《列子》

Liezi lived in a garden in the state of Zheng. For forty years, no one knew who he was. The ruler and high ministers regarded him as they would any ordinary person. As Zheng grew weak, Liezi prepared to move to the state of Wei. His disciples said, “You are leaving, sir, and we do not know when you will return. We venture to ask what you will teach us before you go. Have you not heard what Huqiu Zilin said?”

Liezi smiled and said, “What did Huzi say? He once spoke to Bohun Wuren, and I happened to hear him. Let me try to recount it for you. He said: There is a fundamental existence that is not itself generated by anything else, yet generates the myriad things. There is a fundamental activity that does not itself change along with the myriad things, yet brings change to them. Whatever has been generated cannot help but go on generating; whatever is undergoing change cannot help but go on changing. Thus generation and change are always continuing. They never cease for even a moment: generation is constant, and change is constant.

All this appears in the waxing and waning of Yin-Yang (the two mutually interacting forces) and the succession of the four seasons. The fundamental existence, not generated by anything external, is subtle and independent; the fundamental activity, not altered by anything external, moves in cycles. These cycles have no end, and the subtle, independent principle of the root has never ceased generating and changing. The movement of Yin-Yang and the succession of the seasons embody this ceaseless, inexhaustible principle.

The Huangdi Book says: ‘The Valley Spirit (the deep, generative Dao that brings forth all things) never dies. This is called the Mysterious Female, the wondrous maternal source. The gate of the Mysterious Female is the root of Heaven and Earth. It continues without interruption, seeming to exist; draw upon it, and it is never depleted.’ Thus, the root that nourishes and gives life to the myriad things is not itself generated by anything else, and the root that drives their transformation does not itself change along with them. The myriad things generate and transform of themselves, taking on their own forms and colors, displaying their own wisdom and strength, and dispersing and coming to rest of themselves. It is mistaken to regard these acts of generation and transformation, forms, colors, wisdom, strength, dispersal, and cessation as separate, independent root causes.

Liezi said, “In ancient times, the sages used the transformations of Yin-Yang to order Heaven and Earth. All things with form arise from what has no form. Where, then, did Heaven and Earth come from? For this reason, it is said that the cosmos passed through several stages: Great Change, Great Beginning, Great Origin, and Great Substance.

Great Change was the time before Qi had appeared; Great Beginning was when Qi first came into being; Great Origin was when forms first began to take shape; and Great Substance was when matter first began to form. Qi, form, and substance were all present, yet had not separated from one another. This state was called “undifferentiated wholeness”: all things were blended together, 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. Through transformation it became “One”; One transformed into “Seven,” and Seven transformed into “Nine.” When transformation reached Nine, it reached its utmost point; then it turned back and transformed into One. One was the beginning of changes in form.

The clear and light rose to become Heaven; the murky and heavy sank to become Earth. The Qi that blended the clear and murky and brought them into harmony formed human beings. Thus Heaven and Earth contain vital essence, through which the myriad things transform and come into being.”

Liezi said, “Heaven and Earth cannot accomplish everything, the sage has no power to do everything, and each thing has its own proper scope. Heaven’s role is to bring forth and cover the myriad things; Earth’s role is to give them form and bear them. The sage’s role is to teach and transform the people, while each thing’s role is to fulfill the function suited to it.

“So Heaven has things it cannot do, and Earth has things at which it excels. The sage has matters he cannot handle, and each thing has its own place to be useful. Why is this so? What can bring forth and cover the myriad things cannot give them form and bear them. What can give them form and bear them cannot teach and transform the people. Those responsible for teaching and transformation cannot go against the nature suited to each thing. Once what is suited to a thing has been determined, it cannot step beyond its place.

“The patterns by which Heaven and Earth operate are either Yin or Yang. The sage’s teaching is either about benevolence or righteousness. The qualities of the myriad things are either soft or hard. In each case, they can only follow what is suited to them and cannot go beyond their proper bounds.

“Thus, there are things that are brought forth, and there is a source that enables all things to transform and arise. There are concrete forms, and there is a source that enables forms to take shape. There are sounds that can be heard, and there is a source that enables sounds to issue forth. There are colors that can be seen, and there is a source that enables colors to appear. There are flavors that can be tasted, and there is a source that enables flavors to form. Things that are brought forth die, but the source that enables all things to transform and arise never ceases. Concrete forms take shape, but the source that enables them to do so has no fixed form of its own. Sounds issue forth and can be heard, but the source that enables them to do so makes no sound of its own. Colors appear and can be seen, but the source that enables them to appear takes no visible shape. The flavors of food can be tasted, but the source that enables them to form does not itself appear. These are the workings of Wuwei (non-action): without deliberate intervention, it enables all things to proceed as they do.

“It can become Yin or Yang, soft or hard, short or long, round or square, living or dead, hot or cool, rising or sinking. It can produce the notes gong or shang, appear or vanish, take on deep black or bright yellow, be sweet or bitter, and be rank or fragrant. Though it has no concrete perception or action of its own, there is nothing it cannot know and nothing it cannot bring to completion.”

Liezi was on his way to the state of Wei when he stopped to eat by the roadside. One of his attendants saw a skull that had lain there for a hundred years. Liezi pushed aside the tangled grass and pointed it out, then turned to his disciple Baifeng and said, “Only this skull and I understand that life has never truly begun and has never truly ended. Is that because it was nourished too well, or because it once enjoyed itself too much?”

Plants and trees take many different forms. Some seeds, when exposed to water, grow into aquatic plants. At the boundary between water and earth, they become wabinyizhi, a kind of moss that grows by the water; on high ground and hills, they become lingxi, a grass that grows on hills. When lingxi is enriched with yuqi, a kind of manure, it turns into wuzu. The roots of wuzu become grubs, while its leaves become butterflies. The butterflies gradually transform into an insect that lives beneath the stove, shaped like flakes of shed skin and called quduo. After a thousand days, quduo transforms into a bird called ganyugu. The froth it spits out becomes simi. Feeding on vinegar, simi turns into yilu, which in turn produces the vinegar-eating huangkuang. Huangkuang produces jiuyou, jiuyou produces maorui, and maorui produces fuquan. A sheep’s liver can transform into dijiao; horse’s blood can transform into zhuanlin; and human blood can transform into wild fire.

The hawk can turn into a sparrowhawk, and the sparrowhawk into a cuckoo; after a long time, the cuckoo turns back into a hawk. Swallows can turn into clams, field mice into quail, rotten melons into fish, old chives into amaranth, and old ewes into apes. Fish eggs can turn into insects. The beasts of Mount Danyuan can conceive on their own, and their offspring are called “lei.” Birds in river marshes can reproduce through gazing alone, and their offspring are called “yi.” Animals that are entirely female are called “dayao,” while those that are entirely male are called “zhifeng.” When a man longs for a woman, he can respond and father a child even without a wife; when a woman longs for a man, she can become pregnant even without a husband. Hou Ji was born from the footprints of a giant, and Yi Yin was born inside an empty mulberry tree. Juezhao grows in damp ground, while xiji grows in wine. Yangxi resembles a bamboo shoot but is not one. Old bamboo produces qingning; qingning produces cheng; cheng produces a horse; and the horse produces a human being. After living a long time, human beings ultimately return to the workings of creation. All things emerge from these workings, and in the end they all return to them.

The Book of the Yellow Emperor says: “When a body moves, it does not produce another body, but it produces a shadow. When a sound is made, it does not produce another sound, but it leaves an echo. All things arise from the pivot of change and movement, and all return to this pivot.”

The Book of the Yellow Emperor also says: “When a body moves, it does not produce another body, but it produces a shadow. When a sound is made, it does not produce another sound, but it leaves an echo. Even stillness does not bring forth ‘nothing’ from nowhere; instead, it gives rise to ‘something.’”

Everything that has form must come to an end. Will Heaven and Earth come to an end? Will they end along with me? Will there still be change after the end? We do not know. The end of the Dao returns to the state in which there was originally no beginning; the process of change in the Dao did not begin at some distant point in time. What is alive will eventually return to lifelessness; what has form will eventually return to formlessness. To say that something is “lifeless” does not mean that it was lifeless from the start; to say it is “formless” does not mean that it never had form. By the very nature of things, life must come to an end. Since an end is unavoidable, so too is the emergence of life. To want life to continue forever, or to set a limit beyond which it can never end, is to be deluded about the laws of change.

The spirit belongs to Heaven, and the bones belong to Earth. The clear Qi belonging to Heaven disperses, while the turbid Qi belonging to Earth gathers and congeals. When the spirit leaves the body, each returns to its original destination; this is why it is called a “ghost.” “Ghost” means “return”: it refers to going back to one’s true home. The Yellow Emperor said: “The spirit returns to its gateway, and the bones return to their root. What remains of me?”

From birth to death, people undergo four great changes: infancy, youth and adulthood, old age and decline, and death. In infancy, the breath is undivided and the mind is simple. This is the fullest harmony of body and mind. Nothing can harm the child, and no De is more complete. In youth and adulthood, Qi and blood are vigorous and restless, while desires and thoughts continually grow. People then become vulnerable to the influence of external things, and their original De diminishes. In old age, desires and thoughts gradually subside, and the body is ready to rest. External things no longer affect the person as strongly as they did in adulthood. Though this state is not as complete and pure as infancy, it comes closer to it than youth and adulthood do. In death, life comes to rest and finally returns to the fundamental state of change.

When Confucius was traveling around Mount Tai, he saw Rong Qiqi walking through the countryside of Cheng. He wore a deerskin coat, with a cord tied around his waist, and played a zither as he sang. Confucius asked, “Sir, why are you so happy?” Rong Qiqi replied, “I have many reasons to be happy. Heaven and Earth bring forth and nurture all things, and among them human beings are the most worthy. That I was able to become a human being is the first reason for my happiness. Men and women are distinct; the ancients considered men superior to women, and therefore valued men more highly. As it happens, I was born a man. That is the second reason for my happiness. Some people die soon after birth, before they have seen the sun and moon, or even before they have lived beyond infancy in swaddling clothes. I have already lived to the age of ninety. That is the third reason for my happiness. Poverty is a scholar’s usual lot, and death is where life comes to rest. If I accept what is usual and have also reached life’s end, what is there to worry about?” Confucius said, “Well said! You are truly skilled at comforting yourself.”

The phrases mentioned earlier, such as “in youth and strength,” “death,” “rest,” and “returning to the utmost,” mean that people move about when they are young and strong; at death they settle into stillness and rest, and ultimately return to the source of life.

Lin Lei was nearing one hundred years old. In late spring, he was still wearing a fur coat, picking up stray ears of wheat in a field that had already been harvested, and walking along as he sang. Confucius was on his way to the state of Wei when he saw him in the fields. Turning to his disciples, he said, “That old man is worth speaking with. Go and try asking him about things.” Zigong asked to go.

Zigong went to meet Lin Lei by the field ridge and, facing him, sighed: “Sir, surely you have regrets? Why are you still singing as you gather wheat?” Lin Lei did not slow his steps, and his singing did not stop. Only after Zigong pressed him again and again did he look up and reply, “What would I have to regret?”

Zigong said, “When you were young, you did not work diligently; when you grew up, you did not compete to make a living. Now you are old, with no wife or children, and death is near. What joy can there be in such a life, to make you gather wheat and sing?”

Lin Lei smiled and said, “I think the reason I am happy is something everyone has from the start, yet people instead take it for sorrow. When I was young, I was in no hurry to labor; when I grew up, I did not compete to chase time and profit. That is why I have lived until now. I am old, with no wife or children, and death is near. That is why I can be so happy.”

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

Lin Lei said, “Death and life are changes in which one goes and returns. When someone dies here, how do we know they will not be born there? If so, how do I know that people’s frantic pursuit of life is not a delusion? How do I know that death now will not be better than the life that came before?”

Zigong heard this but could not understand what Lin Lei meant. He returned and told Confucius. Confucius said, “I knew he was worth speaking with, and so it proved. Yet although he has grasped the principle, he has not fully seen it through.”

Zigong had grown tired of studying and said to Confucius, “I would like to rest for a while.” Confucius replied, “Life offers no time when one can simply stop.” Zigong asked, “Then is there no place where I, Si, can rest?” Confucius said, “There is. Look at the tombs: their mounds rise high, layered one above another, shaped like things that have been cut apart, like burial mounds or ritual vessels. From them you can learn where rest is found.”

