《冲虚至德真经解》Vol. 2

Interpretation

The people of the river crossing taught others the skill of handling boats. Those who received the instruction might learn the method, but they could not necessarily master its subtleties. Someone familiar with water and skilled at swimming might be as good at steering a boat as the ferryman, even without having learned how. Those who are unfamiliar with water tremble with fear at the sight of it, worrying only that it will drown them. How could they give their attention to steering a boat? Someone who understands water a little can be taught to steer; only when he has forgotten his fear of water can he master the art of swimming. As for a diver, even if he has never seen a boat, he can steer one. He is not afraid of water, and he does not even keep the boat in mind, so he can meet any situation with ease.

Crossing water is like passing through hardship and danger. Those who govern worldly affairs are like boatmen, tasked with leading the people safely through difficulties. Only one who has attained the Dao can be like a diver: unburdened by worldly affairs, able to move freely amid countless changes, and at ease in helping the world through them. Whether he was employed or not, Yan Hui could act and withdraw with equal ease, bringing him close to the sages. Confucius praised him, saying that he understood the principles of the texts and had grasped their substance.

When a person tosses a tile, he concentrates and seems skillful. Give him a hooked object instead, and he becomes anxious. Give him gold, and his mind grows confused. His skill is the same in each case; it is simply that concern for what he values holds his thoughts in check. The more he cares about the object, the more tense he becomes. When his mind is tense, his judgment falters and his skill cannot come into play. The skill is within him, while the object is outside him. Though he already has the skill, concern makes him clumsy. If he could value gold no more than a tile, he would be skillful in every situation and no longer be constrained by external things. But this cannot ultimately be achieved by forcing it. Only one who has attained the Dao can let things follow their natural course. What the world calls “skill” can sometimes be the greatest clumsiness. Thus it is said, “Great skill seems clumsy.”

At Lüliang, Confucius saw a waterfall plunging from a height, its turbulent waters surging for thirty miles. Even giant softshell turtles, crocodiles, fish, and turtles could not cross it. Confucius saw a man appearing and disappearing in the water and thought he was in trouble and meant to take his own life. He told his disciples to run along the bank and rescue him. The man soon came ashore, let his hair hang loose, and walked along singing. Confucius caught up with him and asked whether he had a special way of swimming.

“I have no special way,” the man replied. “I began in familiar surroundings, grew up through the habits of daily life, and in the end let my nature and fate take their course. I enter the water with its current and emerge with it, following the water’s own patterns without imposing my will on it. That is why I can swim through this place.”

Confucius asked what he meant by beginning in familiar surroundings, growing up through habit, and finally letting fate take its course. The man said, “I was born among hills and feel at home among hills because I grew up there. I was raised by the water and feel at home in it because I grew up accustomed to it. I do not know why I am this way; it simply comes naturally. That is fate.”

Animals that live in water are unafraid of it because they are accustomed to it. This man was born on land, yet had an exceptional nature that suited him to water. Although he had grown accustomed to life in it, if he still knew why he could do what he did, he had not fully followed the water’s own patterns. He moved freely in and out of the water because of his nature, without any private intention.

When Confucius was in the state of Chu, he passed through a wood and saw a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas with a pole, moving as lightly as if he were picking them up from the ground. Confucius asked if he had a special technique. “I do,” the old man replied. “I practiced balancing pellets on one another. After five or six months, I could balance two without their falling, and I rarely missed when catching cicadas. When I could balance three without their falling, I missed only once in ten tries. When I could balance five, catching a cicada was as easy as picking something up.

“When I stand, I am like a tree stump. When I raise my arm, it is like a withered branch. Though Heaven and Earth are vast and all things are many, my mind holds only the cicada’s wings. I am not distracted by anything else, nor do I value anything above those wings. With that, what could I fail to accomplish?”

Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “When the mind is single and undivided, the spirit gathers. This must be what they mean by this hunchbacked old man.”

The old man said to Confucius, “You wear a wide robe and go about discussing your learning. Why come to ask me about these things? Attend to what you ought to do and put it in good order before you speak of such principles.”

The commentary explains the old man’s skill at catching cicadas as the result of focused attention and selfless absorption. Balancing the pellets trained him to stand steadily and keep his arm steady, while preventing his mind from wandering. By concentrating on the cicada’s wings, he could catch them with ease. Confucius’s words, “When the will is undivided, the spirit gathers,” mean that when the mind is focused and undisturbed, the spirit can concentrate. The old man’s back was bent, and he paid no attention to his outward appearance. His reminder to Confucius was to cultivate himself and attend to practical matters.

A man by the sea loved gulls. Every morning he went to the shore to play with them, and hundreds would fly down and settle around him. His father heard about it and told him to catch a few and bring them home for him to admire. The next day, when the man returned to the shore, the gulls flew overhead but would not land.

The scripture says that true speech often does not rely on words, and true action often does not seem deliberate. Knowledge confined to what the intellect can understand remains shallow.

The commentary says the gulls were drawn to the man because at first he had no intention of catching them and made no distinctions between what he favored and what he did not. Once he planned to catch them, his intentions changed, and the birds were frightened away. When people relate to external things without resistance or calculation, all things may respond in this way. In cultivating oneself and dealing with the world, one need not always rely on words to prove oneself or on deliberate acts to win people’s trust. Valuing only one kind of thing and wanting to possess it can destroy the closeness that was there from the start.

Zhao Xiangzi led a hundred thousand followers to hunt in the mountains of Zhongshan. He set fire to the woods with dry grass, and the flames blazed so fiercely that the land was red for a hundred miles. A man emerged from a stone cliff, appearing and disappearing amid the smoke and fire. The people thought he was a ghost. After the fire passed, the man walked out slowly, as though nothing had happened. Zhao Xiangzi examined him closely and found that his appearance, features, breathing, and voice were all like those of an ordinary person. He asked what ability allowed him to live inside stone and pass through flames. The man replied with a question: “What do you call stone, and what do you call fire?” Zhao Xiangzi said, “The place you just came out of was stone, and the place you walked through was fire.” The man said, “I don’t know.”

The commentary explains that external things constrain people because they see themselves as separate from those things. In fact, people and all things are not inherently different; their apparent differences arise from perception and the mind’s habit of making distinctions. If you know something is stone, you think it is hard and cannot be passed through; if you know something is fire, you think it is hot and cannot be approached. Yet freedom from obstruction by external things does not come merely from ignorance. It requires a mind with no attachment at all, so that body and mind blend completely with all things. The man not only did not know how to pass through stone and fire; he did not regard them as obstacles, and so they could not obstruct him.

