passed, and the king asked once more. Ji Shengzi said, “Almost. Even when other cocks call out, it no longer reacts. It looks like a cock carved from wood; its spirit and intention are now complete. Other cocks dare not face it in a fight, and flee when they see it.”

Hui Ang, a persuasive court debater, went to see King Kang of Song. The king stamped his feet, cleared his throat, and said eagerly, “What I admire are people of courage and strength…”

Hui Ang paid a visit to King Kang of Song. The king stamped his feet, cleared his throat, and said impatiently, “I admire people who are brave and strong; I have no liking for those who talk about benevolence and righteousness. What do you intend to teach me?”

Hui Ang replied, “I have a method that makes people impossible to stab, even when they are brave, and impossible to strike, even when they are strong. Would Your Majesty care to hear it?”

The king said, “Yes. That is exactly what I want to hear.”

Hui Ang said, “Making people impossible to stab or strike is still a humiliation. I have another method: it makes the brave afraid to stab and the strong afraid to strike. By ‘afraid,’ I do not mean that they lack the thought in their minds. I have yet another method that removes the thought entirely. When people have no thought of harming others, they also have no desire to care for or help them. I have another method that makes men and women throughout the world gladly want to care for and help one another. This is far better than relying on bravery and strength alone, and far surpasses those other methods. Would Your Majesty care to hear it?”

The king said, “That is exactly what I want.”

Hui Ang replied, “Confucius and Mozi were such people. Though they had no fiefdoms, they were revered like rulers; though they held no office, they were honored like high officials. Men and women throughout the world stretched their necks and stood on tiptoe, hoping to bring them safety and benefit. Your Majesty now rules a great state with ten thousand chariots. If you truly set your heart on such an aim, everyone within your borders could benefit. Your virtue would then far surpass that of Confucius and Mozi.”

The king had no reply. Hui Ang hurried away. The king said to those around him, “That visitor is truly skilled at argument. He actually persuaded me!”

During the reign of King Mu of Zhou, a man with the power to transform things came from a land far to the west. He could enter and leave water and fire, pass through metal and stone, turn mountains and rivers upside down, and move cities. He could ride through empty space without falling and meet solid objects without being hindered. His transformations took countless forms and could never be exhausted. He could change not only the shape of things but also people’s thoughts.

King Mu honored him as if he were a deity and served him as if he were a ruler. He gave him his own sleeping quarters to live in, offered him the three sacrificial animals—ox, sheep, and pig—and selected women skilled in song and dance for his pleasure. Yet the transforming man found the king’s palace low and crude, the food too rank to swallow, and the concubines unpleasant in scent and unworthy of his company. So King Mu ordered a new palace built, with every refinement in its timberwork and its vermilion and white ornamentation. The construction exhausted the wealth of the five treasuries. At last they completed a towering terrace a thousand ren high, overlooking Mount Zhongnan, and called it the Terrace of Mid-Heaven.

King Mu then selected young and beautiful women from Zheng and Wei. They applied fragrant powder and shaped their eyebrows, wore hairpins and earrings, dressed in fine garments with Qi silk trailing from their skirts, adorned themselves with powder, painted brows, jade rings, and fragrant herbs. Musicians accompanied them with pieces such as “Clouds of the Inheritors,” “Six Blossoms,” “Nine Shao,” and “Morning Dew.” Each day, King Mu presented the transforming man with jade robes and served him delicacies morning and evening. The man remained dissatisfied, but in the end he accepted the offerings reluctantly.

Before long, the transforming man invited King Mu to travel with him. Taking hold of the king’s sleeve, he rose into the air and stopped only when they had reached the middle of the sky. There they arrived at the transforming man’s palace. Built of gold and silver and adorned with pearls and jade, it rose above the clouds and rain, its foundations nowhere to be seen. From afar, it looked like a mass of gathered clouds. Everything in the palace that could be seen, heard, smelled, or tasted was unlike anything in the human world. King Mu thought he had arrived at Qingdu, Ziwei, Juntian, and Guangyue—the places where the celestial emperor dwelt and music was played. Looking down, he saw his own palace as no more than a heap of earth and a pile of straw. He lived there for decades, forgetting his own kingdom.

The transforming man invited King Mu on another journey. At their destination, the sun and moon were invisible above, and rivers and seas could not be seen below. The light dazzled King Mu’s eyes, the sounds confused his hearing, and every part of his body trembled with alarm. His mind was disordered and his spirit depleted. He asked the transforming man to take him home. The man returned him to where he had been, and King Mu felt as though he were falling out of empty space. When he awoke, he was sitting in the same place, with the same attendants around him. The wine before him had not yet cleared, and the dishes had not changed color. When he asked where he had just been, those beside him replied, “Your Majesty was simply sitting quietly in thought.” King Mu remained dazed and absent for three months before he recovered.

King Mu questioned the transforming man again. “The two of us,” he said, “were traveling in spirit. How could our bodies have moved? The place we just inhabited—how was it different from your palace? The place we just visited—how was it different from your own surroundings? When your mind is calm in your ordinary life, you too may mistake it for having briefly left its usual place. When transformation reaches its utmost, how could the difference between speed and slowness be fully described?” Hearing this, King Mu was delighted. From then on, he no longer gave thought to affairs of state or took pleasure in his ministers and concubines. He wanted only to travel freely to distant places.

King Mu ordered his eight fine steeds harnessed to a chariot. Zao Fu and others drove and accompanied the procession as it sped a thousand li to the land of the Jusu people. The Jusu presented King Mu with the blood of a white swan to drink and prepared the milk of cattle and horses to wash the feet of the king and the people in the two accompanying chariots. After drinking and bathing, they continued on their way and spent the night on a slope of Mount Kunlun, on the north bank of the Red River. The next day, they climbed the hills of Kunlun, viewed the tomb of the Yellow Emperor, and heaped earth over it, leaving it as a legacy for later generations.

Afterward, King Mu paid a formal visit to the Queen Mother of the West and drank wine with her beside the Jade Pool. The Queen Mother sang to him, and King Mu answered with a song of his own; their lyrics were full of sorrow. Then King Mu went to see where the sun sets, traveling ten thousand li in a single day. He sighed, “Alas! My virtue as a ruler is inadequate, yet I have given myself over to pleasure. Later generations will surely call me to account for each of my faults.” King Mu was truly like a divine being, enjoying all the pleasures of life to the full. He lived to the age of one hundred before he died, and people believed he had ascended to heaven.