Zigong said, “Death is truly great! The noble rest there, while the petty lie at peace there.” Confucius replied, “Si, you understand now. People know the joy of being alive, but not the toil of life; they know the weariness of old age, but not the ease it can bring; they know that death is loathsome, but not that it too means rest. Yan Zi once said, ‘How good it is that the ancients had death! The benevolent rest there, while the unbenevolent lie at peace there.’ Death is where one’s virtue finally comes to rest. The ancients called the dead ‘those who have returned.’ If the dead are called those who have returned, then the living are travelers abroad. To keep rushing on without knowing to return is like losing one’s home. When someone is driven from home and has nowhere to belong, the world condemns them; yet when everyone under Heaven has lost the place to which they should return, no one knows to condemn it.

“If someone leaves their homeland, abandons their family, neglects their livelihood, and wanders from place to place without returning, the world will surely call them reckless and deluded. Yet there is another kind of person: among the world’s worthy and talented, they flaunt their skills and abilities, polish their reputation, and boast before the world, without knowing where their true nature lies. The world, in turn, regards them as shrewd. Both kinds have lost their way. The world approves of one and disapproves of 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 inherently valuable about emptiness.” He continued, “Nothing surpasses stillness and quiet emptiness when it comes to reputation. Only through stillness and quiet emptiness can one remain in one’s rightful place. To take or to give is to lose the place one originally occupied. Once things have fallen into ruin and decay, speaking up about benevolence and righteousness cannot restore them.”

Zhou Xiong said, “There is nothing precious about emptiness and nothingness.” Liezi replied, “The point is not the name we give it. Stillness is best; emptiness is best. Only in stillness and emptiness can things rest in their proper places. To take or to give instead makes them lose their original state. Once things have fallen into ruin, people may come forward to promote benevolence and righteousness, but they cannot restore things to how they were.”

Zhou Xiong said, “All things in the world are constantly moving and changing, and Heaven and Earth, too, shift quietly. Who can perceive it? So when something diminishes in one place, something else grows full elsewhere; when something is achieved here, something is lost there. Diminution, fullness, achievement, and loss change as the world changes, and pass away as the world passes away. They come and go in alternation, with intervals so subtle they cannot be perceived. Who can see them? The movement of Qi does not suddenly surge forward, and the decline of the body does not appear all at once. People notice neither its gradual formation nor its gradual decline. It is like a person growing from birth to old age: their appearance, complexion, intelligence, and expression show no obvious change from one day to the next, while their skin, nails, and hair keep shedding as the years pass. These things did not remain unchanged from infancy onward; their changes were simply so subtle and hard to perceive that they became apparent only later.”

In the state of Qi, there was a man whose appearance, complexion, intelligence, and expression showed no obvious change from one day to the next, while his skin, nails, and hair kept shedding as the years passed. These things did not remain unchanged from infancy onward; their changes were simply so subtle and hard to perceive that they became apparent only later.

In the state of Qi, a man worried that the sky might collapse and the earth might cave in, leaving him nowhere to live. As a result, he could neither sleep nor eat. Another man grew concerned for him and went to reassure him. “The sky is simply accumulated Qi, and Qi is everywhere. You stretch and bend your body, breathe in and out, and move about within the sky all day long. Why worry that it will collapse?”

The man asked, “If the sky is really made of Qi, wouldn’t the sun, moon, and stars fall down too?” The other replied, “The sun, moon, and stars are luminous things within the Qi. Even if they fell, they would not hurt anything.” The man asked again, “What if the earth caves in and crumbles?” The other said, “The earth is simply piled-up clods of soil, filling the four directions; clods of soil are everywhere. You walk and stamp your feet, moving about on the earth all day long. Why worry that it will cave in?” Hearing this, the man was relieved and delighted, and the one who had reassured him was relieved and delighted as well.

When Changluzi heard the story, he laughed and said, “Rainbows, clouds, mist, wind, rain, and the changing seasons are all formed in the sky from accumulated Qi. Mountains, rivers, seas, metals, stones, and plants are formed on the earth from accumulated forms. Since we know that the sky is accumulated Qi and the earth is accumulated clods, how can we say they will never be destroyed? The heavens and earth are tiny objects in the vastness of space, yet they are the largest of all things with form. That they cannot be exhausted is natural; that they cannot be measured or understood is natural too. To worry that the heavens and earth will be destroyed is indeed to look too far ahead. But to declare that they will never be destroyed is also wrong. In the end, the heavens and earth cannot escape destruction; eventually, they will come to an end. If that moment truly comes, why not worry about it?”

When Liezi heard this, he laughed and said, “To say that the heavens and earth will certainly be destroyed is wrong; to say that they will never be destroyed is wrong as well. Whether they will be destroyed, I cannot know. But destruction and indestructibility are ultimately the same; in the end, both lead to the same state. The living do not know what comes after death, and the dead do not know what came before life. Those who have arrived do not know what follows departure, and those who have departed do not know what preceded arrival. Whether the heavens and earth will be destroyed—why should I insist on worrying about it?”

Shun asked Zheng, “Can the Dao be possessed by anyone?” Zheng replied, “Even your own body does not belong to you. How, then, could you possess the Dao?”

Shun asked, “If my body does not belong to me, then whose is it?” Zheng said, “Your body is simply a form entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Your life, too, is not yours to own; it is the harmonious Qi entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Your nature and lifespan are not yours to own either; they are the principles of adaptation entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth. Your descendants are not yours to own; they are things entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth to undergo transformation.

“So when you walk, you do not know where you are going; when you settle down, you do not know what sustains you; and when you eat, you do not know why food nourishes you. The ceaseless force moving through Heaven and Earth is nothing but Qi. In light of this, how could you claim the Dao as your own?”

Here, “entrusted” also carries the sense of being lodged or residing in something. “Harmony” and “adaptation” refer respectively to the balance of Qi and the principles by which things follow change. By discussing the body, life, and descendants, the passage shows that everything people have comes through the transformations of Heaven and Earth; even the Dao cannot be possessed by an individual.

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

Guo told him, “I’m good at ‘being a thief.’ In my first year doing it, I could support myself; in the second, I had a surplus; and in the third, I had a great harvest. After that, I even shared what I had gathered with the people in my village.”

Xiang was delighted to hear this. He understood only Guo’s words about “being a thief,” not the method behind them. So he climbed over walls and broke into houses, stealing whatever his hands could reach and his eyes could see. In less than a year, he was caught with stolen goods, and his original property was confiscated.

Xiang thought Guo had deceived him and went to complain. Guo asked, “How did you go about being a thief?” Xiang described what he had done. Guo sighed. “Alas, you have misunderstood the way of being a thief completely! Let me tell you: I have heard that Heaven has its cycles and the earth its favorable conditions. I make use of Heaven’s seasons and the earth’s advantages, drawing on the nourishment of clouds and rain and the growth of mountains, forests, lakes, and marshes. I grow grain and crops, build fences, and put up houses. From the land I take birds and beasts; from the water I take fish and turtles. All these things come from Heaven and earth. Grain, plants, birds, beasts, fish, and turtles are all born of Heaven and earth. Can they really belong to me alone? I make use of what Heaven and earth produce, and so I meet with no calamity. But gold, jade, treasures, grain, cloth, and other goods are gathered together by people. Can you say Heaven gave them to you? If you steal these things and are punished, whom can you blame?”

Xiang was very confused. Thinking Guo was deceiving him again, he went to visit Master Dongguo. Master Dongguo said, “Isn’t your very body taken from Heaven and earth? You were born and given a form through the harmony of Heaven and earth’s Yin and Yang. How much more, then, are the things outside your body taken from Heaven and earth? Indeed, the myriad things of Heaven and earth are interconnected. To insist that any one thing belongs only to oneself is to be deluded. The ‘theft’ Guo described follows what is just in making use of the things of Heaven and earth, and so brings no calamity. The ‘theft’ you practiced came from selfishness, and so brought punishment. Whether one makes use of things with a public spirit or a private one, it can be called ‘theft’; if no distinction is made between public and private, it can also be called ‘theft.’ To treat as public what should be public, and as private what should be private, accords with the De of Heaven and earth. Those who understand the De of Heaven and earth—would they still insist on asking who is a thief and who is not?”

For the first fifteen years after the Yellow Emperor ascended the throne, he was delighted that the people of the realm supported him. He cared for his body and indulged in the pleasures of sight, sound, food, and drink. Gradually, however, his complexion grew haggard, his spirit became confused, and his senses lost their clarity.

For another fifteen years, he worried that he was governing the realm poorly. He exhausted his eyes, ears, and intelligence, and exerted all his strength to govern the people. The result was the same: he became weary and haggard, and his spirit grew confused. The Yellow Emperor lamented, “I have gone too far. Caring only for myself has brought me so much distress; governing the myriad things brings just as much distress.”

So he set aside affairs of state, left his sleeping quarters, dismissed his attendants, took down the hanging bells, reduced his meals, and withdrew to the Great Court Lodge. He calmed his mind and tended to body and spirit, conducting no government business for three months.

One day, while asleep in daylight, he dreamed that he traveled through the land of the Huaxu clan. This country lay west of Yanzhou and north of Taizhou, so far away that no one knew how many tens of millions of miles separated it from the state of Qi. It could not be reached by boat, carriage, or on foot; one could go there only by traveling in spirit.

There were no teachers or elders there, and everything followed its own nature. The people had no desires for gain, and they too followed their own nature. They did not know how to cling to life or hate death, so no one died young. They favored neither themselves nor kept their distance from the things around them, so there was no love or hatred. They understood neither opposition nor compliance, and so made no distinctions between benefit and harm. There was nothing they especially cherished, and nothing they feared or hesitated over. They could enter water without drowning and enter fire without feeling heat. They could be struck with blades or flogged without injury or pain; even a touch on the finger caused no tickling. They walked through the air as if on solid ground, and lay in empty space as if sleeping on a bed. Clouds and mist could not block their sight, thunder could not disturb their hearing, beauty and ugliness could not sway their hearts, and valleys could not trip their steps. All this was possible because they could move freely through the power of spirit.

When the Yellow Emperor awoke, he felt joyful and deeply content. He summoned Tian Lao, Li Mu, and Taishan Ji and said to them, “I spent three months in seclusion, calming my mind and tending to body and spirit. I hoped to find the way to care for myself and govern the myriad things, but I found nothing. When I grew tired, I fell asleep and dreamed of such a place. Now I understand: the highest Dao cannot be sought through subjective feelings. I know it and have grasped it, but I cannot tell you.”

Another twenty-eight years passed, and the realm was governed so well that it was almost like the land of the Huaxu clan. Later, the Yellow Emperor died, and the people mourned him for more than two hundred years.

Mount Lieguye lies among the islets where the rivers meet, and a spirit person lives on the mountain. He breathes the wind and drinks the dew, and eats no grains. His mind is deep and clear, and his form is as graceful and delicate as a young woman’s. He draws close to no one and favors no one; immortals and sages alike are willing to serve him as subjects. He feels neither fear nor anger, and those who are respectful and sincere willingly follow his commands. He bestows no kindness or favors, yet all things naturally flourish in abundance. He hoards and gathers no wealth, and he himself is free of fault.

The Qi of Yin-Yang is always in harmony; the sun and moon always shine brightly; the seasons always proceed smoothly; wind and rain are always evenly distributed; and all things are nurtured at the proper time, bringing a harvest of grain each year. The land is free of plague and calamity; people suffer neither untimely death nor misfortune; all things are free of illness and disaster; and ghosts and spirits do not manifest strange powers or cause trouble.

Liezi took Lao Shangshi as his teacher and made Bogaozi his friend. Once he had grasped the arts of the Way taught by these two elders, he was able to ride the wind. Yin Sheng heard of this and came to live with Liezi, staying for several months without leaving. Whenever there was a quiet moment, he repeatedly asked Liezi to teach him the art of riding the wind, but Liezi refused ten times. Resentful, Yin Sheng asked to take his leave, and Liezi did not try to stop him. After Yin Sheng left, several months passed, yet he still could not let the matter go, so he returned to follow Liezi.

Liezi asked, “Why do you keep coming and going so often?” Yin Sheng replied, “Before, I asked you for guidance, but you did not tell me, so I felt some resentment toward you. Now I have let it go, and that is why I have returned.”