When Marquis Wen of Wei heard the story, he asked Zixia what kind of person the man was. Zixia said, “According to what I heard from Confucius, one who harmonizes with all things and becomes one with them cannot be harmed or obstructed by anything external. Passing through metal and stone or walking on water and fire may be possible.” Marquis Wen asked why Zixia did not do it himself. Zixia replied, “I cannot yet hollow out my private desires and discard my cleverness, but I can at least explain the principle.” Marquis Wen then asked why Confucius did not do it himself. Zixia said, “Confucius can do it, but although he can, he does not.” Marquis Wen was delighted.

The commentary says that true “harmony” means clinging neither to existence nor to nonexistence. One must neither discard the functions of existence and nonexistence nor be constrained by them; only then can one harmonize with all things. “Great sameness” does not erase the differences among things. It means finding what is shared within difference: acknowledging that stone is hard and fire is fierce without allowing them to become obstacles.

Different creatures receive different portions of Yin-Yang and the Five Phases, and so each has its own nature. Plants and trees bend; water is yielding; metal is hard; fire is fierce; earth is level. All are governed by the changes of the Five Phases. Human beings are the most numinous of all things. Endowed with the balanced Qi, they can respond to the Yin-Yang of Heaven and Earth. If one can embrace harmony, preserve one’s Qi, and blend with all things without feeling separate from them, one may be like the person in the story and remain unobstructed by external things. The commentary also uses birds that fly, fish that dive, insects hidden in wood, and mice active in fire to illustrate how different beings may display special abilities through the Qi they receive.

A spirit medium named Jixian came from the state of Qi to Zheng, claiming that he could foretell life and death, good and bad fortune, and the length of a person’s life, just like a god—and name the precise dates. Everyone in Zheng who saw him kept away, but Liezi was impressed. He returned home and told Huqiuzi, “I thought your Way was already supreme, Master. I never imagined there could be anything higher.”

Huqiuzi said, “You have learned only the signs I show outwardly, not their inner substance, yet you think you have attained the Dao. How can eggs be produced by a hen with no rooster? You display your art to the world, so people can easily read your abilities. Of course Jixian could read your appearance.”

The commentary explains that outward signs are the traces an object reveals, while inner substance is the true Dao. Outward signs without an inner foundation cannot be the source of the transformations of all things. Liezi had made his art visible to the world, so it was easy for others to see through him.

Huqiuzi asked Liezi to bring Jixian to read his appearance. After their first meeting, Jixian said Huqiuzi was close to death and would not live ten days. He said he could see an aspect like damp ash. Liezi went home weeping and told Huqiuzi. Huqiuzi said, “Just now I showed him the ‘patterns of Earth.’ My breath was still and calm, neither moving nor stopping. That is why Jixian saw the Qi of my inwardness and concealment.”

After their second meeting, Jixian said Huqiuzi had recovered and showed signs of life. Huqiuzi said, “Just now I showed him ‘the soil of Heaven.’ Reputation and outward signs could not enter my mind, while my Qi was rising from my heels. What Jixian saw was a movement of Qi shifting from concealment to growth.”

After their third meeting, Jixian said Huqiuzi was too unsettled to be read and told him to fast before coming again. Huqiuzi said, “Just now I showed him ‘the great rush of harmony, without a trace’—the deepest state of balanced stillness, in which almost no sign can be seen. Water forms deep pools through eddies, stillness, currents, floods, seepage, and blockages. Though water changes in many ways, its depths can remain calm. One who has attained the Dao can likewise respond to the myriad changes without losing inner stillness.”

At their fourth meeting, before Jixian had even come to a stop, he fled in a daze, utterly unnerved. Huqiuzi told Liezi to chase him, but Liezi could not catch up. Huqiuzi said, “This time I showed him that I had ‘never left the source.’ I had returned to the root of the Dao, with no fixed form and no signs for him to observe. I respond to the void and change with it, like grass bending in the wind or water flowing according to the terrain. Jixian could not see through me and could only flee.”

The commentary uses nine conditions of water to explain how the Dao changes along with things while remaining profoundly still. Jixian could see the signs that came after transformations of life and death, but could not see through the state of returning to the root of the Dao. Huqiuzi could respond to all things without revealing himself or deliberately competing with the world, and so others could not fathom him.

Only then did Liezi realize that he had never truly studied the Dao. He went home and did not leave for three years. He fed his wife’s pigs as though he were serving people. He stopped showing preference or favoritism in all kinds of matters, discarded artifice and ornament, and returned to simplicity. At ease in his original nature, he stood on his own and remained in that state.

Liezi set out for Qi, but turned back halfway and met Bohun Wuren. Bohun Wuren asked why he had returned. Liezi said, “I was frightened. Along the road I came across ten people selling drinks, and five of them offered me a drink before I asked.” Bohun Wuren asked why this surprised him. Liezi replied, “My inner self is not truly free, yet outwardly I seem radiant and have an effect on people. I look down on my elders, while others treat me as someone worthy of respect. I am afraid. The drink sellers have little power or wealth, yet they treated me so warmly. How much more frightening it would be if a ruler with a great state entrusted me with affairs of government and expected me to accomplish something.”

The commentary says that the mind of a perfected person is clear and open, like ice beginning to melt, and does not deliberately display its radiance outwardly. If one still harbors pride in one’s own knowledge and has not let go of attachment to oneself, one’s sharpness will show, and others will see it. Liezi was alarmed by the drink sellers’ hospitality because he sensed that he still had an effect on other people. Qi was a central state that valued government and accomplishment. He feared that its ruler might entrust him with important responsibilities and demand results, so he turned back partway. This differs from seeing both favor and disgrace as disturbances.

Bohun Wuren said, “You have observed the matter well. If you can settle yourself, others will naturally think highly of you.” Before long, shoes crowded the doorway of Liezi’s home with visitors.

Bohun Wuren stood facing north, resting his chin on his staff. After a while, he left without saying a word. Someone told Liezi, who snatched up his shoes and ran after him barefoot. At the gate, he asked, “Since you came, Master, why didn’t you give me some guidance?”