Lao Chengzi studied the art of transformation under Master Yin Wen. After three years, Master Yin Wen still had not revealed its essentials. Lao Chengzi asked him to point out his faults and said he wished to take his leave. Master Yin Wen bowed and invited him inside. After sending the others away, he said, “Long ago, when Lao Dan (Laozi) traveled west, he looked back and told me: ‘The breath of life and the forms of things are all transformations. The myriad things begin in the generative power of Nature, and Yin-Yang changes bring them to life and death. When things reach a certain stage, pass through change, and shift along with their forms, this is called “transformation,” and it is also called “illusion.” The power that creates the myriad things is wondrous in its skill and profound in its efficacy; for this reason, it cannot be exhausted or traced to its ultimate end. Changes worked through forms display their skill and have only shallow efficacy, so they appear with the arising of change and vanish when it subsides. Only when you understand that illusion and transformation are no different from life and death can you study the art of transformation. You and I, too, are caught up in change. Why make a special effort to study its art?’”

After returning home, Lao Chengzi pondered Master Yin Wen’s words for three months. At last, he could make things appear and disappear at will, and alter the usual order of the seasons: thunder sounded in winter, and ice formed in summer. Flying creatures could be made to walk, and walking creatures to fly. He never revealed his art during his lifetime, so it was never passed down in the world.

Liezi said, “Those skilled at bringing about transformations follow a hidden, ordinary Way, and the effects they achieve are no different from those of ordinary people. The benevolent rule of the Five Emperors and the achievements of the Three Kings may not have depended entirely on wisdom and strength; they may also have come about through transformation. Who can fathom the principle behind them?”

There are eight signs in a person’s waking state and six kinds of dreams. What are the eight signs? The first is past events, the second is one’s actions, the third is gaining, the fourth is losing, the fifth is sorrow, the sixth is joy, the seventh is life, and the eighth is death. All eight arise when the body comes into contact with external things.

What are the six kinds of dreams? The first is the ordinary dream; the second is the troubled dream, filled with alarm and unease; the third is the thought dream, arising from reflection; the fourth is the waking dream, born of a wandering mind while one is awake; the fifth is the joyful dream, brought on by happiness; and the sixth is the fearful dream, brought on by fear. All six are triggered by the activity of the spirit.

Those who do not understand where responses and transformations come from are perplexed when things happen and do not know their causes. Those who understand their causes can make sense of events as they occur and are therefore not startled or afraid. A person’s fullness and depletion, increase and decline, are linked to Heaven and Earth and respond in turn to the transformations of all things.

Thus, when Yin energy is strong, one may dream of wading through deep water and feel afraid; when Yang energy is strong, one may dream of wading through a great fire or being scorched by flames. When both Yin and Yang energies are strong, one may dream of killing. After eating too much, one may dream of giving things to others; when very hungry, one may dream of taking food. When the body suffers from a light, buoyant illness, one may dream of rising into the air; when it suffers from a heavy, obstructed illness, one may dream of sinking. If a strap presses on someone during sleep, they may dream of a snake; if a bird carries off their hair, they may dream of flying. When one is about to feel cold, one may dream of fire; when one is about to fall ill, one may dream of eating. Those who drink wine may dream of sorrow; those who sing and dance may dream of weeping.

Master Liezi said, “When the spirit encounters something, a dream takes shape; when the body comes into contact with external things, events in waking life take shape. Thus, the thoughts of the day become dreams at night: all are the result of the spirit and body responding to things. When the spirit is settled, thoughts and dreams naturally fade away. When the mind holds a conviction, one may dream of flying. When one is about to feel cold, one may dream of fire; when one is about to fall ill, one may dream of eating. Those who drink wine may dream of sorrow; those who sing and dance may dream of weeping. In true wakefulness, one does not speak of it; in true dreaming, one does not understand it. These are all manifestations of things transforming and coming and going. The perfected people of antiquity, those whose cultivation had reached a high level, forgot themselves when awake and did not dream in their sleep. Could this really be empty talk?”

Far to the south, at the western edge of the world, there is a country whose boundaries are unknown. It is called the Land of Gummang. There, Yin and Yang do not mingle, so there is no distinction between cold and heat. The light of the sun and moon does not reach it, so there is no difference between day and night. The people eat no food and wear no clothes, but are constantly asleep. They wake only once every fifty days. They consider what they experience in dreams to be real, and everything they see after waking to be illusory.

Near the center of the lands within the Four Seas lies a country called the Central Land. It extends north and south across both banks of the Yellow River, and east and west across both sides of Mount Dai (Mount Tai), spanning more than ten thousand li in every direction. Here, the movement of Yin and Yang follows regular patterns, so there are cold and hot seasons. Darkness and brightness are distinct, so there is day and night. Among the people are both the clever and the dull; all kinds of things grow in abundance, and many different arts and crafts flourish. The country has rulers and subjects, and its order is maintained through ritual and law. The words and actions of its people are beyond counting. What people do while awake is considered real, while what they see in dreams is considered illusory.

Far to the north, at the eastern edge of the world, there is a country called the Land of Fuluo. Its climate tends toward warmth, but the light of the sun and moon that reaches it is still too weak to grow good crops. The people eat grass roots and tree fruits, and do not know how to cook with fire. They are fierce and violent in temperament: the strong oppress the weak, and they prize strength over virtue. They are constantly on the move and rarely rest, always awake and never asleep.

In the Zhou dynasty, there was a man named Yin who worked extremely hard at managing his household. The laborers under him worked from dawn until dusk with almost no rest. One elderly laborer had already exhausted his strength, yet Yin still demanded that he work harder. By day, the old man worked while groaning; at night, utterly worn out, he fell into a heavy sleep.

In his confused state, he often dreamed that he had become a ruler. He sat high above the people, governed the affairs of an entire state, and amused himself in palace gardens and towers, doing as he pleased and enjoying boundless happiness. When he awoke, he was back at his labor. When someone comforted him over his hardships, he would say, “A human life lasts no more than a hundred years, with half spent in the day and half in the night. By day I am a servant, and that is certainly hard; by night I am a ruler, happy beyond measure. What is there to complain about?”

Yin, meanwhile, devoted himself to worldly affairs and worried over his household. His body and mind were exhausted, and at night he too fell into a heavy sleep. He often dreamed that he had become a servant, rushing about to do whatever work was required. He was scolded and beaten with a stick, and nothing was spared him. Even in his sleep, he would mutter, groan, and cry out until daybreak. Troubled by this, Yin sought advice from a friend.

The friend said, “Your position is high enough to make you a person of standing, and you have far more wealth than others. Dreaming at night that you are a servant is simply the ordinary alternation of hardship and ease. How could you expect to be a ruler both by day and in your dreams?”

After hearing his friend’s words, Yin eased the laborers’ workload and reduced the number of affairs that occupied his mind. His illness consequently began to improve.