Liezi said, “I once thought you understood the Way of things. Now I see that your understanding is astonishingly shallow! Very well, I will tell you what I learned from my teacher.

“For three years, as I served my teacher and spent time with my companions in the Way, I no longer dared to weigh right and wrong in my heart or speak of gain and loss. Only then did my teacher glance at me. After five years, I began thinking again about right and wrong and speaking again of gain and loss. Only then did my teacher’s expression soften into a slight smile. After seven years, my thoughts no longer distinguished right from 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 it in terms of right and wrong or gain and loss. Nor did I distinguish my teacher as my master and other people as my friends. The boundary between my inner self and the things outside me gradually dissolved. From then on, my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth seemed to communicate with one another, with no distinction between them. My mind and spirit settled; my body seemed to come apart, and my bones and flesh seemed to melt. I no longer felt what supported my body or what my feet touched. I only felt myself drifting east and west with the wind, like a withered leaf or a dry husk. I could not tell whether the wind was carrying me, or I was carrying the wind.

“You have not been under your teacher’s guidance for long, yet already you have repeatedly felt resentment and discontent. Your body cannot yet join with Qi (vital energy) even in the slightest, and the earth cannot bear any part of your body. How could someone like you possibly tread on empty air and ride the wind?”

Yin Sheng was deeply ashamed. He held his breath and remained silent for a long time, not daring to speak again.

Liezi asked Master Guanyin, “A person whose self-cultivation has reached the highest state can enter water without choking, walk through flames without being burned, and tread upon all things without fear. How can one attain such a state?”

Master Guanyin replied, “This comes from keeping the Qi (vital energy) pure and undivided. It cannot be achieved through cleverness or displays of courage. Ji, let me tell you: whatever has form, shape, sound, or color is a particular thing. What essential difference between things could be enough to make one rise above the others? Such differences are only outward appearances. Things come into being from the formless and return to a state beyond change. One who truly understands and explores this to its depths—how could fixed standards bind them? They dwell in the far-reaching, conceal themselves within the boundless patterns of change, and roam freely between the endings and beginnings of all things.

Such a person can make their nature whole, nourish their breath, and hold De (Virtue/Power) within, thereby connecting with the source from which all things arise and change. Their inborn nature is kept intact and their spirit suffers no harm; how could external things disturb them? A drunk person who falls from a moving carriage may not be killed, even when the carriage is traveling fast. Their bones and joints are like anyone else’s, and yet the danger does not injure them because their spirit is not disturbed by alarm. They do not know they have climbed into the carriage, nor that they have fallen out. Life and death, fear and fright, have not entered their heart, so they feel no fear when they encounter external things. If drunkenness can temporarily preserve a person in this way, how much more can one who follows and preserves their inborn nature? The sage settles themself within the Way of Heaven, and so external things cannot harm them.”

Lie Yukou once shot arrows for Bohun Wuren. Bohun Wuren had him stand at the edge of a cliff, with only a narrow foothold beneath him and a deep ravine behind. Lie Yukou could still draw his bow and shoot. Bohun Wuren saw that his spirit had not yet reached composure, and compared him to a drunk person: a drunk who falls from a carriage without being injured is unharmed because their spirit is not thrown into turmoil by fear. The sage, by contrast, follows their inborn nature and joins with the Way of Heaven; therefore, external things cannot harm them.

Lie Yukou (Liezi) performed archery for Bohun Wuren. He drew his bow to its full length and placed a cup of water on his elbow before shooting. The next arrow followed as soon as the first had left the bow, and one after another they struck the target without pause. Lie Yukou remained as composed as an insentient wooden puppet.

Bohun Wuren said, “This is archery performed through skill. You have not yet reached the state of ‘shooting without shooting.’ Now I will take you up a mountain. Stand on a sheer rock above a precipice a hundred ren deep, and we shall see whether you can still shoot.”

Bohun Wuren climbed the mountain and stood at the edge of a perilous rock, facing the abyss. He slowly backed away until half his feet hung over the cliff. Then he bowed to Lie Yukou and invited him forward. Terrified, Lie Yukou fell face down on the ground, and sweat streamed all the way to his heels.

Bohun Wuren said, “One who has truly reached the highest state can look up and glimpse the blue heavens, peer down into the Yellow Springs, and let the mind and spirit roam to the farthest reaches in all eight directions, yet remain unchanged in spirit and Qi. Now fear has arisen in you, and your gaze is unsteady. It seems you still have a long way to go in the art of archery.”

The Fan family had a son named Zihua, who was very skilled at building up his reputation. People throughout the state admired and obeyed him. He was favored by the ruler of Jin, and though he had never taken office, his standing surpassed that of the three high ministers. Anyone he took a liking to or so much as glanced at was granted a noble rank by Jin; anyone he criticized aloud was dismissed by the state. The number of people who came to spend time in his courtyard was as great as the number of officials at court.

Zihua set the knights in his household to competing against one another. The clever bullied the foolish, and the strong oppressed the weak. People were injured on the spot, beaten and bruised, yet no one cared. Day and night, people treated such things as games and entertainment, until they had nearly become the custom throughout the state.

Hesheng and Zibo were senior retainers of the Fan family. As they traveled together, they passed through the countryside outside the city and spent the night at the home of Shangqiu Kai, a field warden. In the middle of the night, Hesheng and Zibo spoke of Zihua’s fame and power, saying that he could make the living seem dead and bring the dead back to life; he could make the rich poor and the poor rich. Shangqiu Kai had recently been suffering from hunger and cold, and was hiding north of the window, listening in secret. So he borrowed some grain, slung a carrying basket over his back, and went to the entrance of Zihua’s residence.

Zihua’s retainers were all sons of noble families. They wore white silk robes, rode in grand carriages, walked at their ease, and looked at others with scorn. When they saw that Shangqiu Kai was old and frail, dark-faced, and untidily dressed, they all looked down on him. Then they mocked and deceived him to his face, shoving and punching him and doing every outrageous thing they could. Shangqiu Kai never showed any sign of anger. Gradually, the retainers exhausted all their tricks and jokes, and grew tired of tormenting him.

So they climbed onto a high platform with Shangqiu Kai and casually announced in front of everyone, “Whoever can jump down from here will be rewarded with a hundred gold coins.” The others eagerly agreed. Shangqiu Kai, however, took them at their word and leapt down first. His body descended lightly, like a flying bird, and his muscles and bones were unharmed. The Fan family’s retainers assumed it was just a lucky accident and paid it little attention.

Next, they pointed to a deep, swift stretch of water where the river curved and said, “There’s a pearl down there. Jump in and you can retrieve it.” Shangqiu Kai did as they said, leaping into the water and swimming over to search for it.

Shang Qiu Kai followed the man into the water again, and when they came out, he had indeed retrieved pearls. The Fan family’s retainers were all astonished and perplexed. Zihua then ordered people to provide him with meat to eat and silk to wear, and to give him a comfortable life.

Not long afterward, a fire broke out in the Fan family’s storehouse. Zihua said, “If you can go into the fire and bring out the brocade, I’ll reward you with as much as you take.” Shang Qiu Kai walked into the flames without the slightest fear and carried things out repeatedly. Not a speck of dust clung to him, and his body 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 Daoist arts, so we deceived you. We didn’t know you were a divine person, so we offended you. Please regard us as fools, deaf people, and blind people. May we ask what Daoist arts you possess?”

Shang Qiu Kai replied, “I possess no Daoist arts, and even I don’t know why this happened. But there is one thing I can tell you. Earlier, when your two guests stayed at my home, I heard them praise the power of the Fan family, saying it could turn the living into the dead and bring the dead back to life; make the rich poor and the poor rich. I believed them completely, without the slightest doubt, and traveled a thousand miles to come here. Once I arrived, I took everything your retainers said to be true. I worried only that my sincerity might not be enough, or that my actions might fall short. I gave no thought to what might happen to my body, or to gain and loss; I simply believed with all my heart. With my mind wholly single-minded, nothing outside me could obstruct me. That was all. Only now do I know you were deceiving me. Doubt has begun to enter my mind, and my eyes and ears have started attending to what is around me. When I think back to how I was not burned by the fire and did not drown in the water, I become afraid; my heart grows hot, and I tremble with terror. How could water and fire still dare come near me?”

From then on, whenever the Fan family’s retainers encountered beggars or veterinarians on the road, they no longer dared to treat them with contempt. They would always get down from their carriages and bow in greeting.

When Zai Wo heard of this, he told Confucius. Confucius said, “Do you not know? A person whose sincerity reaches its utmost can move things outside themselves and touch Heaven, Earth, and the spirits. They can travel freely throughout the world without obstruction. Is this ability limited to crossing dangerous ground and entering water and fire? Shang Qiu Kai, by believing in what was false, could still pass without obstruction. How much more so when the matter itself is true and both sides are sincere?”

“Young people, remember these principles!”

Among the officials under King Xuan of Zhou, the Director of Pastures, who oversaw the raising of birds and beasts, had a servant named Liang Yang. He was skilled at raising wild animals and fed them in a garden. Even fierce beasts and birds of prey, such as tigers, wolves, eagles, and hawks, grew tame in his care. Birds and beasts of different sexes mated and bred in his presence, living together in groups. Different species dwelt side by side without attacking or eating one another.

King Xuan worried 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 skill could I possibly teach you? But I fear the king will think I am hiding something and refuse to pass it on, so I will tell you how I raise tigers.

“When their wishes are met, they are pleased; when their wishes are thwarted, they become angry. This is the nature of living creatures endowed with blood and vital energy. Yet their joy and anger do not arise without cause: they come from being thwarted or provoked. Those who feed tigers dare not give them live prey, for fear they will become excited by the killing. Nor do they give them whole carcasses, for fear that tearing the prey apart will make them even more furious. They feed them according to the times when they are hungry or full, and learn to understand and soothe their anger.

“Tigers are unlike humans, yet they grow attached to those who care for them. That is because their caregivers accommodate them; if they are harmed, they strike back. Knowing this, how could I deliberately thwart them and provoke their anger? But neither do I go out of my way to please them and make them happy. For joy taken to an extreme often turns into anger, and anger is often followed by joy. Neither extreme is fitting. My mind now inclines neither toward thwarting them nor toward accommodating them. So the birds and beasts see me as they see one of their own kind. Thus the animals that roam in my garden no longer yearn for tall forests and broad marshes, and those that settle in my courtyard do not wish to return to deep mountains and secluded valleys. This is simply how things work.”

Yan Hui asked Confucius, “I once crossed a very deep river. The ferryboat…”

Yan Hui asked Confucius, “I once crossed the deep pool of Shang and saw the ferryman handling his boat with such skill that it seemed as if he had divine help. I asked him, ‘Can boat handling be learned?’ He replied, ‘Yes. A good swimmer can teach it; an excellent swimmer can learn it quickly. As for someone who can dive, even if he has never seen a boat, he can master it at once.’ I asked him why, but he would not tell me. May I ask the reason?”

Confucius said, “Alas! I have discussed these words with you for a long time, yet you still have not grasped their substance. How can I make the principle clear to you? A good swimmer can be taught easily because he is not afraid of water. An excellent swimmer learns quickly because he has already forgotten that water is there. As for a diver who has never seen a boat yet can master it at once, he sees a deep pool as though it were a hill, and a boat capsizing as though a cart were rolling backward. All these possibilities may appear before him at once, yet they cannot disturb his mind. Whatever circumstances he finds himself in, he meets them with composure.

“When a tile is wagered, a person’s skill remains nimble. When a belt hook is wagered, he becomes wary. When gold is wagered, his mind grows confused. His skill is the same in each case, but concern for what he might lose turns his thoughts toward things outside himself. Whoever prizes external things becomes clumsy within.”

Confucius once watched a waterfall at Lüliang, where the water plunged down from a great height. The ferryman said that a diver sees a deep pool as though it were a hill, and a boat capsizing as though a cart were rolling backward. Though such possibilities appear before him at the same time, they cannot disturb his mind. When a tile is wagered, his movements are nimble; when a belt hook is wagered, he becomes wary; when gold is wagered, his mind grows confused. His skill is the same in each case, but concern for what he might lose turns his attention toward external things. Whoever prizes external things becomes clumsy within.