The visitor said that Bohun Wuren had already told him: others thought highly of Liezi because he had not yet made it possible for them not to. If they came to him of their own accord, and he could not prevent them, why should he concern himself with it? If he deliberately showed himself to be exceptional in order to move others, he would inevitably disturb his own spirit. The people who associated with Liezi had not told him the true principle either, since what they said was trivial and superficial and could not resolve his confusion. If everyone remained unenlightened, how could they work out who understood more?

The commentary says that although Liezi could preserve his De, he had not yet reached the highest state. He did not deliberately show off, but something about him still made others respect him, and this disturbed his spirit. If the people around him were also trapped in worldly assumptions, they could not offer him genuine insight.

Yang Zhu traveled south toward Pei, while Laozi traveled west to Qin. They met in the countryside outside Liang. Laozi looked up to Heaven and sighed, “At first I thought you could be taught. Now I see you cannot.” Yang Zhu did not answer. When they arrived at their lodging, Yang Zhu prepared washing things, took off his shoes and left them outside the door, then went on his knees to Laozi. “A moment ago, Master, you sighed and said that at first you thought I could be taught, but now you say I cannot. I wanted to ask the reason, but did not dare interrupt you. Now that you have time, please tell me where I have gone wrong.”

Laozi said, “Your eyes stare straight ahead and your gaze is arrogant. How can someone like that get along with anyone?”

The commentary says that the eyes can reveal a person’s inner state. Yang Zhu’s gaze was improper and proud, so Laozi judged that he was not yet ready to be taught. When one who has attained the Dao meets others, the gaze is calm: it does not bear down on them or suggest that one is superior.

Laozi continued, “True understanding can look like having been wronged; true De can look as if it is insufficient.”

Yang Zhu changed his expression and became respectful. When he left, the innkeeper came out to welcome him. The innkeeper spread a mat for him, and his wife brought him washing things. People who had once moved aside for him now made way, and even the person tending the fire moved away from the stove. When he returned, the people at the inn competed with him for seats.

The commentary explains that Yang Zhu had changed, while the people at the inn remained the same. On his way to Pei, his attention was fixed on external things and his manner was arrogant, so people deferred to him. On his return, he followed Laozi’s teaching and let go of his pride, so people no longer treated him as a superior. This shows that the Dao is always at work in daily life, though people may not notice it.

Yang Zhu passed through Song and stayed at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines, one beautiful and one plain. He neglected the beautiful one but respected the plain one. Yang Zhu asked why. A young man at the inn replied, “The beautiful one thinks she is beautiful, so we do not see her beauty. The plain one knows she is plain, so we do not find her ugly.”

Yang Zhu said to his disciples, “Remember this. If you do good without thinking yourself virtuous, where could you go and not be welcomed?”

The commentary says the innkeeper’s behavior was not governed by any true judgment of right and wrong, but by private feelings. The beautiful concubine was looked down on because she prided herself on her looks; the plain one was respected because she did not boast. Someone may be capable and virtuous, yet will be more readily welcomed if they do not proclaim their own worth. Everyone in the world knows what beauty is, and so distinctions about ugliness arise alongside it. The problem is not beauty itself, but thinking oneself beautiful.

There is one way that commonly wins and another that commonly loses. The way that commonly wins is called yielding; the way that commonly loses is called force. People may have heard this principle without truly understanding it. An old saying goes: the strong who never yield will end up in difficulty; the yielding who change before they have to can gain the advantage. When the strong are driven into the same predicament, they are in danger. The yielding change with circumstances first, and so face fewer dangers.

Applied to cultivating oneself, this principle enables one to overcome oneself. Applied to governing the world, it enables one to bear the responsibilities of government. This does not mean refusing to seek victory, yet one naturally prevails; it does not mean refusing responsibility, yet one naturally bears it. Zuozi said, “To be strong, you must be sustained by yielding; to flourish, you must be sustained by weakness. When yielding accumulates, it becomes strength; when weakness accumulates, it becomes power. By observing the direction in which things accumulate, you can see where good or ill fortune will come from.” Laozi also said, “When an army is strong, it will be destroyed; when a tree is rigid, it will break. Yielding and weakness are where life is found; hardness and strength are signs of death.”

The commentary says that yielding and weakness are the root of the Dao. Hold to that root, and you can overcome yourself. Whether cultivating oneself or governing the world, you will be secure and face few dangers. This way of nourishing life can endure as long as Heaven and Earth. The Book of Changes and Zhuangzi’s teaching of following circumstances accord with this as well.

Not looking like a child does not mean that one’s mind is not pure, and looking like a child does not mean that one’s mind must be pure. Sages value purity of mind, not a childlike appearance. Ordinary people are inclined to welcome those who look like themselves and dislike those who look different, but appearance does not determine the heart.

A person has a body seven feet tall, hands and feet, hair and teeth, and the ability to walk upright; this is why they are called human. Yet a human being may still have the heart of a beast. Even one with a beastlike heart may be welcomed because their appearance is human. Birds and beasts have wings, horns, sharp teeth and claws, and fly or run; this is why they are called animals. Yet animals may have the heart of a human. Even one with a human heart may be rejected because their appearance is different.

The legendary ancient rulers Fuxi, Nüwa, Shennong, and the Xia sovereigns are said to have had forms unlike those of ordinary people—snake bodies, human faces, ox heads, or tiger noses—yet possessed the De of sages. Jie of Xia, Zhou of Shang, Duke Huan of Lu, and King Mu of Chu had features like those of ordinary people, yet possessed the hearts of beasts. Judging wisdom by outward appearance cannot bring one close to true wisdom.

When the Yellow Emperor fought the Flame Emperor in the wilderness of Banquan, he led bears, brown bears, wolves, leopards, chus, and tigers in the vanguard. He also used eagles, pheasants, hawks, and kites as banners. This was a case of using force to drive animals. When Yao appointed Kui to oversee music, the stone chimes were struck and the piece “Xiaoshao” was performed. After it had been played nine times, the beasts danced along and phoenixes flew in. This was a case of drawing animals through music. These stories show that the hearts of animals and human beings are not entirely different. Their cries and forms differ, and people do not know how to approach them. Sages know and understand everything, and so can guide animals.