A woodcutter from Zheng went up the mountain to gather firewood. He came upon a startled deer, drove after it in his cart, and killed it. Afraid someone might see him, he hurriedly hid the deer in a dry ditch near the city and covered it with banana leaves. He was very pleased with himself. Before long, he forgot where he had hidden it and thought he must have been dreaming. As he walked along, he kept muttering about what had happened.

Someone nearby overheard him, followed his words to the spot, found the deer, and took it home. He said to his wife, “That woodcutter just dreamed he had found a deer, but he doesn’t know where he hid it. I’ve found the deer now. He really did have a lucky dream!” His wife said, “Perhaps you dreamed that the woodcutter found a deer. Where is this woodcutter, anyway? Now that you’ve truly found the deer, could it be that your dream has come true?” Her husband replied, “I have the deer in my hands. Why should I care whether he dreamed of me or I dreamed of him?”

The woodcutter went home but kept thinking about the deer he had lost. That night, he dreamed of where he had hidden it and of the person who had taken it. Early the next morning, he followed his dream and went looking. Sure enough, he found the man, and the two began arguing over the deer. They took their case to the judge.

The judge said, “At first, you really did find the deer, but said you had dreamed it. Later, you really did dream about the deer, but treated the dream as reality. This man did indeed get the deer, yet he is fighting you over it. Your wife also says that you identified the man who took the deer in a dream, and that no one truly found it at all. Since the deer is here before us now, I think the best thing is to divide it in half.”

Word of this reached the ruler of Zheng. He said, “Alas! Is the judge going to dream that he divided the deer between two people?” He then asked his minister. The minister said, “I cannot tell dream from waking. To distinguish wakefulness from dreams, perhaps only people like the Yellow Emperor and Confucius could do so. But the Yellow Emperor and Confucius are both gone. Who is left to tell the difference? For now, we might as well follow the judge’s ruling.”

In Yangli in the state of Song there was a man named Hua Zi. In middle age he contracted amnesia: what he took in his hand in the morning he would forget by evening; what was handed to him in the evening he would forget by the next morning. Walking along the road, he would forget that he was walking; sitting in a room, he would forget that he was sitting. Of present matters, he did not remember what had happened before; of later matters, he could not retain the immediate situation. His whole family worried about this.

They asked the official scribes to divine, but the hexagram could not be interpreted; they asked a shaman to pray, but it had no effect; they asked a physician to treat him with medicine, but the illness still did not improve. In the state of Lu there was a Confucian scholar who claimed he could cure this illness. Hua Zi’s wife promised him half the family property and asked him for a prescription.

The scholar said, “This illness cannot be determined by divination, cannot be cured by prayer, and cannot be attacked by medicine. I will try to alter his thoughts and deliberations; perhaps then he can be cured.” So he made Hua Zi suffer cold and waited for him to ask for clothes; he made him go hungry and waited for him to ask for food; he shut him in a dark place and waited for him to want light. The scholar joyfully told Hua Zi’s son, “There is hope that the illness can be cured. However, my prescription has been secretly transmitted and cannot be told to others. Please have everyone withdraw and let me live alone with him in a room for seven days.” Hua Zi’s son did as he was told. No one knew what the scholar actually did, but the illness that had accumulated over many years disappeared entirely in a single day.

When Hua Zi recovered his memory, he flew into a rage, drove away his wife, punished his son, and seizing a weapon chased after the scholar. The people of Song seized him and asked why he had done this. Hua Zi said, “Formerly, when I was forgetful, my mind was empty and blank; I did not feel that heaven and earth existed, nor did I feel that heaven and earth did not exist. Now that I remember everything all at once, the life and death, gain and loss, sorrow and joy, love and hatred of several decades all come surging into my mind. I fear that the life and death, gain and loss, sorrow and joy, love and hatred I experience from now on will likewise disturb my mind. Can a moment of forgetting ever be recovered?”

When Zigong heard of this, he found it strange and told Confucius about it. Confucius said, “This is beyond your understanding.” Then he turned and told Yan Hui to record the matter.

In the state of Qin there was a man surnamed Pang. His son was clever when young, but when he grew up he contracted a disorder of confused perception: hearing singing, he thought it was weeping; seeing white, he thought it was black; tasting sweet and fragrant food, he felt it was rotten and stinking.

In the state of Qin, a man surnamed Pang had a son who was clever as a child, but developed a disorder of perception as he grew older. Hearing singing, he thought it was weeping; seeing white, he thought it was black; smelling fragrance, he thought it was stench; tasting sweetness, he thought it was bitterness. When he did something wrong, he believed he had done it right. Whatever he took to be true in his mind, the four directions and the heavens and earth, water and fire, cold and heat—all appeared to him reversed and confused.

Yang said to the boy’s father, “There are many learned and gifted gentlemen in the state of Lu. Perhaps they can cure him. Why not pay them a visit?” The father set out for Lu. Passing through the state of Chen, he met Lao Dan (Laozi) and told him about his son’s illness.

Lao Dan said, “How do you know that your son is the only one who is confused? People in the world today are all muddled about right and wrong, and all clouded in their judgment of gain and loss. Many suffer from the same confusion, but no one notices. One confused person cannot throw a family into disorder; a confused family cannot throw a village into disorder; a confused village cannot throw a state into disorder; a confused state cannot throw the world into disorder. If everyone in the world were confused, who would there be to throw it into disorder? If everyone in the world thought just as your son does, you would instead be regarded as the confused one. As for sorrow and joy, sounds and colors, smells and tastes, right and wrong—who can determine what is truly correct?

“Besides, what I say may itself be confused. And those gentlemen in Lu—surely they are the most confused of all. How could they dispel another person’s confusion? You would do better to hurry home, before your provisions run out.”

A man from Yan was born there but grew up in Chu. Only when he was old did he return to his homeland. On the way, he passed through Jin, where a fellow traveler deceived him, saying, “This is the city of Yan.” At once, the man looked sorrowful and his face changed. The traveler then pointed to a local shrine to the earth god and said, “This is the shrine of your village.” The man sighed with emotion. Next, the traveler pointed to a house and said, “This is the house where your ancestors once lived.” The man burst into tears. Then the traveler pointed to a tomb and said, “This is your ancestors’ grave.” The man could not hold back his sobs.

The fellow traveler could not help laughing and said, “The house and tomb I just mentioned are actually in Jin. I was deceiving you.” The man was deeply embarrassed. When he finally reached Yan and saw his homeland’s city, shrine, and his ancestors’ house and tomb, his sorrow was much less intense.