Confucius was watching a waterfall at Lüliang. There, water poured down from a height of thirty ren, and its spray stretched for thirty li. Even giant softshell turtles, alligators, fish, and turtles could not swim through it. Yet Confucius saw a man swimming in the water. Thinking he must be suffering some hardship and trying to drown himself, Confucius sent his disciples downstream to help him.

After swimming several hundred paces, the man came ashore. With his hair hanging loose, he walked along beneath the trees, singing. Confucius followed and asked him, “The waterfall at Lüliang is thirty ren high, and its spray stretches for thirty li. Even giant softshell turtles, alligators, fish, and turtles cannot swim through it. When I saw you swimming there just now, I thought you had met with some hardship and were trying to drown yourself, so I sent my disciples downstream to meet you. When you came out with your hair loose and singing, I thought you were a ghost. Looking closely, I saw that you were a man. May I ask if you have a way of swimming?”

The man replied, “No, I have no special method. At first I followed the water’s established patterns; as I grew, I followed my own nature; in the end, I let my destiny unfold of itself. I enter with the current and emerge with it, acting in accord with the water’s patterns and never forcing things according to my own wishes. That is why I can swim through there.”

Confucius asked, “What do you mean by first following the patterns, then following your nature as you grow, and finally letting destiny unfold?”

The man said, “I was born in the hills, so I grew accustomed to life in the hills; that came from my surroundings. I grew up by the water, so I grew accustomed to water; that is my nature. As for why I became this way, I do not know. It simply happened of itself. That is destiny.”

Confucius was traveling to the state of Chu. Passing through a forest, he saw a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas with a pole, moving as deftly as if picking something up from the ground. Confucius said, “What skill you have! Do you have some special technique?”

The old man replied, “I do have a technique. After five or six months of practice, I could balance two pellets on the tip of the pole without letting them fall, and I rarely missed a cicada. When I could balance three pellets without dropping them, I missed even less often. When I could balance five, catching cicadas became as easy as picking things up. As I stand, my body is steady as a tree stump; my outstretched arm is still as a withered branch. Though Heaven and Earth are vast and all things are many, my mind is fixed only on the cicada’s wings. I do not turn around or shift to the side, and I let nothing else distract me from the cicada’s wings. What, then, could I fail to do?”

Confucius turned to his disciples and said, “When the mind is wholly focused and does not wander, skill can become so fine it seems almost miraculous. Surely this is what we see in this hunchbacked old man!”

The old man said, “You are merely a scholar in a wide robe. What do you know of this, that you come asking me about it? First cultivate your own abilities, then come speak of such principles.”

There was a man by the sea who loved seagulls. Every morning he went to the shore to play with them. More than a hundred would fly to him and draw near, perching beside him and refusing to leave. When his father heard about this, he said, “I hear the seagulls all enjoy playing with you. 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 highest words need not be expressed in words, and the highest action may appear to be no action at all. “To measure what one knows by the limits of one’s understanding is to know only a little” means that if we use only our limited intellect to assess things, what we can know will remain shallow.

Zhao Xiangzi led a force of a hundred thousand people to hunt in Zhongshan. Using the vegetation, they set the forest ablaze; the flames raged and stretched for a hundred li. A man emerged from a stone cliff, rising and falling amid the smoke and flames. Everyone thought he was a ghost.

This story makes the same point once more: “To measure what one knows by the limits of one’s understanding is to know only a little.” People judge things from limited experience and often mistake what they cannot understand for ghosts and spirits. Human understanding, in the end, has its limits.

Zhao Xiangzi led ten thousand attendants to Zhongshan for a hunt. They cut down vegetation and set the forest ablaze. The flames surged, and within a hundred li the air was enveloped by waves of heat. Suddenly, a man emerged from a rock face, moving up and down through the thick smoke and ashes. Everyone thought he was a ghost or monster. After the fire had passed, the man slowly walked out, looking as though he had never been through the flames.

Zhao Xiangzi found this strange and kept the man behind to examine him closely. His appearance and the seven openings of his face were like those of an ordinary person, and so were his breathing and voice. Zhao Xiangzi asked him, “How could you stay inside the rock and enter the fire?” The man replied with a question: “What do you call a rock? What do you call fire?” Zhao Xiangzi said, “The place you just came out of was rock, and the place you just passed through was fire.” The man answered, “I don’t know.”

When Marquis Wen of Wei heard about this, he asked Zixia, “What kind of person was that man?” Zixia said, “According to what I heard from my teacher, one whose heart and spirit are in harmony becomes one with the myriad things. External things can neither harm nor obstruct such a person. Walking among metal and stone, or treading through water and fire, is entirely possible.”

Marquis Wen asked, “Why don’t you do this?” Zixia answered, “I still cannot empty my mind and cast off cleverness. But when I have time, I can try to explain the principle.” Marquis Wen then asked, “Why doesn’t your teacher do it, if all this is possible?” Zixia replied, “My teacher is capable of it, but can choose not to do it.” Marquis Wen was delighted to hear this.

A spirit medium came from the state of Qi to the state of Zheng. His name was Ji Xian. He could foresee a person’s death or survival, misfortune or good fortune, and the length of their life. He could even name the year, month, ten-day period, and day when his predictions would come true. He seemed almost divine. Whenever the people of Zheng saw him, they avoided him. Liezi met Ji Xian and was deeply impressed. When he returned, he told Huqiuzi, “At first I thought your mastery of the Dao had reached its highest point. I never imagined there could be someone more accomplished.”

Huqiuzi said, “I haven’t yet passed on to you the patterns and substance of the Dao. How can you think you have attained it? If there are only female birds and no males, how could eggs be laid? You take your mastery of the Dao and compete with worldly people, so of course they can see through you. That is what gives others the chance to read your appearance. Try bringing him here to read mine.”

The next day, Liezi brought Ji Xian to meet Huqiuzi. After they left, Ji Xian said to Liezi, “Alas! Your teacher is near death. He cannot be saved and will not live ten days. I saw an unusual sign, like a heap of damp ashes.” Liezi went inside, weeping until his tears soaked his robe, and told Huqiuzi what Ji Xian had said. Huqiuzi replied, “Just now I showed him the ‘Earth Pattern’: I appeared still and unmoving, like the earth. He must have seen a sign that I was concealing my De, which is why he said I looked like damp ashes. Bring him again!”

The next day, Liezi brought Ji Xian to meet Huqiuzi once more. After they left, Ji Xian said to Liezi, “Fortunately, your teacher met me. His condition has improved. That heap of ashes has come back to life. I saw a sign of ‘Hidden Potential.’” Liezi went in and told Huqiuzi. Huqiuzi said, “Just now I showed him ‘Heaven and Earth’: neither reputation nor reality could enter my mind, while the vital functions of life arose from my heels. This is called ‘Hidden Potential.’ He must have seen a sign of my life force appearing. Bring him again!”

On the third day, Liezi again brought Ji Xian to meet Huqiuzi. After they left, Ji Xian said to Liezi, “Your teacher was sitting there with his spirit unsettled; I couldn’t make out his condition. Have him fast and quiet his mind first, and then I’ll read him again.” Liezi went in and told Huqiuzi. Huqiuzi said, “Just now, what I showed him was…” At this point, the original text moves on to the next passage.

“I must test him once more,” Guan Yin said.

Liezi went back and told Huzi. Huzi said, “What I showed him just now was the Great Void, without signs—a state so empty and unfathomable that no trace could be discerned. He probably caught a glimpse of the even Qi within me. A whirlpool in a twisting current can become an abyss; a whirlpool in still water can become an abyss; one in a flowing current can become an abyss; one in floodwaters can become an abyss; one in water pouring down can become an abyss; one in a gushing spring can become an abyss; one in backed-up water can become an abyss; one in the Qian River can become an abyss; and one in the Fei River can also become an abyss. These are the nine kinds of abyss. Bring him to see me again.”

The next day, Liezi brought Guan Yin to see Huzi once more. Before Guan Yin had even steadied himself, he looked dazed, turned, and fled. Huzi said, “Quick, go after him!” Liezi could not catch up. He returned and reported, “He has vanished. He fled without a trace, and I couldn’t catch him.”

Huzi said, “What I showed him just now was the root that I have never left. As I faced him, I appeared empty and shifting, so he could not tell what I was. Then I bent with the wind like grass and flowed like waves. That is why he fled.”

From then on, Liezi felt that he had never truly studied before, and went home. For three years he did not leave the house. He cooked for his wife himself, and fed the pigs with the same care he would give to people. In handling affairs, he made no distinction between those close to him and those he favored; he restored his impulse to carve and embellish to a state of simplicity. Calm and self-contained, he was undisturbed by external things. His expression was unsettled, yet he remained quietly steadfast, holding to this state without change.

Liezi set out for the state of Qi, but turned back halfway. On the road, he met Bohun Wuren, one of his teachers. Bohun Wuren asked, “Why did you turn back halfway?” Liezi replied, “I was frightened.” “What frightened you?” Bohun Wuren asked. Liezi said, “I ate at ten shops that sold soup and stew, and five of them served me before the others.”

Bohun Wuren said, “Even so, why should that frighten you?” Liezi replied, “My inner sincerity has not yet fully come forth, but my outward appearance already shines with distinction, creating an imposing presence that inspires awe in others. As a result, people will slight their elders and those of high standing, and set aside their own concerns. Those soup sellers are only small traders who make their living selling soup. Their income is limited and their influence slight, yet they already fawned on me like this. How much more frightening would it be if a ruler with ten thousand chariots, who labors day and night for his state and devotes himself entirely to affairs of government, entrusted matters to me and then judged me by my accomplishments?”

Bohun Wuren said, “You see the matter clearly. Keep to yourself, and people will gather around you.”

Before long, visitors crowded outside Liezi’s gate, their shoes strewn across the ground. Bohun Wuren stood facing north, leaning on his staff, and tapped his chin with it. After standing there for a while, he left without a word. A visitor told Liezi what had happened. Liezi picked up his shoes and ran barefoot to the gate after him. “Since you came, Master, why didn’t you take the opportunity to offer me some guidance?” he asked.

“There is no need,” said Bohun Wuren. “I told you long ago that people would gather around you, and now they have. It is not that you can make them come; you simply cannot stop them. What is there to lament about? Once lamentation or delight shows itself, it sets you apart from others. And forcing yourself to feel a certain way will unsettle your foundation and bring no benefit. None of those who come to associate with you can offer you sound counsel. The bits of gossip they share are all harmful. If you neither notice nor wake up to this, how can you discern and assess what they are saying?”

Yang Zhu traveled south to the land of Pei, while Lao Dan headed west toward the state of Qin. They met in the outskirts along the way. When they reached Liang, they met again. Laozi looked up at the sky and sighed: “I thought you could be taught, but now it seems you cannot.” Yang Zhu did not reply.

When they arrived at their lodging, Yang Zhu brought hot water to rinse his mouth and wash his face, combed his hair, took off his shoes outside the door, then knelt and shuffled forward to Laozi. “A moment ago, Master, you looked up at the sky and sighed, saying, ‘I thought you could be taught, but now it seems you cannot.’ I wanted to ask you why, but there was no suitable moment along the way, so I did not dare speak. Now that you are free, may I ask where I went wrong?”

Laozi said: “With that sharp gaze and air of self-satisfaction, who would want to be around you? What is perfectly pure can look as though it has a stain; those of deep virtue can look as though something is lacking.” Yang Zhu looked ashamed and his expression changed. “I respectfully accept your instruction,” he said.

When Yang Zhu first arrived at the inn, the whole household came out to welcome him. The innkeeper spread a mat for him, and the innkeeper’s wife brought him a towel and a comb. The other guests stood up to make way for him, and even those cooking by the hearth gave up their places. By the time he returned from Laozi, the guests were already competing with him for seats.

Yang Zhu passed through the state of Song, traveling east, and stayed at an inn. The innkeeper had two concubines: one was beautiful and the other plain. The plain one was treated with respect, while the beautiful one was neglected. Yang Zhu asked why. A young man at the inn replied: “The beautiful one thinks herself beautiful, so I do not find her beautiful; the plain one knows she is plain, so I do not find her unattractive.”

Yang Zhu said: “I will remember this! If someone has worthy conduct but does not consider themselves worthy, wherever they go, surely they will be liked?”