The commentary says that in ancient times, humans lived among animals and walked alongside them. Later, as the world changed, the human heart grew distant from the Dao, and animals began to startle, flee, and hide to avoid harm. The sages of old understood the nature of all things and knew the sounds of different kinds of beings. They gathered them together, taught them, and brought them to compliance. As the world declined, animals scattered and fled. Even an enlightened ruler could only let birds, beasts, fish, and turtles each live according to their nature. To speak of the Way of the sages, one must first understand the relationship between sages and their times.

There was a man in Song who raised monkeys. He loved them and kept a large troop. He understood the monkeys’ minds, and they understood his. He cut back his family’s food so that the monkeys could have enough. In time, his household became poor. He wanted to reduce the monkeys’ food, but feared they would not obey him. So he tricked them, saying, “I’ll give you three acorns in the morning and four in the evening. Will that be enough?” The monkeys all jumped up in anger. He then said, “Then how about four in the morning and three in the evening?” The monkeys all lay down, pleased.

The scripture says that things use cleverness and stupidity to deceive one another, and this is generally how it goes. A sage uses wisdom to manage the masses just as the monkey keeper uses a trick to manage his troop. He does not change the names or the total amount, yet people are made happy or angry by the way things are presented.

The commentary points out that the monkeys received seven acorns in total either way, but the different distribution between morning and evening was enough to make them angry or pleased. The keeper did not really give them more food; he simply used their reactions to get what he wanted. People laugh when they see monkeys being fooled, yet often do not realize that they too may be led around by names, schemes, and institutions. A ruler who uses wisdom and expedients can make the people comply, though this also means “using the capable to cage the foolish.” The commentary adds that sages also govern in response to the circumstances of the world; how appropriately they do so determines the depth and quality of the result.

Jishengzi trained fighting cocks for King Xuan of Zhou. After ten days, the king asked whether the birds were ready to fight. “Not yet,” Jishengzi said. “They are still vain and proud, relying on their courage.” Ten days later, the king asked again. “Not yet,” said Jishengzi. “They still react to shadows and sounds.” Ten days later, Jishengzi said, “Not yet. They still glare and are full of bluster.” Ten days after that, he said, “They are almost ready. Even when other cocks crow, they no longer change. They look like wooden cocks, and their De is complete. The other cocks dare not challenge them, but turn and flee.”

The commentary says that at first the cocks were proud and boastful. They responded to the slightest movement, their minds unsettled, and so they could not be relied on to win. Later, they were no longer stirred by sounds or shadows from outside. Their spirit was contained, and they appeared as still as wooden cocks. They were not without strength; they simply no longer rushed to fight, and so the other cocks dared not challenge them. The commentary uses this story to explain that sages are skilled at nourishing what is within. They do not grasp after things or compete, and so are difficult to overcome. Those who only nourish outward desires continually chase profit, stopping only when they die.

Hui Ang went to see King Kang of Song. The king stamped his foot, coughed, and shouted, “I like people who are brave and strong. I do not like people who talk about benevolence and righteousness. What do you intend to teach me?” Hui Ang replied, “I have a method by which others could be brave and still fail to stab you, or strong and still fail to strike you.” The king said, “That is exactly what I want to hear.”

Hui Ang continued, “Even if others cannot stab or strike you, that would still be a humiliation. I have another method: others could be brave and yet not dare to stab you, or strong and yet not dare to strike you.” The king asked, “Is there really such a method?” Hui Ang said, “I can also make people have no thought at all of assassinating you. To keep them from having such a thought, you must ensure their hearts have no feelings of affection or self-interest. I have yet another method: I can make men and women throughout the world gladly want to care for you and bring you benefit. This is four levels above being brave and strong. Would Your Majesty not want that?”

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

Hui Ang replied, “Confucius and Mozi were such men. They had no fief as rulers and no official post as ministers, yet men and women throughout the world stretched their necks and stood on tiptoe, hoping that they would be safe and prosper. Your Majesty now rules a state of ten thousand chariots. If you truly wished to benefit the people, everyone within your borders could share in that benefit. Your virtue would then far surpass that of Confucius and Mozi.” King Kang of Song had no answer. Hui Ang hurried away, and the king said to his attendants, “That visitor is a gifted speaker. He actually persuaded me with his words.”

The commentary says that Hui Ang followed the king’s preference for strength and courage, gradually leading him toward Confucius, Mozi, benevolence, and righteousness. If King Kang accepted these principles, he would have to change his original preferences. If he rejected them, it would be difficult to point out what was unreasonable in them, so he praised Hui Ang’s skill in argument. The commentary also cautions that the art of persuasion is not thereby the same thing as truth.

The “Yellow Emperor” chapter discusses the relationship between imperial rule and the Dao. Zhuangzi treats imperial achievements as the results of a sage’s De. He does not mean that governing the world is unimportant, but that the Way of the sage is vast and profound, and imperial achievements are only one part of it. Sages are looked up to throughout the world precisely because they can put the Dao into practice through governance.

After Shennong, the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun appeared in succession. The Dao became manifest as De, and De in turn became manifest as imperial rule. The Yellow Emperor was the earliest of these emperors. He had already taken on the work of governing the world, yet had not achieved as much as Yao. Although he possessed the De of helping the world, he still had to face the difficulties brought by its changes. If joy and sorrow stirred his heart, his body would grow haggard from exhaustion. He therefore had to purify his mind and nourish his spirit, making his De clear, before he could bear the world’s most complex circumstances without falling into trouble.

The Yellow Emperor could act amid honor and disgrace, profit and harm, without being injured by them. He governed the world and brought it peace, like the legendary realm of Huaxu. His government embodied the state of the divine person on Mount Gushe, and his Dao was close to Liezi’s windborne journey. Keeping pure Qi within, having no resistance to all things, responding to change without being constrained by external things: these are all foundations of governing the world. The stories of the ferryman, the swimmer at Lüliang, the hunchback catching cicadas, and the man from Zhao passing through stone and fire show that people can enter into communion with external things and thus avoid being burdened by them.

Liezi repeatedly presents the Yellow Emperor as a model for speaking about the Dao, which shows the importance he gives to this chapter. At the same time, Liezi quotes Yang Zhu, who says that the achievements of the Five Emperors were like a dream half remembered; worthy and foolish alike will ultimately perish, and Yao and Shun will decay just as Jie and the robber Zhi will. From the perspective of the Great Dao, the Yellow Emperor’s rule did not depart from the Dao. But if one looks only at imperial achievements, the substance of the Great Dao is already obscured, and fame and accomplishment will eventually vanish as times change. Yang Zhu’s words are quoted to let go of the Yellow Emperor’s fame and preserve the Great Dao within it.