When Confucius was sitting quietly, Zigong came in to attend him. Seeing worry on Confucius’s face, he did not dare ask about it. Once outside, he told Yan Hui. Yan Hui picked up a qin and began to play and sing. Hearing him, Confucius indeed summoned Yan Hui and asked, “Why are you alone in your joy?” Yan Hui replied with a question: “Why are you alone in your sorrow, Master?”

Confucius said, “First, tell me what you think.” Yan Hui answered, “I once heard you say, ‘Follow the course of Heaven and understand what is destined, and you will have no worries.’ That is why I am joyful.”

Confucius grew solemn. After a while, he said, “Did I say that? You have misunderstood me. Those were my words in the past; now take what I say today as your guide. You know that following the course of Heaven and understanding what is destined can free one from worry, but you do not know that this also brings great cause for concern. Let me tell you the truth: cultivate yourself, accept hardship and success with equanimity, understand that coming and going are not yours to control, and do not let change disturb your mind. This is what you mean by ‘being joyful in Heaven’s course, understanding what is destined, and having no worries.’

“In the past, I studied the Odes and the Documents, and set the rites and music in order, hoping through them to govern the world and influence later generations. I did not mean merely to cultivate myself and govern the state of Lu. Yet the ruler and his ministers in Lu grew more disorderly by the day; benevolence and righteousness steadily declined, and people’s feelings and natural dispositions grew ever more meager. This approach cannot work even in one state or one age, so how could it be put into practice across the world and for later generations? I began to understand that the Odes and the Documents, rites and music, could not rescue the world from disorder, but I had not yet found a way to change the situation. This is what troubles one who follows the course of Heaven and understands what is destined.

“Yet I have now understood. The truly joyful and wise are not the kind of people the ancients described as having things that delight them and things they know. True joy and wisdom come from clinging neither to joy nor to the idea that one knows. Thus there is nothing one cannot face with equanimity, nothing one cannot understand, nothing not worthy of concern, and nothing one cannot do. Why, then, should the Odes and the Documents, rites and music, be cast aside? Why change them deliberately?”

Yan Hui turned north and bowed. “I, too, have understood,” he said. After leaving, he told Zigong. Zigong was bewildered. He went home and pondered it for seven days, neither sleeping nor eating, until he was thin as a skeleton. Yan Hui went to counsel him again, and only then did Zigong return to Confucius’s school. He resumed playing the qin, singing, and reciting the classics, and continued without interruption for the rest of his life.

After hearing this, Yan Hui was bewildered and lost in thought. He went home and pondered deeply for seven days, neither sleeping nor eating, until he was skin and bones. Yan Hui visited the man again, and after the man had guided him, he returned to Confucius’s school and continued playing the zither and reciting the Odes and the Documents, without interruption for the rest of his life.

When an official from Chen went on a mission to Lu, he paid a private visit to the Shu-sun family. A member of the Shu-sun family said, “Our state of Lu has a sage.” The official from Chen asked, “Do you mean Kong Qiu?” The Shu-sun replied, “That’s right.” The official asked, “How do you know he is a sage?” The Shu-sun said, “I often hear Yan Hui say, ‘Kong Qiu can forget his preconceptions and act in accord with his body.’”

The official from Chen said, “Our state of Chen also has a sage. Have you not heard of him?” The Shu-sun asked, “Which sage do you mean?” The official replied, “Among Lao Dan’s disciples there is a man named Kangcangzi. He has grasped Lao Dan’s Dao and can see with his ears and hear with his eyes.”

When the Marquis of Lu heard this, he was greatly astonished. He sent a high-ranking minister with rich gifts to invite Kangcangzi. Kangcangzi accepted and came to Lu. The Marquis humbly asked him for instruction. Kangcangzi said, “The person who passed on that story got it wrong. I can see and hear without using my eyes and ears, but I cannot exchange the functions of my ears and eyes.”

The Marquis of Lu said, “That is already extraordinary. What is the Dao you cultivate actually like? I would very much like to hear you explain it.” Kangcangzi said, “My body is in accord with my mind, my mind with my Qi, my Qi with my spirit, and my spirit with emptiness. If even the tiniest solid thing or the faintest sound comes to me, whether from the distant reaches of the eight directions or from right before my eyes, I will certainly perceive it. But I do not know whether it is sensed by my ears, eyes, and limbs, or perceived by the six organs within my chest and abdomen. Each simply senses what it senses.”

The Marquis of Lu was delighted. Later, he told Zhongni (Confucius) about the matter. Zhongni only smiled and did not reply.

The Grand Steward of the Shang state paid a visit to Confucius and said: …

The Grand Steward of Shang visited Confucius and asked, “Are you a sage?” Confucius replied, “How would I dare call myself a sage? I have simply seen and heard a great deal and remember much of it.”

The Grand Steward of Shang asked again, “Were the rulers of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties sages?” Confucius said, “They were skilled at employing people of wisdom and courage. As for whether they were sages, I do not know.”

“Then were the Five Emperors sages?” Confucius said, “They were skilled at employing people of benevolence and righteousness. As for whether they were sages, I do not know.”

“Then were the Three Sovereigns sages?” Confucius said, “They were skilled at adapting to the times. As for whether they were sages, I do not know.”

The Grand Steward of Shang was greatly surprised and asked, “Then who should be considered a sage?” Confucius grew solemn. After a moment of silence, he said, “In the west there is a sage who need not issue orders, yet the world does not fall into disorder; need not speak to persuade, yet people naturally trust him; need not teach, yet people act rightly of their own accord. His virtue is vast and profound, beyond the people’s ability to describe in words. I imagine he may be a sage. But I do not know whether he truly is a sage, or not truly a sage.” The Grand Steward of Shang fell silent, thinking to himself. “Kong Qiu must be deceiving me!” he said.

Zixia asked Confucius, “What do you think of Yan Hui?” Confucius said, “Yan Hui surpasses me in benevolence.” Zixia then asked, “What do you think of Zigong?” Confucius said, “Zigong surpasses me in eloquence.”

Zixia continued, “What do you think of Zilu?” Confucius said, “Zilu surpasses me in courage.” Zixia asked again, “What do you think of Zizhang?” Confucius said, “Zizhang surpasses me in dignity.”

Zixia rose from his seat and asked respectfully, “Since each of these four excels you in some respect, why do they still follow you as their teacher?” Confucius said, “Sit down, and I will tell you. Yan Hui has benevolence, but does not know how to adapt; Zigong is skilled at debate, but does not know when to be silent; Zilu is courageous, but does not know how to yield; Zizhang is dignified, but does not know how to be easygoing. Even if the strengths of all four were combined and offered in exchange for my abilities, I would not agree. That is why they still take me as their teacher and have no second thoughts.”