There is a way of winning that can prevail again and again, and a way of winning that cannot last. The enduring way is softness; the way that cannot last is force. Though both principles are plainly before us, people often fail to understand them.

The ancients said: “The forceful first defeats those weaker than itself; the yielding first prevails over those stronger than itself. If the strong keep defeating the weak, they will be in danger when they meet an equal. But if the yielding can overcome those stronger than itself, there is nothing to fear. To govern oneself by this way is to move with the natural course of things. To take on the affairs of the world by this way is also to act in accord with that course. Thus one wins without striving to win, and takes responsibility without deliberately seeking it.”

Zhouzi said: “If you wish to be firm, you must protect yourself through yielding; if you wish to be powerful, you must preserve yourself through weakness. When yielding has accumulated to a certain point, it turns into firmness; when weakness has accumulated to a certain point, it turns into strength. By observing the direction in which things accumulate, you can see where fortune and misfortune will come from. Force can defeat only opponents weaker than itself. When it meets an equal, it reveals its hardness and falls into danger. Yielding can overcome opponents stronger than itself, and its power is therefore beyond measure.”

Lao Dan said: “An army that exalts force will perish; a tree that is hard will break easily. Yielding belongs to the realm of life, while hardness and force belong to the realm of death.”

A person’s outward appearance need not resemble that of a child—someone young and innocent—for their mind to be childlike; nor must a childlike mind be matched by an appearance that seems young and innocent. Sages value an innocent mind and do not care about a childish appearance. Ordinary people, however, are drawn to a childish appearance and turn away from an innocent mind. People feel affection for those whose appearance resembles their own, and keep their distance from those who look different, fearing them.

A person with a seven-foot body, distinctive hands and feet, hair on the head and teeth in the mouth, who walks upright, is called a “human being.” Yet a human being may still have the heart of a beast. Even with a beastlike heart, someone is welcomed because their appearance is human. Birds and beasts have wings or horns, teeth and claws of various shapes, and they fly or run; they are called birds and beasts. Yet they may have hearts like those of humans. Even with a human heart, they are shunned because their appearance is different.

Among the ancient sage rulers—Fuxi, Nüwa, Shennong, and the Xia ruler—some had the body of a serpent and the face of a human, while others had the head of an ox and the nose of a tiger. Their forms were unlike those of ordinary people, yet they possessed the highest De. Jie of Xia, Zhou of Yin, Duke Huan of Lu, and King Mu of Chu had the same appearance and seven orifices as ordinary people, yet their hearts harbored the evil thoughts of beasts. Ordinary people judge wisdom and De only by outward appearance, and so find it hard to recognize the highest wisdom.

When the Yellow Emperor fought the Flame Emperor in the wilderness of Banquan, he led bears, brown bears, wolves, leopards, wildcats, and tigers as his vanguard, and used vultures, pheasants, eagles, and kites as his banners. This shows that he could command birds and beasts by force. Yao put Kui in charge of music. When Kui struck the stone chimes and played a tune, the hundred beasts danced along; when the Shaoshao music was played through nine movements, phoenixes appeared. This shows that music can summon birds and beasts. From this, how great a difference is there, after all, between the minds of animals and those of humans? Their bodies and sounds are simply unlike ours, and people do not know how to communicate with them. Sages know and understand everything, so they can guide and command them.

Some animals have an innate intelligence close to that of humans. To satisfy their desires and preserve their lives, they need not learn from people: males and females mate, and mothers and offspring are attached to one another; they avoid flat ground and stay near steep places, shun the cold and seek warmth; they live in groups and travel in formation; the young stay inside while the strong keep watch outside; they look out for one another when drinking and call to their companions when foraging.

In ancient times, birds and beasts lived and traveled alongside humans. Only in the age of emperors did they begin to startle and scatter; when the world fell into decline, they hid and fled still further to escape harm. Today, in the eastern state of Jie, some people can often understand the speech of the six domestic animals. This is simply knowledge of one particular kind. The sages of antiquity understood the nature of all things and fully knew the sounds of other kinds of beings. They gathered living creatures of every sort and taught them, enabling them to live alongside humans. Thus the sages of old first understood spirits and ghosts, demons, and other beings of a different kind; then they came to understand people from the lands in all four directions; and finally they gathered birds and beasts, insects, moths, and other creatures. Among living beings endowed with blood and Qi (vital energy), minds do not differ so greatly. The sages understood this, and so, in transforming all things through their teaching, they left out no kind.

In the state of Song, there was a man named Jùgōng who was very fond of monkeys and kept them in large groups at home. He understood what the monkeys wanted, and they understood him as well. Jùgōng would rather cut back on his family’s food and daily needs than fail to satisfy the monkeys.

Later, food at home gradually ran short. Jùgōng planned to limit the monkeys’ food, but feared they would not obey him. So he first tricked them, saying, “I’ll give you acorns: three in the morning and four in the evening. Is that enough?” When the monkeys heard this, they all leapt up in anger. After a while, he said, “I’ll give you acorns: four in the morning and three in the evening. Is that enough?” The monkeys quieted down and happily obeyed. This is often how things go when one uses differences in understanding to mislead others. The sage governs the people through wisdom just as Jùgōng governed the monkeys through a scheme. The total number of acorns had not decreased; only their distribution had changed, yet the monkeys’ anger and joy changed with it.

Jì Shěngzǐ trained fighting cocks for King Xuan of Zhou. After ten days, the king asked, “Are the cocks ready to fight?” Jì Shěngzǐ replied, “Not yet. It is still putting on a show of force, showing off and picking fights.” Ten days later, the king asked again. Jì Shěngzǐ said, “Not yet. When it hears a sound or sees a shadow, it still reacts at once.” Ten more days passed, and the king asked again. Jì Shěngzǐ said, “Not yet. It still looks around eagerly, and its spirit remains fierce.” Ten more days later, Jì Shěngzǐ said, “It is nearly ready. Even when other cocks crow and provoke it, its expression no longer changes. Seen from a distance, it is still and calm, like a wooden cock. This shows that its spiritual cultivation is complete. The other cocks dare not face it; when they see it, they turn and flee.”

Hui Ang paid a visit to King Kang of Song. The king stamped his feet, cleared his throat, and said eagerly, “I admire people who are brave and strong. I do not care for people who speak of benevolence and righteousness. How do you intend to persuade me?”

Hui Ang replied, “I have a way to make it impossible for even the bravest person to stab you, however much he wants to, and impossible for even the strongest person to strike you, however much he wants to. Would Your Majesty like to hear it?”

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

Hui Ang said, “Even if a person cannot land a blow or strike, he can still bring shame upon you. I have another way: to make the brave afraid to stab, and the strong afraid to strike. By ‘afraid,’ I do not mean that the thought never enters their minds. I have yet another way: to make people stop having such thoughts at their root. Once those thoughts are gone, they will develop a desire to care for others and benefit them. I have one more way: to make all the men and women under Heaven gladly willing to care for others and bring them benefit. This is more precious than bravery and strength, and surpasses those four levels. Would Your Majesty like to hear it?”

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

Hui Ang replied, “Confucius and Mozi were like this. Confucius and Mozi had no territory to govern and no office in which to lead, yet men and women throughout the world stretched out their necks and rose onto their toes, hoping that these two might bring them peace and benefit. Your Majesty is now the ruler of a great state with ten thousand chariots. If you truly aspire to this, the people within your borders can all benefit. In that case, Your Majesty’s virtue would far surpass that of Confucius and Mozi.”

The king had no answer. Hui Ang hurried away. The king said to those around him, “What a persuasive guest! He has actually talked me around!”

The passage presents four levels, moving from the most basic to the most profound: making attacks ineffective, making people afraid to attack, eliminating the desire to attack, and finally making everyone willing to care for others and benefit them. “Within the four borders” means within a country’s borders; “lord of ten thousand chariots” refers to a ruler of a powerful state.

During the reign of King Mu of Zhou, a man from a country at the far western edge of the world arrived. His transformations were beyond measure. He could enter water and fire, pass through metal and stone, reverse mountains and rivers, and move cities. He could soar through the air without falling and pass through solid objects. His transformations had no end: he could change the shape of things and even alter people’s thoughts. King Mu revered him as a spirit and served him as he would a sovereign. He arranged for him to stay in the main palace, offered him the three sacrificial animals—ox, sheep, and pig—and selected singing and dancing women to entertain him.

The transformed man considered King Mu’s palace low and crude, unfit to live in. Its food smelled rank and foul, unfit to eat, and the women in the palace had an unpleasant odor, making them unworthy of his company. King Mu therefore had a new palace built for him. Every refinement was lavished on the timber and earthworks, and on the vermilion and white decorations. The palace’s five treasuries were nearly emptied before the towers were complete. Rising a thousand ren above the ground and overlooking Mount Zhongnan, the complex was named the “Tower of the Midheaven.”

King Mu then selected young, beautiful women from Zheng and Wei. They anointed themselves with perfume, shaped their eyebrows, wore hairpins and earrings, dressed in silk and trailing skirts, applied white powder and darkened their brows, and adorned themselves with jade rings. Fragrant plants such as angelica and fragrant thoroughwort decorated the towers. Musicians played “Clouds of Ascent,” “Six Brilliances,” “Nine Shao,” “Morning Dew,” and other pieces for his pleasure. Each month, jade garments were presented to him; each day, exquisite jade dishes were served. The transformed man was still dissatisfied, so King Mu reluctantly accompanied him to the towers.

After a short stay, the transformed man invited King Mu to travel with him. King Mu held on to his sleeve as they soared into the air. They stopped only when they had reached midair, then arrived at the transformed man’s palace. Built of gold and silver and adorned with pearls and jade, it rose above the clouds and rain, with no visible support below. From afar, it looked like a mass of gathered clouds. Everything they saw, heard, smelled, and tasted there was unlike anything in the human world. King Mu thought he had arrived at Qingdu, Ziwei, Juntian, and Guangyue—the legendary dwelling and music hall of the Heavenly Emperor. Looking down, he saw his own palace and towers as little more than piles of earth and thatch. Though he felt he had lived there for decades, he no longer missed his own country.

The transformed man invited King Mu to travel with him again. Wherever they went, the sun and moon were nowhere to be seen above, and no rivers or seas appeared below. The light dazzled King Mu’s eyes, and he could not make out what lay before him.

Where had the music come from? King Mu of Zhou (a ruler of the Western Zhou) was so disoriented that he could not make it out. His whole body trembled and would not settle; his thoughts were confused and his spirit dazed. He asked the adept, a person with extraordinary abilities, to take him back to where he had been. The adept moved him back, and he felt as if he had fallen into emptiness. When he awoke, he was still seated in the same place as before, and his attendants were the same as well. The wine before him had not yet cleared, and the dishes had not grown cold. King Mu asked where he had just been. His attendants replied, “Your Majesty was simply sitting quietly, lost in thought.” King Mu remained dazed and disoriented, and it took three months for him to return to normal.

He then asked the adept what had happened. The adept said, “Your Majesty and I were only journeying in spirit. How could your body have moved? How was the place where we stopped any different from your palace? And how was the place we visited any different from your gardens? You have always possessed these things; just now, for a moment, you were bewildered, as though you had lost them. When transformation reaches its utmost, how can the difference between fast and slow be fully described?” King Mu was delighted by what he heard. From then on he no longer concerned himself with governing, nor took pleasure in his ministers or consorts. He did only as he pleased, roaming far and wide.

He ordered a chariot drawn by eight fine horses: on the lead chariot, Hua Liu was harnessed on the right and Lü Er on the left; the outriggers on the right were Chi Ji, and on the left, Bai Yi. Zao Fu, a skilled charioteer, drove the lead chariot, while Tai Bing rode as the right-hand guard. On another chariot, Qu Huang was harnessed on the right and Yu Lun on the left; the left outrigger was Dao Li, and the right, Shan Zi. Bo Yao commanded the convoy, Can Bai drove, and Ben Rong rode as the right-hand guard.

The convoy raced a thousand li and reached the land of the Jusu people. They offered King Mu the blood of a white swan to drink and prepared the milk of cows and horses to wash the feet of him and the people in both chariots. After drinking, they set out again 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, gazed upon the palace of the Yellow Emperor, and raised a mound there as a memorial for later generations.