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Interpretation

During the reign of King Mu of Zhou, a “transformer” came from a place far to the west. He could enter water and fire and pass through metal and stone; turn mountains and rivers upside down and move cities; rise into the air without falling; and pass through solid objects. His transformations were endless. He could change not only the forms of things but also people’s intentions.

King Mu revered him as though he were a god and served him as though he were a ruler. He gave up his own sleeping quarters for the transformer, offered him the three sacrificial animals—ox, sheep, and pig—to eat, and selected young women skilled in song and dance to keep him company. Yet the transformer found the king’s palace low and shabby, the food too pungent to swallow, and the king’s consorts too crude to approach. King Mu then undertook great construction projects for him. On Mount Zhongnan he built a high terrace a thousand ren tall, called the Terrace at the Center of Heaven. He also chose young women from the Zheng and Wei regions to adorn the palace, arranged music and dancing, presented robes of jade each month, and served delicacies every day. The transformer still did not wish to live there; he went only reluctantly, to take a look.

Before long, the transformer invited King Mu to travel with him. Holding on to the transformer’s sleeve, the king rose into the air and stopped only when they had reached a great height. They arrived at the transformer’s palace. Built of gold and silver and decorated with pearls and jade, it rose above the clouds and rain, appearing from afar like a mass of clouds gathered in the sky. Everything they saw, heard, smelled, and tasted was unlike anything in the human world. King Mu thought it was the Clear Capital and Purple Tenuity—the residence of the Heavenly Emperor—and the Vast Music of Jun Heaven, the celestial music: the abode of the Lord on High. But when he looked down, his own palace seemed like a heap of earth and firewood. He felt as if he had lived there for decades and no longer gave a thought to his kingdom.

The transformer invited King Mu to travel with him again. They came to a place where, looking up, one could see neither sun nor moon, and looking down, neither rivers nor seas. The light was so intense that the king’s eyes dazzled and he could not make out what he saw; the sounds were so jumbled that his ears reeled and he could not distinguish them. His whole body trembled and his spirit scattered, so he asked the transformer to take him back. The transformer returned him to where he had been, and the king seemed to fall from empty space. When he came to, he was still sitting where he had been, and his attendants were still the same people. The wine before him had not yet cleared, and the dishes were not yet finished.

King Mu asked where he had been. His attendants replied, “Your Majesty only sat quietly for a little while.” The king was dazed and disoriented for three months. Later, he asked the transformer about it. The transformer said, “You and I traveled in spirit. When did your body ever move? How was the place where you lived before any different from your palace? And how was the place where you traveled any different from your garden? People normally think they have briefly left reality, but when transformation reaches its utmost, how can it be measured by speed or duration?” King Mu was delighted by what he heard. From then on he no longer attended to affairs of state or cared for his ministers and consorts, but gave himself entirely to distant journeys. Riding in a chariot drawn by eight fine horses, he traveled far away, eventually reaching the land of the Juxou people. They offered King Mu the blood of a white swan to drink and prepared the milk of oxen and horses to wash his feet. Then the king and his party stayed beside Mount Kunlun, on the northern bank of the Red River. Another day, they climbed the hills of Kunlun and paid their respects to the palace of the Yellow Emperor, raising a mound there as a memorial for later generations. Afterward, the Queen Mother of the West entertained him, and he drank with her beside the Jade Pool. The Queen Mother sang, and King Mu replied in song; both songs carried a note of sorrow.

King Mu also watched the sun set and sighed, “Alas, my De is not complete. I can only enjoy the pleasures before me. Surely later generations will reproach me for my failings!” King Mu came close to being a spirit-like person and enjoyed the pleasures of his life to the full. He lived to a hundred before he died. Later generations described his death as “ascending and departing,” that is, rising to Heaven.

The commentary explains that the transformer came from beyond the ordinary world, while King Mu remained within it; their levels of experience were far apart. The transformer was not bound by the four directions of Heaven and Earth or by the transformations of the Five Phases, and could undergo endless changes in the briefest instant. King Mu, however, took illusory scenes for a real immortal realm and tried to please the transformer with the sights, sounds, food, and drink of the human world. He did not understand that the transformer sought a state beyond sensory pleasures. First the transformer showed him the limitations of human life, then led him on a spiritual journey to witness the ceaseless transformations of things. His purpose was to guide King Mu toward an understanding of the Great Dao. King Mu was respectful, but never truly awakened to the Dao.

Lao Chengzi studied the art of illusion with Master Yin Wen. He studied for three years, but Master Yin Wen never taught him anything. Lao Chengzi asked him to point out his failings and prepared to take his leave. Only then did Master Yin Wen invite him into an inner room, dismiss everyone else, and tell him:

“Long ago, when Lao Dan was traveling west, he turned back and said to me: All living breath and bodily form are transformations. When the workings of creation begin and Yin-Yang changes, we call it life and death. When life changes along with change and alters its form, we call it transformation or illusion. The ingenuity and mystery of the creator cannot be fathomed; the changes that follow the appearance of a form are more superficial, and so they come quickly and disappear just as quickly. Only when you understand that illusion and life and death have no essential difference can you speak of learning the art of illusion. You and I, too, are in the midst of transformation. Why, then, make a special effort to study it?”

Lao Chengzi returned home and reflected deeply for three months. At last, he could make things appear or disappear and freely transform the seasons: make thunder sound in winter, create ice in summer, and turn flying creatures into walking ones and walking creatures into flying ones. But he never displayed these abilities during his life, and his techniques were never passed down.

The commentary says that nothing with a form is separate from change. Even the subtle workings of creation remain within transformation. If things are governed by the changes of Yin-Yang, what is called real changes too. But if one examines the source of change to its depths, one can awaken through illusion. Lao Chengzi’s altering of the seasons, making of thunder and ice, and changing of creatures from flying to walking and back again were merely outward skills. Once he had truly understood, he no longer displayed his art. The purpose of learning illusion is not to show off marvels, but to use transformation to understand the Great Dao.

Liezi said, “Those skilled in bringing about transformations use methods that are subtle and ordinary, and their results seem no different from those achieved by ordinary people. The virtue of the Five Emperors and the achievements of the Three Kings may not have come entirely from wisdom and strength; they may also have arisen from following the course of transformation. Who can see through how it worked?”