Here, “sage” refers to a person whose virtue and wisdom have reached an exceptionally high level. The “Three Sovereigns” and “Five Emperors” are groups of rulers from ancient legend. The text does not identify the “person of the west” mentioned by Confucius; it portrays only a sage who, without relying on coercion or words, can bring people naturally to peace and confidence.

After Liezi took Huqiu Zilin as his teacher, he learned to be brave but not timid. After studying under Nengzhuangzi, he learned to remain composed but not to be easygoing. Even if the strengths of all four teachers were combined and offered to me, I would not accept them. That is why I serve them without changing my teachers.

Liezi took Huqiu Zilin as his teacher and befriended Bohun Wuren. Later he lived in the Southern Quarter. The number of people studying under him grew beyond counting each day. Even so, Liezi had glimpsed something of the truth. Each morning he debated with them, and nothing they discussed fell outside the scope of their arguments. He lived just across a wall from Nangouzi for twenty years, yet never visited him to seek instruction. When they met on the road, they acted as though they had not seen one another. Liezi’s disciples and servants all assumed that he and Nangouzi must be enemies.

A man from Chu asked Liezi, “What grievance do you and Nangouzi have against each other?” Liezi replied, “Nangouzi appears full on the outside, but within he is empty and still. His ears do not hear, his eyes do not see; his mouth does not speak, his mind has no awareness, and his body feels no apprehension. What would be the point of going to see him? Still, I’ll go with you to have a look.”

Forty disciples followed Liezi there. When they saw Nangouzi, he did indeed seem bereft of his soul, unable to converse with anyone. They turned to look at Liezi, only to find his body and spirit seemingly out of harmony, and him unable to mingle with the crowd. After a while, Nangouzi pointed to a disciple at the rear of Liezi’s group and spoke with him. The disciple talked freely, appearing intent and upright, his expression animated. Liezi’s disciples were all astonished. When they returned, every face wore a puzzled look.

Liezi said, “Those who truly grasp the Way do not express it in words; those whose wisdom has advanced further do not express it in words either. To treat silence as speech is also a way of conversing with others; to treat lack of awareness as knowledge is also a way of knowing. One may speak or remain silent; one may know or not know. One may speak of everything and know everything, yet also remain silent and know nothing. That is all there is to it. Why are you so foolishly astonished?”

Liezi studied with Master Lao Shang. After three years, he dared not think about right and wrong in his heart or speak of gain and loss with his mouth. Only then did Master Lao Shang glance at him. After five years, Liezi began again to weigh right and wrong in his heart and to speak once more of gain and loss. Only then did Master Lao Shang relax his brow and smile. After seven years, Liezi followed whatever arose in his thoughts, no longer distinguishing right from wrong; he spoke as his words came, no longer weighing gain and loss. Only then did Master Lao Shang draw him to his side and seat him beside himself.

After nine years, Liezi let his thoughts arise and his words flow without knowing what was right or wrong, advantageous or harmful for himself, or what was right or wrong, advantageous or harmful for others. The distinction between inside and outside gradually dissolved. From then on, it was as though his eyes could hear like ears, his ears could smell like a nose, his nose could speak like a mouth, and his mouth was no different from the rest. His mind and spirit became still, while his body seemed to come apart, its flesh and bones melting away. He no longer noticed what his body leaned against or where his feet rested, nor did he cling to the thoughts in his heart or the meanings concealed in his words. At this level, nothing in the affairs of the world could remain hidden or unseen.

Liezi loved to travel. Huqiuzi asked him, “Yukou, you love to travel. What is there to love about it?” Liezi replied, “The pleasure of traveling lies in how the scenery one admires is always changing. Other people travel to see whatever happens to be before their eyes; I travel to observe how the scenery changes. Traveling, traveling! Yet no one can discern the true state of travel.”

Huqiuzi said, “Is Yukou’s way of traveling really the same as everyone else’s? And yet you say it is different. Whatever the eyes see, people can also see changing. You attend only to the changes in things outside you, and do not know that you, too, are constantly changing. If you focus on traveling outward, you will not know how to examine inward. Those who travel outward seek fulfillment in external things; those who examine inward find contentment within themselves. Finding contentment within oneself is the highest state of travel. Seeking fulfillment in external things means travel never reaches its highest state.”

Thereafter, Liezi never traveled again for the rest of his life, believing that he still did not understand travel. Huqiuzi said, “Now this is the highest state of travel! Those who travel in the highest state do not know where they are going; those who observe in the highest state do not know what they are looking at. Everywhere among the myriad things is a place to travel; everywhere among the myriad things is a place to observe. This is what I mean by traveling, and what I mean by observing. Truly, the state of travel is lofty! Lofty indeed!”

Long Shu said to Wen Zhi, “Your medical skill is excellent. I have an illness. Can you cure it?” Wen Zhi replied, “I will do as you ask. But first, tell me what illness you have.”

Long Shu said, “When people in my village praise me, I feel no pride; when people in the state disparage me, I feel no shame. I am not pleased when I gain something, nor distressed when I lose something. I regard life as though it were death, and wealth and rank as though they were poverty. I regard other people as though they were pigs, and myself as though I were someone else. In my own home, I feel as though I were staying at an inn; in my native land, I feel as though I were in the country of the Rong and Man, as the ancients called distant lands inhabited by other peoples. These many afflictions cannot be relieved by rank or rewards, which do not stir me; nor can punishments or blame make me afraid. Changes in fortune and misfortune cannot alter me, and joy or sorrow cannot move me. So I cannot serve my ruler, associate with friends and kin, manage my wife and children, or direct my servants. What kind of illness is this? Is there any way to cure it?”

Wen Zhi asked Long Shu to stand with his back to the light, then examined him from behind, facing the light. After a moment he said, “Ah! I can see your heart. It is clear and open, almost like that of a sage. Six of its seven openings are clear; only one remains blocked. Perhaps you regard sagely wisdom as an illness because that one opening is blocked. This is beyond the reach of my limited medical skill.”

What endures naturally, without depending on any external cause, is the Dao. All things come forth from the Dao; therefore, even when they come to an end, they do not truly perish. This is the natural course. For life to turn toward death is misfortune. There is also a natural course in which, through some cause, one comes to die. This too is the Dao. To die by way of death is natural, even when life ends of its own accord before it has run its course. To turn from death toward life is good fortune. Thus, to come to life without human intervention is called the Dao; to follow the Dao to the end of life is called the natural course. To die through some cause is also part of the Dao; to follow the Dao and arrive at death is also the natural course.

When Ji Liang died, Yang Zhu stood outside his house singing. When Sui Wu died, Yang Zhu stroked his body and wept. When a servant was born, the servants all sang together; when a servant died, everyone wept together.