Afterward, King Mu paid a formal visit to the Queen Mother of the West, the legendary goddess, and drank wine with her beside the Jade Pool. She sang for him, and King Mu answered with a song of his own; the lyrics were sorrowful. King Mu looked west and saw where the sun was setting. In a single day, they had traveled ten thousand li. King Mu then exclaimed, “Ah!”

My own virtue is not sufficient, yet I can harmonize with the principles of music. Will people in later generations investigate and enumerate my faults? King Mu truly came close to being divine! He enjoyed all the pleasures of this life to the full, and did not die until he had lived a hundred years. People therefore believed that he had ascended to Heaven and become an immortal.

Lao Chengzi studied the art of illusion with Master Yin Wen, but for three years Yin Wen taught him nothing. 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 attendants away, he said, “Long ago, when Lao Dan set out westward, he turned back and told me: ‘The breath of life and the forms of things are all produced through transformation and illusion. When the transforming power that brings forth the myriad things begins to act and Yin-Yang changes, this is called life and death. When things reach their limits, follow change, and shift as their forms alter, this is called transformation and illusion. The artistry of the Creator is subtle, and the effects of transformation are far-reaching; in their very nature, they cannot be fully fathomed. Arts that rely on physical forms are easy to see, but their effects are shallow, so things are continually born and destroyed. Only when you understand that illusion and transformation are no different from life and death can you study the art of illusion.’ You and I, too, are already within transformation and illusion. Why, then, make a special effort to study them?”

After returning home, Lao Chengzi reflected deeply on Master Yin Wen’s words for three months. At last, he could freely make things appear or disappear and alter the seasons: he could bring thunder in winter and make ice in summer; flying creatures became runners, and runners became fliers. He never displayed these abilities during his lifetime, so they were not passed down in the world.

Master Liezi said, “Those who are skilled at using transformation act quietly and in an ordinary way; the effects they produce seem no different from what ordinary people do. The virtue of the Five Emperors and the achievements of the Three Kings may not have been accomplished entirely through wisdom and strength. They may also have been brought about through the Way of transformation. Who can see through its mystery?”

The experience of waking life has eight forms, while dreams fall into six categories. What are the eight forms? First, things from the past; second, undertaking something; third, gaining; fourth, losing; fifth, sorrow; sixth, joy; seventh, life; and eighth, death. All eight arise as feelings when the body comes into contact with things outside itself.

What are the six kinds of dreams? First are ordinary dreams; second are startled, unsettled dreams; third are dreams caused by longing; fourth are dreams that remain connected to waking awareness as one awakens; fifth are joyful dreams; and sixth are fearful dreams. These six kinds result from the spirit’s activity interacting with things outside itself.

Those who do not understand where feelings and changes come from are confused when events occur and do not know their causes. Those who understand what gives rise to them can see the reasons when events occur. Knowing the reasons, they will not be startled. The body undergoes changes such as fullness and depletion, growth and decline. These are connected with Heaven and Earth, and the body responds to things outside itself.

Thus, when Yin energy is strong, dreaming of crossing a great river brings fear; when Yang energy is strong, dreaming of entering a great fire brings a sensation of burning. When both Yin and Yang energy are strong, one dreams of killing. After eating too much, one dreams of giving things to others; when extremely hungry, one dreams of asking others for food. Those whose bodies feel light and insubstantial are apt to dream of rising into the air, while those whose bodies feel heavy and sluggish are apt to dream of sinking beneath the water. If a strap presses against 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 dreams of fire; when one is about to fall ill, one dreams of eating. Dreaming of drinking wine often leaves one troubled on waking; dreaming of singing and dancing often leaves one sad on waking.

Liezi said: “When the spirit meets things outside itself, dreams take shape; when the body comes into contact with things outside itself, events in waking life take shape. Thus, the thoughts of the day and the dreams of the night are both results of what the spirit and body encounter and experience. For one whose spirit is still and quiet, thoughts and dreams naturally fade away. To regard waking experience as absolutely real is something that cannot be fully expressed in words; to regard dreams as real is something that cannot be fully understood. They are simply manifestations of things changing and coming and going. The True People of antiquity were not attached to themselves when awake, and did not dream when asleep. Could this be mere empty talk?”

In the far southwest, at the edge of the world, there is a country whose borders no one knows. It is called the Land of Ancient Vastness. There the Yin and Yang energies 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 distinction between day and night.

At the farthest southern corner of the West lies a country whose borders are unknown, called the Land of Gumang. There, the forces of Yin and Yang do not meet, so cold and heat cannot be distinguished. The light of the sun and moon does not reach it, so neither can day be told from night. The people eat no food and wear no clothes, yet most of them like to sleep; they awaken only once every fifty days. They believe that what they experience in dreams is real, while what they see upon waking is illusory.

In the midst of the Four Seas lies a country regarded as the center. It stretches north and south across the Yellow River and east and west beyond Mount Tai, spanning more than ten thousand li in each direction. There, the forces of Yin and Yang are distinct, so the seasons alternate between cold and heat. The brightness and darkness of the sky are also distinct, making day and night clear. Among the people are both the wise and the foolish; all things grow in abundance, and people possess a wide range of talents and skills. They maintain an order of rulers and subjects, with rites and laws to govern society. The things people say and do are too numerous to count. They believe that what they do while awake is real, while what they see in dreams is illusory.

At the farthest northern corner of the East lies a country called the Land of Fulou. Its climate is always warm, and even the remaining light of the sun and moon reaches it. Its soil cannot grow good crops, so the people eat grass roots and tree fruits, and do not know how to cook food with fire. They are fierce and aggressive in temperament; the strong bully the weak, and they prize victory over others rather than benevolence and righteousness. They are constantly on the move and rarely rest, always awake and never asleep.

In the Zhou dynasty, a man named Yin had built up a large estate. His servants worked from morning until night without a moment’s rest. One elderly servant was already exhausted, but Yin still ordered him to work twice as hard. By day, the old man worked while groaning; at night, he fell into a heavy sleep, worn out. In his hazy dreams, he often imagined himself as a ruler: he governed the whole country, lived in a palace, and could do whatever he pleased. He was supremely happy. When he woke, he went back to work.

Someone tried to comfort the old man, urging him not to grieve over his hardship. The old man said, “A person’s life lasts a hundred years, half by day and half by night. By day I’m a servant, and it is indeed hard work; at night I’m a ruler, and I’m supremely happy. What do I have to complain about?”

Yin devoted himself to worldly affairs and worried about his estate until both body and mind were worn out. At night, he too often slept heavily. Yet every night he dreamed he had become a servant, rushing about at work and doing every kind of backbreaking task. He was often scolded and beaten as well. In his sleep he groaned and muttered nonsense, and did not stop until dawn. Troubled by this, Yin went to ask a friend for advice.

The friend said, “Your position is enough to bring you honor, and your wealth is far greater than that of ordinary people. Dreaming at night that you are a servant is simply what happens when hardship and pleasure take turns. How could you expect to enjoy only the good things both by day and in your dreams?” Yin followed his friend’s advice. He eased the demands he placed on his servants and reduced the number of affairs he worried about himself, and his illness gradually improved.

A man from the state of Zheng was cutting wood in the countryside when he happened to startle a deer. He chased it and killed it. Afraid someone might see, he hurriedly hid the deer in a dry ditch and covered it with banana leaves.

In the state of Zheng, a woodcutter was chopping wood in the wilderness when he startled a deer by chance. He drove his cart after it and killed it. Afraid someone might see him, he hurriedly hid the deer in a ditch and covered it with banana leaves, feeling very pleased with himself. A little while later, he forgot where he had hidden it and thought the whole thing must have been a dream. As he walked along the road, he told the story to himself.

Someone nearby overheard him, followed his directions, found the deer, and took it away. When he got home, he told his wife, “That woodcutter said he dreamed he had found a deer, but he doesn’t know where he hid it. I’ve found the deer now, so his dream has come true.” His wife said, “Do you mean you dreamed that the woodcutter found a deer? Is there really such a woodcutter? Since the deer is in your hands now, doesn’t that mean your dream has come true?” Her husband replied, “I’ve got the deer. Why should I care whether he was dreaming or I was?”

The woodcutter went home, still unable to let go of losing the deer. That night, he really did dream of where he had hidden it and of the person who had taken it. Early the next morning, he followed the clues from his dream and found the deer. The two men then went to court to fight over it, and the case eventually came before the magistrate, the judicial officer.

The magistrate said, “At first, you really did get the deer, but mistook it for a dream. Later, you dreamed of getting the deer, but mistook the dream for something real. This man did take your deer and then contested it with you. His wife, in turn, says he dreamed of taking someone else’s deer, when in fact no one had obtained a deer at all. Now the deer is here. So let us treat both your dreams as real and what actually happened as a dream, and divide the deer in two.” The magistrate reported this ruling to the ruler of Zheng.

The ruler said, “Alas! Will the magistrate have to dream another dream before he can decide whose deer it is?” The ruler then asked his chief minister. The minister replied, “I cannot distinguish dreams from reality. Only the Yellow Emperor and Confucius could tell waking from dreaming. But neither the Yellow Emperor nor Confucius is alive now. Who can judge this? In my view, we should simply follow the magistrate’s ruling.”

In Yangli, a place in the state of Song, there was a man named Hua Zi who developed amnesia in middle age. Something he received in the morning he would forget by evening; something given to him at night he would forget again 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. He could not remember the past or know what was happening in the present. His whole family was distressed.

They asked an official historian to divine for him, but the signs could not be interpreted. They asked a shaman to pray, but it had no effect. They asked a doctor to treat him with medicine, but his illness showed no improvement. A Confucian scholar from the state of Lu claimed that he could cure it. Hua Zi’s wife and children offered half their household’s wealth in exchange for a prescription. The scholar said, “This illness cannot be diagnosed through divination, cured through prayer, or healed with medicine. I will try to change his feelings and turn his thoughts; perhaps that will make him well.”

So the scholar made Hua Zi cold until he wanted clothes, made him hungry until he wanted food, and shut him in darkness until he wanted light. Delighted, the scholar told Hua Zi’s son, “His illness can be cured. But my method is secret and cannot be shared with others. Please keep away for now and let me stay alone with him in the room for seven days.” The family did as he asked. No one knew what the scholar had done, but Hua Zi’s illness, which had not improved for years, was completely cured in a single day.

When Hua Zi came to his senses, he flew into a rage, drove his wife away, punished his son, and took up a weapon to chase the scholar. The people of Song seized him and asked why he was acting this way. Hua Zi refused to tell them. He said, “Before, I forgot everything. My mind was empty; I did not even know whether heaven and earth existed. Now I suddenly remember the past. The deaths and births, gains and losses, sorrows and joys, likes and dislikes of several decades are all surging and jostling in my heart. I fear that from now on these deaths and births, gains and losses, sorrows and joys, likes and dislikes will disturb my mind in the same way. Can a moment of forgetting ever be regained?”

When Zigong heard about it, he was puzzled and told Confucius. Confucius said, “How could you possibly understand this?” Then he turned and asked Yan Hui to write down the story.

In the state of Qin, a man of the Feng family had a son who was clever in his youth. As he grew older, however, he developed a disorder that muddled his perceptions: when he heard singing, he thought it was weeping; when he saw white, he thought it was black; when he smelled fragrance, he thought it was stench; when he tasted sweetness, he thought it was bitter. Even when he did something wrong, he believed he had done it right. Everything he imagined—heaven and earth, the four directions, water and fire, cold and heat, and all else—was turned upside down and confused.

Yang said to the boy’s father, “Lu has many learned and skilled gentlemen. Perhaps they can cure him. Why not go and visit them?” The boy’s father set out for Lu. On his way, passing through Chen, he met Lao Dan (Laozi) and told him about his son’s illness.

Lao Dan said, “How do you know your son is confused? People in the world today are all bewildered about right and wrong, and muddled about benefit and harm. Many suffer from the same affliction, so naturally no one notices it. One confused person is not enough to throw an entire family into disorder; one confused family is not enough to throw an entire village into disorder; one confused village is not enough to throw an entire state into disorder; one confused state is not enough to throw the whole world into disorder. If everyone in the world were confused, who could judge who had thrown the world into disorder? If everyone in the world thought as your son does, then you, in turn, would be the confused one.

“Who decides what counts as right in grief and joy, in sound and color, in smell and taste, and in right and wrong? Besides, what I am saying may itself be confused. How much less can those most confused gentlemen of Lu untangle someone else’s bewilderment? Rather than carry provisions all that way, you would do better to go home at once.”