When people are awake, they experience eight kinds of things: encounters with the old and familiar, undertakings, gain, loss, sorrow, joy, life, and death. These are things that happen when the body meets the outside world. Dreams take six forms: ordinary dreams, startling dreams, thought-driven dreams, dreams that awaken us, joyful dreams, and fearful dreams. These arise from the interaction of mental activity.

Those who do not understand where perceptions and transformations come from are bewildered when events occur. Those who understand their causes know why things happen and are not alarmed or afraid. The body’s waxing and waning, fullness and decline, are connected with Heaven and Earth, and it responds as things change. When Yin energy is strong, people dream of crossing a great flood and feel afraid. When Yang energy is strong, they dream of crossing a great fire and being burned. When both Yin and Yang are strong, they dream of killing. After eating too much, people dream of giving things to others; when very hungry, they dream of asking for things. When the body is light and weak, people dream of rising and flying; when it is heavy, they dream of drowning. If a belt presses against the body while one sleeps, one may dream of snakes; if a bird carries off one’s hair, one may dream of flying. When the weather is about to turn cloudy, people dream of fire; when they are about to fall ill, they dream of eating. Those who drink alcohol feel sorrow in their dreams; those who sing and dance weep in their dreams.

The commentary says that a dream is an image encountered by the spirit. The spirit depends on the body and is affected by Yin-Yang and external things, so dreams change with the body’s condition, desires, and surroundings. If people cannot keep their spirit steady, they are pulled along by Yin-Yang and things; throughout the day and night, they rise and fall with what is outside them. What people see when awake and what they see in dreams are not entirely separate. People in dreams do not know they are dreaming, and those who wake may not understand whether what they experienced was real. Only by truly understanding the relationship between dreaming and waking can one go on to understand the transformations of life and death.

Liezi said, “When the spirit meets external things, this becomes a dream; when the body comes into contact with external things, this becomes an event in waking life. Thinking by day and dreaming by night are both experiences of the spirit and the body. When the spirit is settled, thoughts and dreams naturally fade away. Someone who believes only in waking life is not fit to discuss the Great Dao; someone who believes only in dreams is no more enlightened. Only one who understands the comings and goings of the transformations of all things is a True Person of ancient times. Awake, such a person forgets the self; asleep, such a person does not dream. Can this really be mere talk?”

In the far southwest there is a country whose boundaries are unknown, called the land of Gुमang. There, Yin and Yang do not alternate, so people cannot distinguish cold from heat. The light of the sun and moon does not reach it, so there is no distinction between day and night. The people do not eat or wear clothes, and most of them sleep for a long time, waking only once every fifty days. They consider what they experience in dreams to be real, and what they see when awake to be illusory.

At the center of the world, among the four seas, lies the Central Kingdom. It stretches south and north beyond the Yellow River and east and west beyond Mount Tai, covering more than ten thousand li in every direction. Yin and Yang move there according to a regular pattern, so there are changes of cold and heat; day and night are distinct, so there is daylight and darkness. The people vary in intelligence and foolishness. All kinds of things grow and multiply, and their skills are diverse. They are governed by rulers and ministers, and kept in order by rites and laws. The things they do each day are beyond counting. When awake, they take what happens in the world as real; they regard what they see in dreams as illusory.

In the far northeast there is a country called the land of Fuluo. It is warm all year round, but crops do not grow well where the lingering light of the sun and moon reaches. The people eat roots and fruit and do not cook with fire. They are hard and fierce in temperament, compete to outdo one another, and admire the strong without regard for right and wrong. They are constantly on the move and rarely rest; they are always awake and do not sleep.

The commentary explains these three countries through their locations and Yin-Yang: the people of Gumang take what they do in dreams as real, the people of Fuluo are always awake, and the people of the Central Kingdom live by the cycles of day and night and cold and heat. None of these differences goes beyond the changes of Yin-Yang.

The Yin family of Zhou was wealthy, and its servants were made to work without rest from morning to night. One old servant was exhausted, yet was pressed to work harder. By day he labored with groans; by night he fell into a deep sleep from weariness. Each night he dreamed that he was a king, living in a palace and ruling the whole country, free to do whatever he wished and filled with joy. When he woke, he went back to his work as a servant. Someone tried to comfort him, but he said, “A human life lasts a hundred years, half by day and half by night. By day I am a servant, and it is truly hard. At night I am a king, and I am wonderfully happy. What do I have to complain about?”

Yin worried about affairs in the world and fretted over his household, exhausting both mind and body. At night he too fell into a deep sleep. Each night he dreamed that he was a servant, rushing about and laboring, made to do every kind of work. He was scolded and beaten, and nothing was spared him. Even in his sleep he groaned and cried out until dawn. Yin fell ill because of this and sought advice from a friend. The friend said, “Your rank and wealth exceed other people’s. To dream at night that you are a servant is the natural reversal of hardship and ease. You want to possess all the advantages both awake and in dreams. How could that be possible?” After hearing this, Yin reduced the servants’ workload and worried less himself. His illness gradually improved.

The commentary says that the alternation of day and night, and the exchange between body and spirit, follow the pattern of waxing and waning. Someone who works with the mind by day lets the body rest at night, but the spirit may be tired; someone who works physically by day lets the spirit rest at night, but the body may be tired. The dreams of Yin and his servant reflect the reversal of hardship and ease. If people can further reduce their attachments and settle the spirit, thoughts and dreams will gradually fade away.

A man from Zheng went into the countryside to gather firewood and came across a startled deer. He chased it and killed it. Afraid that someone would see, he hurriedly hid the deer in a dry ditch and covered it with banana leaves, feeling very pleased with himself. Soon afterward, he forgot where he had hidden it and thought he had obtained the deer in a dream. As he went along, he sang about it. Someone nearby heard him, followed his directions, found the deer, and took it home. He said to his wife, “The woodcutter just now dreamed that he had obtained a deer, but he didn’t know where he had hidden it. Now I’ve found the deer. Surely he was the one who was really dreaming?”