When a person is about to go blind, they often first see the fine new hairs on birds and beasts in autumn. When someone is about to go deaf, they often first hear the sound of tiny insects beating their wings. When the tongue is about to lose its sense of taste, it often first detects the difference between the Zi and Mian rivers. When the nose is about to become blocked, it often first smells burning and decay. When the body is about to grow stiff, it often first rushes to run away. When the mind is about to become confused, it often first distinguishes right from wrong. Thus, if a person fails to sense trouble before it arrives, then once it comes, nothing can be done to avert it.

The area of Fuze in Zheng was rich in worthy men, and Dongli was crowded with talented people. When Bo Fengzi, who was serving in Fuze, passed through Dongli, he met Deng Xi, a thinker from the state of Zheng during the Spring and Autumn period. Deng Xi turned to his disciples and laughed. “Why make you dance for someone who has just arrived?”

“We only want to understand the principle behind it,” his disciples replied.

Deng Xi said to Bo Fengzi, “Do you understand the principles of supporting others and being supported? If someone is fed by others but cannot provide for himself, he is like a dog or a pig. The ability to put the myriad things to work and make use of them is what distinguishes a human being. You people eat your fill, dress warmly, and rest in comfort—all through the efforts of those who govern. You gather together without regard for age, like livestock in a pen or kitchen. How are you any different from dogs and pigs?”

Bo Fengzi did not answer. One of his attendants pushed through the crowd and stepped forward. “My lord, have you not heard that Qi and Lu have many talented people? Some excel at building with earth and timber; some at smelting metal and making weapons; some at music; some at writing and arithmetic; some at leading troops in battle; and some at conducting ancestral temple sacrifices. Every kind of talent is represented. Yet without someone serving as prime minister, no one can coordinate them. If those in high positions lack insight, and those responsible for appointing people lack ability, then the insightful and capable end up serving them instead. Those who govern are, in fact, the ones we put to work. Why, then, should you take pride in yourself?”

Deng Xi had no answer. He glanced at his disciples and withdrew.

Gongyi Bo was renowned among the feudal lords for his great strength. Tangxi Gong reported this to King Xuan of Zhou, who sent someone to summon him.

“Those who govern are, in fact, the ones we put to work. Why, then, should you take pride in yourself?” Deng Xi had no answer. He glanced at his disciples and withdrew.

Gongyi Bo was famous throughout the feudal states for his great strength. Tangxi Gong recommended him to King Xuan of Zhou, who prepared gifts and invited him to court. When Gongyi Bo arrived, the king saw his frail build and thought he looked timid. Puzzled, he asked, “Just how great is your strength?”

Gongyi Bo replied, “My strength is enough to break the legs of a grasshopper in spring and pull off the wings of a cicada in autumn.”

The king’s expression darkened. “I can tear the hides of rhinoceroses and xi, a kind of rhinoceros, and drag nine oxen by their tails, yet still feel they are not strong enough. You can only break a grasshopper’s legs and pull off a cicada’s wings, yet you are famous throughout the world. How can that be?”

Gongyi Bo sighed and rose from his seat. “Your Majesty asks a fine question. I dare to answer truthfully. I had a teacher named Shangqiu Zi, whose strength was unrivaled in the world. Even his six closest family members did not know of it, because he had never used it. I entrusted my life to him and served him wholeheartedly; only then did he tell me:

‘If you wish to see what others cannot see, look where others do not look. If you wish to attain what others cannot attain, do what others do not do. So, those learning to see must first learn to see a bundle of firewood; those learning to hear must first learn to hear a bell in the distance. When the mind finds something easy, nothing in the world is difficult. When nothing in the world is difficult, your reputation will not spread beyond your own household.’

Now my reputation has spread throughout the feudal states because I have gone against my teacher’s instruction and shown off my skill. It seems, then, that I am not famous for boasting of my strength, but for knowing how to use it. Is that not better than boasting of one’s strength?”

Prince Mou of Zhongshan was a wise and capable prince of the state of Wei. He enjoyed spending time with worthy scholars and paid little attention to state affairs, but greatly admired Gongsun Long, a man from the state of Zhao. Yuezheng Ziyu and others mocked him for this.

Prince Mou asked, “Why do you mock me for admiring Gongsun Long?”

Ziyu replied, “Gongsun Long had no teacher to guide him and no friends to discuss his learning with. He is eloquent, yet often misses the point. His arguments wander without limit and have no foundation. He delights in strange claims, even deliberately making absurd arguments to confuse people and defeat his opponents in debate. He also practices this kind of argument with Han Tan and others.”

Prince Mou’s expression changed. “Why do you accuse Gongsun Long like this? Give me some specific examples.”

Ziyu answered, “I laugh at him for deceiving Kong Chuan. He told Kong Chuan: ‘A skilled archer can make the tip of one arrow follow close behind the tail of the arrow before it, joining the arrows one after another. The first arrow has already struck the bull’s-eye, while the next still clings to the bowstring; from a distance, they seem to be a single arrow.’ Kong Chuan was astonished. Gongsun Long went on: ‘That is nothing extraordinary. Hong Chao, a student of Feng Meng, once tried to frighten his angry wife. He drew the Wuhao bow, a legendary fine bow, and set a Qìwei arrow, a superb arrow, to shoot at her eye. As the arrow reached her eyeball, her eyelid did not even blink; when the arrow fell, it did not raise so much as a speck of dust.’ Could these possibly be the words of a wise person?”

Prince Mou said, “The words of the wise are not easily understood by the foolish. The tip of the next arrow follows close behind the tail of the first because the two arrows travel at comparable speeds. The eyelid does not blink when the arrow reaches the eye because the arrow’s full force has been brought to bear. What is there to doubt?”

Ziyu said, “How could Gongsun Long’s followers fail to cover up his flaws? Let me give you some even stranger claims. Gongsun Long once deceived the King of Wei, saying: ‘An idea is not the same as the mind; pointing toward something does not mean one can reach it; things cannot be exhausted; a shadow does not move; a single hair can lift a weight of a thousand jun; a white horse is not a horse; an orphaned calf has never had a mother.’ There are countless such claims that overturn common sense and confuse categories.”

Prince Mou said, “You do not understand profound arguments and mistake them for errors. The fault lies with you. ‘Without ideas, the mind is the same’; ‘without pointing, all things can be reached.’ ‘Things cannot be exhausted’ means that things always exist within the hall. ‘A shadow does not move’ refers to how an account of a shadow depends on the observer’s changing position. ‘A single hair can lift a thousand jun’ means that force and circumstance can come into balance. ‘A white horse is not a horse’ distinguishes color from name. ‘An orphaned calf has never had a mother’ means that if it had a mother, it would no longer be an orphaned calf.”