A man from Yan was born there and grew up there, then went to Chu. Only in old age did he return to his homeland. On the way back to Yan, he passed through Jin. His traveling companion deceived him, saying, “This city is Yan’s capital.” At once, the man’s expression turned sorrowful. Then the companion pointed to a shrine to the local earth god, a symbol of an ancient village, and said, “This is your hometown’s shrine.” The man sighed. Pointing to a house, the companion said, “Your ancestors once lived here.” Tears streamed down the man’s face, and he began to weep. Then the companion pointed to a grave and said, “This is your ancestors’ tomb.” Unable to contain himself any longer, the man burst into loud sobs.

Laughing, his companion told him, “I was deceiving you. This is actually Jin.” The man felt deeply ashamed. When he reached Yan and saw the real city, shrine, ancestral home, and family tomb with his own eyes, the sorrow in his heart had faded considerably.

When Confucius was at leisure, Zigong came in to attend him and saw that he looked troubled. Not daring to ask him directly, Zigong went out and told Yan Hui. Yan Hui picked up a qin and played and sang. When Confucius heard him, he called Yan Hui in and asked, “Why are you happy all by yourself?” Yan Hui replied with a question: “Why are you troubled all by yourself?” Confucius said, “Tell me what you think first.” Yan Hui answered, “I play the qin and sing because I once heard you say, ‘Follow the Way of Heaven and understand Heaven’s Mandate, and you will not be troubled.’”

Confucius grew solemn and, after a pause, said, “Did I say that? You have misunderstood me. Those were my words in the past; what I say today is what you should follow. You know that following the Way of Heaven and understanding Heaven’s Mandate can free one from worry, but you do not know that doing so brings a deeper kind of concern. Let me tell you the truth. Cultivate yourself, whether your circumstances are difficult or prosperous. Understand that life and death, coming and going, are not under your control, and do not let change disturb your heart. This is what you mean by following the Way of Heaven and understanding Heaven’s Mandate without worry.

“In the past, I organized the Book of Songs and the Book of Documents, and set standards for ritual and music. I hoped to use them to govern the world and pass them down to later generations. My ambition was not limited to cultivating myself and governing the state of Lu. Yet Lu’s ruler and ministers fell further and further out of order, benevolence and righteousness steadily declined, and human feelings and nature grew ever more shallow. If these teachings could not govern even one state in their own time, how could they be put into practice throughout the world and passed down to future generations? At first I knew that the Book of Songs, the Book of Documents, ritual, and music could not save the world from disorder, but I still did not know how to change it. This is what troubles someone who follows the Way of Heaven and understands Heaven’s Mandate.”

Confucius continued, “Now, however, I understand. Following the Way of Heaven and understanding Heaven’s Mandate are not the kind of ‘joy’ and ‘knowledge’ the ancients spoke of. True joy and true understanding come without deliberately seeking happiness or clinging to what one knows. Then there is nothing one cannot accept with equanimity, nothing one cannot see clearly, no worry one cannot bear, and nothing one cannot do. Why, then, should we abandon the Book of Songs, the Book of Documents, ritual, and music? Why would we need to change them?”

Yan Hui turned north and bowed. “I understand now, too,” he said. When he left, he told Zigong what Confucius had said. Zigong listened, bewildered and at a loss. 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, and only then did he return to Confucius. He played the qin and sang, and recited the classics, never stopping for the rest of his life.

When a senior minister of Chen was on a mission to Lu, he privately visited the Shu-sun family. “Our state of Lu has a sage,” said Shu-sun.

“Do you mean Kong Qiu?” asked the Chen minister.

“Exactly,” Shu-sun replied.

“How do you know he is a sage?” the minister asked.

“I once heard Yan Hui say, ‘Kong Qiu can keep the mind-spirit from directing the body, allowing the body to act naturally.’”

“Our state of Chen also has a sage,” said the minister. “Have you not heard of him?”

“Who is this sage?” Shu-sun asked.

“Kang Cangzi, a disciple of Lao Dan (Laozi),” the minister replied. “He grasped Lao Dan’s Dao and can see with his ears and hear with his eyes.”

When the ruler of Lu heard this, he was greatly astonished. He sent a high minister bearing generous gifts to invite Kang Cangzi. Kang Cangzi accepted and came to Lu. The ruler received him humbly and asked him to explain.

“The person who passed on that story got it wrong,” Kang Cangzi said. “I can see and hear without relying on my ears and eyes, but I cannot change the original functions of the ears and eyes.”

The ruler of Lu said, “That is even more extraordinary. What is your Dao like? I would very much like to hear you explain it.”

“My body is in accord with my mind; my mind with Qi; my Qi with spirit; and my spirit with emptiness,” Kang Cangzi said. “Whether it is something exceedingly subtle or a faint sound, even if it comes from the remote reaches of the eight directions or from just between my brows and eyes, once it comes to me, I know it. But I do not know it through the perceptions of the seven apertures—the ears, eyes, mouth, and nose—or the four limbs. Nor do I know it through the awareness of the six organs, such as the heart and lungs. I simply know it naturally.”

The ruler of Lu was delighted by what he heard. Later, he told Zhongni (Confucius) about it. Confucius merely smiled and said nothing.

The Grand Steward of the Shang state, an official in charge of state affairs, paid a visit to Confucius and asked, “Would you call yourself a sage?” Confucius replied, “How could I presume to call myself a sage? I am, however, indeed widely learned and well informed.”

The Grand Steward asked again, “Were the Three Kings—such as Yu of Xia, Tang of Shang, and King Wen of Zhou—sages?” Confucius answered, “The Three Kings were skilled at employing people of wisdom and courage. Whether they were sages, I do not know.” The Grand Steward continued, “Were the Five Emperors, the legendary rulers of high antiquity, sages?” Confucius said, “The Five Emperors were skilled at employing people of benevolence and righteousness. Whether they were sages, I do not know.” He then asked, “Were the Three Sovereigns, the legendary rulers of ancient times, sages?” Confucius replied, “The Three Sovereigns were skilled at adapting to the times. Whether they were sages, I do not know.”

The Grand Steward was astonished. “Then who counts as a sage?” he asked. Confucius grew solemn and paused for a moment before saying, “In the West there is a sage. He does not govern, yet the world is not in disorder; he gives no commands, yet people naturally trust and obey him; he does not instruct people, yet they act naturally of their own accord. His vision is so expansive that the people cannot describe it in words. I suppose he is a sage, but I do not know whether he truly is one or is not.”

The Grand Steward fell silent, thinking to himself, “Kong Qiu must be deceiving me!”

Zixia asked Confucius, “What kind of person is Yan Hui?” Confucius said, “Yan Hui surpasses me in benevolence.” Zixia then asked, “What kind of person is Zigong?” Confucius said, “Zigong surpasses me in eloquence.” He continued, “What kind of person is Zilu?” Confucius said, “Zilu surpasses me in courage.” Then he asked, “What kind of person is Zizhang?” Confucius said, “Zizhang surpasses me in solemnity.”

Zixia rose from his seat and asked respectfully, “If that is so, why do these four still follow you as their teacher?” Confucius said, “Sit down, and I will tell you. Yan Hui can be benevolent, but cannot in turn become harsh; Zigong can argue persuasively, but cannot in turn keep silent; Zilu can be brave, but cannot in turn show weakness; Zizhang can be solemn, but cannot in turn be easygoing.

“If I could combine all four men’s strengths and use them in my place, I would not agree to it. It is precisely because each has strengths but also shortcomings that they follow me as their teacher and never depart from the way between teacher and student.”

Liezi had already taken Huqiu Zilin as his teacher and befriended Bohun Wuren. Later, he lived in the southern quarter of the city. The people who studied with him and spent time with him every day were too numerous to count. Even so, Liezi remained unknown. They talked together every day, and nothing escaped their discussion. Liezi lived next door to Nangouzi for twenty years but never once called on him. Even when they met on the road, they acted as though they had not seen each other. Their students and servants therefore assumed that Liezi and Nangouzi must be enemies.

A man from Chu asked Liezi, “Do you and Nangouzi have some grievance between you?” Liezi replied, “Nangouzi appears full on the outside, but within he is empty. His ears do not hear, his eyes do not see, his mouth does not speak, his mind makes no distinctions, and his body is not stirred by external things. What would be the point of visiting him? Still, I can take you along to see him.” So Liezi set out with forty of his students.

When they met Nangouzi, he did indeed seem bereft of his soul, scarcely able to interact with others. Nangouzi glanced at Liezi, but Liezi appeared out of harmony in body and spirit, and likewise seemed unable to get along with the group. After a while, Nangouzi pointed to a student at the back of Liezi’s party and began speaking with him. His manner was composed, as though wholly attentive, forthright, and spirited. Liezi’s students were all astonished and perplexed.

Back at their lodging, every student wore a puzzled expression. Liezi said, “One who has grasped the Dao does not speak; one whose wisdom has advanced further also does not speak. To take silence as speech is still a kind of speaking; to take the absence of awareness as awareness is still a kind of knowing. Silence and speech, not knowing and knowing, are inherently difficult to separate completely. One may speak and know, or one may speak of everything and know everything; one may also say nothing and know nothing. That is simply how it is. Why are you all so bewildered?”

Liezi studied under Lao Shang. After three years, he no longer dared to think about right and wrong in his heart, or speak of what was beneficial or harmful. Only then did Lao Shang glance at him. After five years, Liezi again began to think about right and wrong and speak of benefit and harm. This time Lao Shang’s brow relaxed, and he smiled. After seven years, Liezi followed whatever came to mind without distinguishing right from wrong, and said whatever came to his lips without weighing benefit and harm. Lao Shang glanced at him, then called him over to sit beside him.

After nine years, Liezi let his thoughts and words run freely. He no longer knew what was right or wrong, beneficial or harmful for himself, nor what was right or wrong, beneficial or harmful for others. The divide between his inner self and the outside world gradually dissolved. At that point, his eyes seemed able to hear like ears, his ears to smell like a nose, and his nose to taste like a mouth; his mouth, too, no longer differed from the other senses. His mind and spirit grew still, and his body seemed to loosen, its bones and flesh melting away. He no longer noticed what his body leaned against or what his feet stood on, nor what his mind was thinking or where his words were kept. Once he had reached this state, nothing could obscure the principles of things.

At first, Liezi loved to travel. Huqiuzi, his teacher, asked him, “You enjoy traveling, Yuko. What is it about travel that draws you?” Liezi replied: “The body I rely on, the roads I tread, the things I think about, and what my words express—all are just as they are. Once one reaches this state, nothing can obscure the principles of things.”

Once, Liezi (Lie Yukou) loved to travel. Huqiuzi asked, “Yukou, you love to travel. What is it about traveling that you enjoy?” Liezi replied, “The pleasure of traveling lies in watching things constantly change. Ordinary people travel to see what is before their eyes; I travel to observe how things change. Travel, travel! No one has yet been able to distinguish the kind of traveling I mean.”

Huqiuzi said, “Yukou’s traveling is just like everyone else’s, yet he claims it is different? Everything we see is always changing. You attend only to the changes in things outside you, without realizing that you yourself are changing too. If you devote yourself to traveling outward, you will not know how to reflect inward. Those who travel outward seek completeness in external things; those who reflect inward seek fulfillment within themselves. To find fulfillment within yourself is the highest form of traveling. To seek completeness in external things means your traveling has not yet reached its highest level.”

Thereafter, Liezi never went out again for the rest of his life, believing that he still did not understand how to travel. Huqiuzi said, “Now that is the highest form of traveling! The traveler who truly reaches the highest level does not know where he is going; the observer who truly reaches the highest level does not know what he is looking at. Everywhere among the myriad things, one can travel; everywhere among the myriad things, one can observe. This is what I mean by traveling and observing. Truly, the art of traveling is sublime! Sublime!”

Longshu said to Wenzhi, “Your medical skill is remarkable. I have an illness…”

Long Shu said to Wen Zhi, “Your medical skill is exceptional. I have an illness. Can you cure it?” Wen Zhi replied, “As you wish. But first, tell me your symptoms.”