When the woodcutter got home, he was still unwilling to lose the deer. That night he dreamed of where he had hidden it and of the man who had taken it. At dawn he followed his dream and found the deer. He then disputed ownership with the other man. The case was brought before a judge, who said, “At first you really did obtain the deer, but you said you had found it in a dream. Later, you dreamed that someone had taken the deer, yet you treated the dream as reality. The other man did take your deer and dispute it with you. Your wife also says you dreamed that someone took the deer, though in fact no one obtained it. Since the deer is here now, divide it in half.” When the case reached the ruler of Zheng, he sighed and said, “Will the judge have to dream again to divide someone else’s deer?” He asked his chief minister for advice. The minister replied, “I cannot tell dreams from what is not a dream. To distinguish waking from dreaming, perhaps only the Yellow Emperor and Confucius could do it. But they are both gone. Who is there to judge? For now, let us follow the judge’s ruling.”

The commentary says people normally believe that what they see while awake is real and regard dreams as false. Yet they may forget what they did while awake, and things in dreams may seem real. When dream and waking life become intertwined, right and wrong are hard to determine. The judge’s decision to divide the deer in half was not an ideal way to settle the case, but was a makeshift solution when the truth could not be established. Those who are truly enlightened do not cling to either dreaming or waking, and do not rush to make judgments.

Hua Zi of Yangli in the state of Song developed a condition of forgetfulness in middle age. He would forget by evening what he had picked up in the morning, and forget by morning what he had been given in the evening. While walking, he might forget that he was walking; sitting in a room, he might forget that he was sitting. He even forgot what came before and after, and the past and present. His whole family was distressed. They brought in diviners, shamans, and doctors to treat him, but none could help. A scholar from Lu claimed he could cure him. Hua Zi’s wife and children were willing to offer half the family’s wealth for a remedy. The scholar said, “This is not something divination can diagnose, prayer can resolve, or medicine can cure. I will try changing his thoughts and intentions; perhaps he can recover.” So he made Hua Zi cold, until he wanted clothes; kept him hungry, until he wanted food; and shut him in darkness, until he wanted light. The scholar happily told Hua Zi’s son, “The illness can be cured. But my method must be kept secret; you must not tell anyone.” He sent the family away and stayed alone with Hua Zi for seven days. No one knew what he did, but Hua Zi’s illness, which had lasted many years, was cured all at once.

When Hua Zi came to his senses, he flew into a rage, drove away his wife, punished his son, and pursued the scholar with a weapon. The people of Song seized him and asked why he was behaving that way. Hua Zi said, “Before, I forgot everything. My mind was empty; I did not even know whether Heaven and Earth existed. Now, all at once, I remember the gains and losses, life and death, joys and sorrows, loves and hatreds of the past several decades. My mind is in turmoil with a thousand thoughts. I fear that these gains and losses, joys and sorrows will come back to disturb me. Can that state of forgetting everything from just now ever return?”

When Zigong heard about it, he was puzzled and told Confucius. Confucius said, “This is not something you can understand.” Then he turned to Yan Hui and said, “Remember this.”

The commentary says that Hua Zi’s former forgetfulness was an illness, not a true transcendence of worldly affairs. The scholar made him feel cold and heat, hunger and fullness, darkness and light again, restoring his awareness of his body and the world around him, and so curing the illness. But once Hua Zi came to his senses, he was again moved by gain and loss, sorrow and joy, and feared losing his state of forgetfulness. Yan Hui could understand the principle, which is why Confucius asked him to remember the story.

A son of the Pang family in Qin was clever as a child, but as he grew up he developed a derangement. He heard songs as cries, saw white as black, smelled fragrance as stench, and tasted sweetness as bitterness. He took what was wrong to be right, and whatever came to mind made Heaven and Earth, the four directions, water and fire, cold and heat all seem turned upside down. Yang Zhu said to his father, “There are many learned gentlemen in Lu. Perhaps they can cure him. Why not seek out a physician or ask for guidance?”

The father set out for Lu. On the way, as he passed through Chen, he met Lao Dan and told him about his son’s illness. Lao Dan said, “How do you know your son is deranged? Nowadays, everyone under Heaven is confused by right and wrong and blinded by profit and loss. Many people have the same illness as your son; they simply do not realize it. One person’s derangement is not enough to overturn a whole family; one family’s derangement is not enough to overturn a village; one village’s derangement is not enough to overturn a state; and one state’s derangement is not enough to overturn the world. If everyone under Heaven were deranged, who would be left to judge who was deranged? If everyone’s mind were like your son’s, you would be considered the deranged one. Who, then, determines what counts as sorrow and joy, sound and color, smell and taste, right and wrong?”

Lao Dan continued, “What I have just said may itself be mistaken. How much more so the gentlemen of Lu, who exalt benevolence and right conduct, ritual and law! They are probably even more deeply caught in confusion. How could they free someone else from it? Rather than waste your travel expenses here, hurry home.”

The commentary says that all perceptions and names ultimately come from the same source. People classify things according to what they love and hate, then cling to those names. Most people call white “white” because they follow the general view; if one person calls white “black,” everyone thinks that person is wrong. But differences in names and appearances do not mean that the nature of things has changed. People may confuse one another by leading one another astray, so we cannot assume that a minority is wrong simply because most people disagree with them. Lao Dan also cautions people not to cling to the teachings of sages as absolute standards. They should reflect inwardly and return to the Great Dao.

A man from Yan was born in Yan and grew up in Chu. When he was old, he returned to Yan, passing through Jin on the way. His companions tricked him, saying, “This is the city of Yan.” His face changed. One of them pointed to the local shrine and said, “This is your home village’s shrine.” He sighed deeply. The companion then pointed to a house and said, “This is your ancestors’ old home.” The man began to weep. The companion pointed next to a grave and said, “This is your ancestors’ tomb.” The man wept uncontrollably. His companions laughed and said, “This is actually Jin. I was only teasing you.” The man was deeply embarrassed. When he reached the real Yan, he saw the real city, shrine, ancestral home, and tomb, but his grief was less intense.

The commentary says this story shows how easily people are influenced by what they are told beforehand. Even when faced with real things, people may not believe them if they have already accepted a mistaken view. And even when they later see the real thing, their feelings may be less intense than they were at first. Affection and distance, anger and joy, sorrow and happiness are often shaped by thoughts and understanding. Daoists teach people to keep to simplicity and not be led astray by empty names and appearances.