Ziyu said, “You think every one of Gongsun Long’s statements is reasonable. If these claims came from some other orifice, I suspect you would accept them just the same.”

Prince Mou was silent for a long time. Then he rose to take his leave, saying, “Let me come back in a few days to discuss this with you.”

Yao had governed the realm for fifty years, yet he did not know whether it was being governed well or whether the people wished to support him. He asked those around him, officials at court, and ordinary people in turn, but none could give him a clear answer. So Yao put on common clothes and went to Kangqu, the great road where many routes met. There he heard children singing: “The one who nurtures us, the people, leaves no one untouched by your kindness. We need not make a point of knowing anything; we need only follow the laws of the Celestial Emperor and set up no rules of our own.”

Yao was delighted. He asked the children who had taught them the song. They said they had heard it from a senior official. When Yao asked the official, he said it was an old poem. Back at the palace, Yao summoned Shun and ceded the realm to him. Shun did not refuse and accepted the abdication.

Guan Yinxi said: “The Dao (the Way) does not remain fixed in any one place, but appears in particular things. In motion, it is like flowing water; at rest, like a mirror; in response, like an echo. Thus the Dao is as natural as the myriad things. Things may turn away from the Dao, but the Dao never turns away from things.

“Those who are skilled at embodying the Dao do not listen with their ears or look with their eyes, nor do they pursue it by force or deliberate thought. Seeking the Dao through sight and hearing, outward appearance, or cleverness leads one astray. The Dao seems to be right before you, then in the blink of an eye it seems to be behind you. When put to use, it fills the four quarters of Heaven and Earth; when no longer in use, no one knows where it is. Those who rely only on deliberate seeking cannot attain it, while those who rely only on aimless passivity cannot draw near to it. Only those who comprehend it in stillness and let it merge with their nature can truly attain it.

“True knowledge and ability mean knowing without being entangled in feelings, and being capable without deliberately acting. If knowledge does not show itself, where could feelings arise from? If ability does not show itself, where could action arise from? To pile up treasures is like heaping up dust. Even what seems to be Wuwei (non-action) is still at odds with the Way if it does not arise from one’s nature.”

Yin Tang asked Xia Ge, “Did certain things truly exist in ancient times?”

Xia Ge replied, “At the very beginning of antiquity, there was nothing. How, then, could there be things now? Yet if people in later ages were to say that nothing exists now, would that make sense to you?”

Yin Tang said, “Then things have no distinction between what comes before and what comes after?”

Xia Ge replied, “The beginnings and endings of things have no end. Some beginnings later become endings, and some endings later become beginnings. Who can make sense of their order? As for what lies beyond things, and what the world was like before Heaven and Earth took shape, I do not know.”

Yin Tang said, “Then do the four directions above and below have limits?”

Xia Ge replied, “I do not know.”

Yin Tang pressed him again and again. Xia Ge answered, “If there is nothing at all, then there are no boundaries; if there are things, then there are limits. How could I know? Still, beyond what has no boundaries there is no further ‘boundlessness,’ and within what has no limits there is no further ‘limitlessness.’ Beyond the boundless is still the boundless; within the limitless is still the limitless. From this I know that they have no boundaries or limits, yet I do not know whether they have boundaries or limits.”

Yin Tang asked again, “What lies beyond the four seas?”

Xia Ge replied, “It is just like Qi Province.”

Yin Tang asked, “What grounds do you have for saying so?”

Xia Ge said, “I traveled east as far as Ying, and the people there were like the people here. When I asked about the land east of Ying, I heard that it was still like Ying. I traveled west as far as Bin, and the people there were also like the people here. When I asked about the land west of Bin, I heard that it was still like Bin. So I know that beyond the four seas, the distant wilderness in the four directions, and the remotest borders, things may perhaps be much like they are here. Great and small contain one another without end. To be able to contain all things is like being able to contain Heaven and Earth: things are without end, so the expanse that contains them has no end either. Heaven and Earth are contained within it, so that expanse has no boundary. How could I know that beyond Heaven and Earth there is no still greater Heaven and Earth? This too is something I do not know.”

“From this it seems that Heaven and Earth are things too. Things have imperfections. In ancient times, therefore, Nüwa, the legendary creator goddess, smelted five-colored stones to mend the gaps in Heaven and Earth, and cut off the legs of a giant turtle to support the four directions. Later, Gonggong fought Zhuanxu for the imperial throne. In his anger, Gonggong struck Mount Buzhou, breaking the pillar of Heaven and snapping the cords that held Earth in place. As a result, Heaven tilted toward the northwest, and the sun, moon, and stars moved northwestward; the southeast of Earth was damaged, so rivers and floods flowed toward it.”

King Tang asked again, “Are there differences of size among the myriad things? Are their lifespans long or short? Tradition says that when Heaven and Earth first opened, the cords holding the earth in place broke. Heaven therefore tilted toward the northwest, and the sun, moon, and stars moved in that direction. The earth was incomplete in the southeast, so rivers and lakes all flowed that way.”

King Tang then asked Ge, “Do the myriad things differ in size and lifespan? Are there things they share, and ways in which they differ?”

Ge replied, “East of the Bohai Sea, who knows how many hundreds of millions of miles away, there is a vast, bottomless abyss called the Returning Ruins (a legendary chasm that receives all the waters of the world). The waters of the eight directions and the Nine Regions, along with the waters of the Milky Way in the heavens, all flow into it, yet it never seems to grow fuller or emptier.

“In the Returning Ruins stand five mountains. The first is called Daiyu, the second Yuanjiao, the third Fanghu, the fourth Yingzhou, and the fifth Penglai. Each mountain rises and falls across thirty thousand li, with a level summit nine thousand li wide. The five mountains stand seventy thousand li apart, yet face one another like neighbors. Their pavilions and towers are built of gold and jade, and their birds and beasts are white as snow. Groves of trees bearing pearls and jade grow there, and their flowers and fruits are delicious. Whoever eats them lives forever. Those who dwell there are descendants of immortals and sages. They fly back and forth to visit one another day and night, beyond counting.

“But the foundations of the five mountains were not joined to the earth. They rose and fell with the tides, never settling in one place even for a moment. The immortals and sages worried about this and appealed to the Emperor of Heaven. He feared the mountains might drift far west, leaving the immortals without a home, so he ordered Yujiang, a legendary deity, to have fifteen giant turtles support the mountains on their heads, taking turns in three groups and changing places once every sixty thousand years. Only then did the five mountains become stable.