The account of King Mu traces the changing ways of governing, from the emperors of antiquity and the kings who followed them to King Mu. The Three Sovereigns ruled through the Dao, the emperors displayed De, and the Three Kings established achievements. King Mu, though he enjoyed the pleasures of his life to the full, did not attain the transformer’s state or complete his De. The text also uses dreaming and waking, confusion and awakening, truth and falsehood to show how judgments and perceptions change with the state of mind. By seeing these transformations clearly, one can understand that governing, De, and achievement all remain within the Great Dao.

When Zhongni was at leisure, Zigong came in to attend him. Seeing that Zhongni looked troubled, Zigong did not dare ask why. After Zhongni had gone out, Yan Hui picked up his qin and sang, hoping Confucius would hear him. Confucius did indeed summon Yan Hui and asked, “Why are you so happy by yourself?” Yan Hui replied, “Why are you so troubled by yourself?” Confucius asked him to explain his thinking first. Yan Hui said, “I once heard you say that those who take joy in Heaven’s mandate and understand destiny have no troubles. I thought that was the way to be happy.”

Confucius looked grave. After a while, he said, “You remember what I said, but you have not understood it. Now take what I say today as your guide: you know only that one should cultivate oneself, accept poverty or success, and understand that coming and going are not of one’s own choosing. In this way, you keep external things from disturbing your thoughts. But you do not know that taking joy in Heaven’s mandate and understanding destiny can itself bring a greater sorrow.”

Confucius continued, “In the past, I revised the Odes and Documents and put the rites and music in order. I meant to use them to govern the world and teach later generations, not merely to cultivate myself or govern Lu. But the order between ruler and minister in Lu is growing more confused, benevolence and right conduct are declining, and human feelings are growing ever thinner. These principles cannot be put into practice in one state or one generation. How much less can they be put into practice throughout the world and in generations to come? I began to see that the Odes, Documents, rites, and music could not directly rescue the world from disorder, yet I still did not know what means could change this situation. This is what someone who takes joy in Heaven’s mandate and understands destiny worries about.”

Confucius said further, “I now understand. True joy and knowledge are not the sort of joy and knowledge the ancients spoke of. When there is no deliberate pursuit of joy and no attachment to knowledge, that is true joy and knowledge. Then there is nothing one cannot take joy in, nothing one cannot know, nothing one cannot grieve over, and nothing one cannot do. Why discard the Odes, Documents, rites, and music? Why force a reform of them?”

The commentary says that Confucius’s concern was not personal success or failure, gain or loss, but the suffering of the people and the troubles of later generations. He knew that the Odes, Documents, rites, and music were traces of the practices of former kings; one should not merely cling to their forms, but neither should one abolish them altogether. True joy and knowledge do not cling to happiness or knowledge. This allows people to act in accordance with the times, without being bound by the forms of the classics or rashly discarding them.

Yan Hui bowed toward the north and said, “I understand.” After leaving, he told Zigong what Confucius had said. Zigong was confused. He went home and thought it over repeatedly, going seven days without sleep or food until he was thin as a skeleton. Yan Hui went to explain things to him again, and only then did Zigong return to Confucius. From that time on, he played the qin, sang, and recited the classics throughout his life.

The commentary says that Yan Hui understood the state Confucius described, while Zigong needed a long time to grasp it. His return to Confucius to continue his studies also shows that the classics still have a purpose.

An official of Chen sent on a mission to Lu secretly visited the Shusun family and asked whether Lu had a sage. Shusun replied, “Yes. Kong Qiu is one.” The official asked how he knew. Shusun said, “I heard Yan Hui say that Kong Qiu can set aside the distinctions of the mind and make use of the body.” The official from Chen said, “Our country also has a sage. Do you not know of him? Kang Cangzi, a disciple of Lao Dan, attained Lao Dan’s Dao. He can see with his ears and hear with his eyes.” When the ruler of Lu heard this, he was astonished and sent a high minister with generous gifts to invite Kang Cangzi.

Kang Cangzi accepted the invitation and came to Lu. The ruler of Lu respectfully questioned him. Kang Cangzi said, “The messenger misreported what I said. I can see and hear without relying on my ears and eyes, but I cannot change the original function of the ears and eyes.” The ruler of Lu said, “That is even more extraordinary. What is your Dao?” Kang Cangzi replied, “My body is in accord with my mind, my mind with my Qi, my Qi with my Shen, and my Shen with nonbeing.”

The commentary explains that the difference between a sage and an ordinary person is not whether they use their eyes and ears, but whether they are constrained by bodily form and thought. A sage progressively rises into accord with mind, Qi, and Shen, and finally with “nonbeing.” In accord with nonbeing, one can move freely among all things without obstruction.

Kang Cangzi continued, “Even the most minute presence or faintest sound, whether it is far away in the remote regions of the eight directions or close by, at the tips of my eyebrows and eyelashes, will be known to me if it comes within my reach. I do not perceive it by means of the body’s seven openings and four limbs, or the six organs in the chest and belly. I simply know it naturally.”

The ruler of Lu was delighted when he heard this and later told Confucius about it. Confucius only smiled and said nothing.

The commentary says that beyond the eight remote regions is the farthest distance; the space between the eyebrows and eyelashes is the nearest. When Shen is in accord with nonbeing, the mind and spirit are not obstructed by the body, and even the most subtle things can be perceived naturally. A true sage does not deliberately seek broad knowledge, and so knows everything. Kang Cangzi had already explained the principle completely; Confucius had no need to add anything.

The grand steward of the Shang state met Confucius and asked, “Are you a sage?” Confucius replied, “How could I presume to call myself a sage? I am merely widely learned and well informed.” The grand steward then asked whether the Three Kings were sages. Confucius said, “The Three Kings were skilled at using strategy and strength. I do not know whether that makes them sages.” He asked about the Five Emperors. Confucius said, “The Five Emperors were skilled at using benevolence and right conduct. I do not know whether that makes them sages.” He asked about the Three Sovereigns. Confucius said, “The Three Sovereigns were skilled at following the times. I do not know whether that makes them sages.”

The grand steward was astonished and asked, “Then who is a sage?” Confucius became solemn. After a pause, he said, “There is a sage in the West.”

That sage “does not govern, yet there is no disorder; does not speak, yet is naturally trusted; does not deliberately teach, yet the people act of their own accord. His state is vast and boundless, and the people cannot even describe it in words.” Confucius said, “I suspect that he is a sage, but I do not know whether he truly is one or is not.”

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