“A giant from the Land of Longbo could reach the five mountains in just a few strides. With a single cast of his fishing line, he caught six of the giant turtles and carried them all back to his country. He roasted their shells to divine the future. As a result, Daiyu and Yuanjiao drifted north to the pole and sank into the sea, scattering as many as hundreds of millions of immortals and sages. The Emperor of Heaven was furious. He reduced the territory of the Land of Longbo, making it small, and made its people shorter as well. Even in the time of Fuxi and Shennong, its people were still dozens of zhang tall.

“Traveling east from the Central Regions for four hundred thousand li brings you to the Land of Jiaoyao, where the people are one chi and five cun tall. In the far northeast live people called the Zheng, who are nine chi tall. South of Jingzhou grows the mingling tree: five hundred years make one spring, and five hundred years one autumn. In ancient times there was a great chun tree: eight thousand years made one spring, and eight thousand years one autumn. On rotten earth grows the fungus zhi, which appears in the morning and dies by evening. In spring and summer there are tiny flying insects called meng and rui. They are born after rain and die as soon as they see sunlight.

“Far north of Fabei lies a sea called the Dark Sea, also known as the Celestial Lake. In it lives a fish several thousand li wide, its length matching its breadth, called the Kun. There is also a bird called the Peng, whose wings are like clouds hanging at the edge of the sky and whose body is as immense as the great fish in the sea. Who in the world could know such creatures existed? Yu the Great saw them with his own eyes; Boyi knew of them and gave them their names; and Yijian heard of them and recorded them.

“Among the marshes by the river lives a tiny insect called the Jiaoming. They gather in swarms on the eyelashes of mosquitoes without touching one another. They perch and move about there, yet the mosquitoes do not notice them. Lizhu and Ziyu sharpened their sight in daylight, raising their brows to look closely, but could not see their shapes. At night, Master Kuang pricked up his ears and listened intently, but could not hear them. Only the Yellow Emperor and Rong Chengzi, after living on Mount Kongtong and fasting for three months, with their minds still and their bodies seemingly brought to a halt, slowly gazed upon them with spirit and saw them clustered together like a bend in Mount Song. Then, slowly listening with their breath, they heard them rumble like thunder.

“In the region of Wu and Chu grows a great tree called the you. Its leaves stay green and continue growing through winter; its fruits are red and sour. Eating its bark or sap can cure fainting caused by rebellious Qi. The people of Qi prized it, but when it was transplanted north of the Huai River, it became a trifoliate orange. Mynas cannot fly across the Ji River, and raccoon dogs die when they cross the Wen River. This is caused by the local influence of the earth’s Qi.

“Even so, the forms and qualities of the myriad things are all different, but their inherent nature is equal; none can be exchanged for another as higher or lower. Each has a complete life of its own and is endowed with all it needs. How can I judge which is big or small, which lives long or briefly, or which is alike or different?”

The Taihang and Wangwu Mountains extend for seven hundred li and rise to a height of ten thousand ren. They originally lay in the southern part of Jizhou, north of the Yellow River. At the northern foot of the mountains lived a man named Foolish Old Man. Nearly ninety years old, he lived facing the mountains. Troubled by the blocked roads to the north and the long detours they forced him to take, he called his family together and proposed, “Let us work together to level these steep mountains, so the road runs straight to the southern part of Yuzhou and reaches the south bank of the Han River. What do you think?” Everyone agreed.

Foolish Old Man’s wife raised a concern. “With your strength, you couldn’t even cut down a small hill like Kuifu. What could you possibly do to the great Taihang and Wangwu Mountains? And where would you put all the earth and stones you dig out?” They replied, “We’ll dump them by the Bohai Sea, north of Yintu.” So Foolish Old Man led three of his descendants who were strong enough to carry loads. They broke up the rocks and dug the earth, then carried it in baskets and carrying frames to the shore of the Bohai Sea.

A widow from the neighboring Jingcheng family had a posthumous son who had just begun to lose his baby teeth. He came bounding over to help. He made the round trip once in the course of a change from hot weather to cold and back again.

The Wise Old Man from beside the river bend mocked Foolish Old Man. “With what little strength you have, you can’t even disturb a blade of grass or a tree on the mountain. What can you do with all that earth and stone?” Foolish Old Man sighed and said, “Your thinking is so stubborn that nothing can change it. You’re not even as sensible as that widow’s boy. Even when I die, I’ll leave a son. My son will have a son, and he in turn will have a son. The generations will never end, while the mountains will never grow any higher. Why should I worry that we cannot level them?” The Wise Old Man had no answer.

The spirit with snakes twined around him who governed the mountains and rivers heard about this. Fearing that Foolish Old Man would keep digging without end, he reported the matter to the Heavenly Emperor. Moved by Foolish Old Man’s sincerity, the Emperor ordered two sons of the Kwa’e family to carry the mountains away: they placed one east of Shuofang and the other south of Yongzhou. From then on, no hills blocked the way between southern Jizhou and the south bank of the Han River.

Kua Fu overestimated his abilities and set out to chase the sun’s shadow, pursuing it all the way to the region near Yugu. When thirst overcame him, he hurried to the Yellow and Wei Rivers to drink. Still unsatisfied, he planned to travel north to the Great Marsh for more water. Before he could reach it, he died of thirst on the way. He dropped his staff, and where it was nourished by the fat and flesh of his body, a forest sprang up, called Denglin, stretching for thousands of li.

Yu the Great said, “Within the four directions of Heaven and Earth, and amid the four seas, the sun and moon shine, the stars move, the four seasons mark the passage of time, and the Grand Year Star marks the years. The myriad things brought forth by the spirits all take different forms; some die young, while others live long. Only the sage can understand the principles behind this.”

Xia Ge said, “Yet there are also things that do not depend on the spirits to come into being, do not take shape through the changes of Yin-Yang, and are not made visible by the light of the sun and moon. They do not die young through killing, nor live long by being tended and nourished. They eat no grains, wear no garments woven from silk or cotton, and travel neither by boat nor by cart. They follow their own nature, and even the sage cannot understand their principles.”

While governing the waters and lands, Yu the Great lost his way and strayed into a kingdom. It lay north of the North Sea, countless tens of millions of miles from Qizhou, and was called Zhongbei. No one knew where its borders were. There was no wind or rain, frost or dew, and no birds, beasts, insects, fish, flowers, grasses, or trees grew there. The land was level all around, encircled by towering mountains. At the center of the kingdom stood a mountain called Huling, shaped like a wine jar. At its summit was a cave opening, ring-shaped and called the Zixue. From within the cave welled a spring called Shenfen. Its fragrance surpassed that of orchids and prickly ash, and its taste was sweeter than fine wine. From a single source, the water divided into four streams, flowed down the mountain, and encircled the entire kingdom, whereupon…