Long Shu said, “When people in my hometown praise me, I feel no honor; when people in the state slander me, I feel no shame. I take no pleasure in gaining things and feel no sorrow at losing them. I regard life as I regard death, wealth and rank as I regard poverty. I see other people as pigs and myself as an ordinary person. I live in my own home as though it were an inn, and look upon my homeland as though it were a foreign land. These symptoms cannot be stirred by rank or reward, nor frightened by punishment. Prosperity and decline, gain and loss, cannot alter me; sorrow and joy cannot move me. So I cannot serve a ruler, befriend others, or manage my wife, children, and servants. What sort of illness is this? How can it be cured?”

Wen Zhi had Long Shu 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 empty and open, almost like a sage’s. Six of its seven openings are clear; only one is blocked. Perhaps you take sagacity and wisdom for an illness because that one opening is blocked. This is beyond the reach of my meager medical skill.”

What endures naturally, without depending on anything external, is the Dao. What comes into being through nature and exists in this way does not truly perish even when its body comes to an end; this is the ordinary course. To come to an end through natural processes is misfortune. There is also a natural, ordinary death, which is likewise the Dao: to die through death is ordinary, even if one perishes before reaching the end of one’s allotted years; to return from death to life is fortunate. Thus, to live naturally, without depending on external forces, is called the Dao; to follow the Dao to the end of life is called the ordinary course. To die through dependence on something is also part of the Dao; to follow the Dao into death is likewise ordinary.

After Ji Liang died, Yang Zhu stood before his house singing. After Sui Wu died, Yang Zhu stroked his corpse and wept. When a servant was born or died, the people might sometimes sing and sometimes weep.

Some changes often show signs before they occur. A person about to go blind first finds the tiniest autumn hairs unusually clear; someone about to go deaf first hears the sound of mosquitoes in flight; someone whose sense of taste is about to fail can first distinguish the flavors of the Zi and Mian rivers; someone whose nose is about to become blocked first smells burning and decay; someone whose body is about to stiffen first feels compelled to run and flee; and someone whose mind is about to become confused first loses the ability to tell right from wrong. Thus, once things reach their extreme, they do not return to their former state.

The Zheng region around Puzhe had many worthy men, while Dongli was rich in talent. When Bofengzi, an official from Puzhe, passed through Dongli, he met Deng Xi. Deng Xi turned to his disciples with a smile and said, “Let me give you a little performance. What do you make of the man coming over there?” The disciples replied, “We’re eager to find out.” Deng Xi then said to Bofengzi, “Do you understand the principles of supporting others and being supported? Those who accept support from others but cannot stand on their own are like dogs and pigs. Those who can nourish all things and put them to their own use—that is what human ability looks like. Keeping your attendants well fed, warmly clothed, and comfortably at rest is the achievement of those who govern. You and your whole crowd, young and old, gather together to wait to be fed. How are you any different from livestock in a pen or kitchen?”

Bofengzi did not reply. One of his attendants stepped forward through the crowd and said, “My lord, have you not heard that Qi and Lu have many people skilled in different crafts? Some excel at carpentry and construction, others at metalworking and leatherwork; some at music, others at writing and calculation; some at military affairs, others at ancestral rites. They have every kind of talent. Yet none of these people can serve as prime minister entirely on their own, nor can anyone direct the work of others by himself. Those who hold office do not necessarily possess specialized wisdom, and those who give orders are not necessarily capable in every field. People with knowledge and skill are also directed by others. In truth, those who govern are the ones we put to work. What is there for you to boast about?” Deng Xi had no answer. He glanced at his disciples and left.

Gongyi Bo was renowned among the feudal lords 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 looked him over and thought he seemed timid and frail. Puzzled, he asked, “Just how great is your strength?”

Gongyi Bo replied, “I can break the legs of a spring grasshopper and bear the weight of an autumn cicada’s wings.”

The king’s expression darkened. “I can tear the hides of rhinoceroses and wild oxen and drag nine oxen by their tails, yet I still feel my strength is inadequate. You can only break a grasshopper’s legs and bear the weight of cicada wings, yet your name is known throughout the world. Why?”

Gongyi Bo sighed and left his seat. “Your Majesty asks a fine question. I will answer truthfully. My master, Shangqiu Zi, was the strongest person under heaven, yet even his own family did not know it, because he never displayed his strength. I served him with my life before he told me: ‘If you wish to see what others cannot see, observe what they pay no attention to. If you wish to obtain what others cannot obtain, do what they cannot do. So those learning to see begin by seeing a bundle of firewood; those learning to hear begin by hearing a bell being struck. When the heart finds something easy, nothing in the outside world is difficult. When nothing one does is difficult, one’s reputation naturally does not travel beyond one’s own household.’

“Now my name is known throughout the feudal lords. This shows that I went against my master’s teaching and displayed my ability. It seems, then, that I became famous not because I merely know how to show off my strength, but because I understand how to use it. Is that not better than merely knowing how to show off one’s strength?”

Gongzi Mou of Zhongshan was a talented and virtuous prince of Wei. He enjoyed associating with worthy men but took no interest in affairs of state, and he admired Gongsun Long, a man of Zhao. For this, Yuezheng Ziyu and his companions made fun of him.

Gongzi Mou asked, “Why do you laugh at me for admiring Gongsun Long?”

Ziyu replied, “Gongsun Long does not seek a teacher when he acts, nor a companion when he studies. He is eloquent, yet often unreasonable; his arguments are expansive but have no foundation. He enjoys discussing strange things, and his words have no bearing on reality. He tries to confuse people’s minds and overwhelm them with rhetoric, and he practices these debating tricks with Han Tan and others.”

Gongzi Mou’s expression changed. “Why do you describe Gongsun Long’s faults this way? Give me some specific examples.”

Ziyu said, “I laugh at Gongsun Long for deceiving Kong Chuan. He told Kong Chuan, ‘A skilled archer can shoot the head of one arrow into the tail of the arrow before it. The arrows join one after another without end. The first arrow has struck the target but has not yet fallen, while the tail of the next still seems to be caught on the bowstring. To the eye, the arrows appear to have become one.’ Kong Chuan was astonished. Gongsun Long went on: ‘Yet this is not the highest level of archery. Hong Chao, a disciple of Feng Meng, once angered his wife and used archery to frighten her. He drew the Wuhao bow, a famous bow of legend, set a precious Qiwei arrow to the string, and aimed at her eye. The arrow flew right up to it, yet she did not even blink; when the arrow fell to the ground, it did not stir a speck of dust.’ Is this something a wise person would say?”

Gongzi Mou said, “The words of the wise are not, by their nature, something foolish people can understand. The later arrow strikes the tail of the earlier one because the speeds of the two arrows are coordinated. For an arrow to fly right up to the eye without making it blink is to bring its speed to the utmost. What is there to doubt?”

Ziyu said, “You are a follower of Gongsun Long, so of course you cover up his faults. Let me tell you of even more outrageous things he has said. He deceived the King of Wei, saying, ‘There are thoughts in the mind, yet no mind; there is pointing, yet nothing is pointed at; things exist, yet cannot be exhausted; shadows do not move; a single hair can move a weight of ten thousand jun; a white horse is not a horse; and a lone calf has never had a mother.’ These claims overturn common sense and confuse the categories of things. There is no end to them.”

Gongzi Mou said, “You do not understand these profound arguments, and mistake them for faults. The real problem lies with you. ‘No mind’ means that mind and thought are one and the same. ‘Nothing is pointed at’ means that whatever one points to can be pointed at. There is always some aspect of a thing that cannot be exhausted. The claim that ‘shadows do not move’ speaks of the principle of change. ‘A single hair moves a weight of ten thousand jun’ means that force and circumstance happen to be perfectly matched. ‘A white horse is not a horse’ means that a particular form and its name are not the same. And ‘a lone calf has never had a mother’ does not refer to an actual calf that is alone and motherless.”

Ziyu said, “You treat all of Gongsun Long’s claims as reasoned arguments. If he spoke through some other orifice, I suspect you would agree with him too.”

Gongzi Mou remained silent for a long time, then rose to take his leave. “Let me come back another day and continue our debate.”

Yao ruled the realm for fifty years, yet did not know whether it was being governed well or whether the people wished to support him. He questioned those around him, officials at court, and ordinary people, but none gave him an answer. So Yao put on the clothes of a commoner and wandered along the main road. He heard children singing: “The people who nourish us—there is no one who does not receive your kindness. People do not deliberately seek knowledge or deliberately act; they simply follow the laws of the Celestial Emperor.” Yao was delighted and asked who had taught them the song. A child said that he had heard it from a senior official, who in turn said it was an ancient poem. When Yao returned to the palace, he summoned Shun and ceded the realm to him. Shun did not decline and accepted the realm.

Guan Yinxi, a Daoist figure, said: “The Dao is present within itself, yet does not remain fixed in any one place; the forms of all things emerge from it. In motion, it is like water; at rest, like a mirror; in response, like an echo. Thus the Dao seems to be all things themselves. Things may go against the Dao, but the Dao does not go against things. Those who are adept at apprehending the Dao do not listen with their ears, look with their eyes, exert themselves with their bodies, or deliberately seek it with their minds. If they try to apprehend the Dao by searching through sight, hearing, bodily form, and cleverness, they will not find it. It seems to be right before them, yet in an instant it is behind them.

“When put to use, it fills the four quarters of Heaven and Earth; when not in use, no one knows where it is. It cannot be sought from afar by those who deliberately apply their minds, nor can those who are entirely without intention readily draw near to it. Only those who apprehend it in stillness and let their nature come to fulfillment naturally can attain it. To know without becoming attached to feelings, and to act without deliberate effort—this is true knowledge and ability. If it arises from not knowing, how could there be feelings? If it arises from inability, how could there be action? It is merely like piling up clods of earth or gathering dust: though it may seem to be Wuwei (non-action), it does not accord with the Dao.”

Volume Five, “Questions of Tang” (Tang Wen)

Tang of Shang asked Xia Ge, “In the earliest times, were there already all the myriad things?” Xia Ge replied, “If there had been nothing at the beginning, how could the myriad things exist now? People in later generations might also say that there is nothing now. Would that make sense?”

Tang said, “Then the myriad things have no order of before and after?” Xia Ge replied, “The beginnings and endings of the myriad things have no fixed boundaries. A beginning may become an ending, and an ending may become a beginning. How can we know their order? But I do not know what lies beyond the myriad things, before events in the world began.”

Tang asked again, “Do the four directions, above and below, have limits?” Xia Ge replied, “I do not know.” Tang pressed him for an answer. Xia Ge said, “If there is nothing, there are no boundaries; if there is something, it must have an end. How could I know? But beyond the boundless, there is no further ‘boundless’; within the endless, there is no further ‘endless.’ Because beyond the boundless there is still no boundary, and within the endless there is still no end, I know that it has no boundaries or end. Whether it has boundaries or an end, though, I do not know.”

Tang asked again, “What is beyond the Four Seas?” Xia Ge said, “It is much like Qizhou, the name then used for the region where China lay.” Tang asked, “What evidence do you have?” Xia Ge replied, “I traveled east as far as Ying, and the people there were like the people here. When I asked what lay east of Ying, they said 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 what lay west of Bin, they said it was still like Bin. So I know that the Four Seas, the Four Wastes—the remote lands in the four directions—and the Four Extremities, the edges of heaven and earth, are no different.

“Great and small contain one another without end. To contain the myriad things is like containing heaven and earth. The myriad things are without end, so the scope that contains them is also without end. Heaven and earth have no bounds, so the scope that contains them has no boundaries either. How could I know that beyond heaven and earth there might not be an even greater heaven and earth? This, too, I do not know. But the ends of the four directions are no different from here. Great and small contain one another, and ultimately there is no end.”

Since that is so, Heaven and Earth, too, belong to the myriad things. The myriad things have their imperfections, so in ancient times the goddess Nüwa, a legendary deity of antiquity, smelted five-colored stones to mend a gap in the sky. She also cut off the feet of a giant turtle to support the pillars holding up the four quarters of Heaven. Later, Gonggong fought Zhuanxu for the imperial throne. In anger, Gonggong crashed into Mount Buzhou, breaking the pillar of Heaven and snapping the cords that held Earth in place. Heaven therefore tilted toward the northwest, and the sun, moon, and stars all moved in that direction. The southeast of Earth sank, so rivers and lakes flowed there.

Tang then asked, “Are there differences in size among the myriad things? Are some long and others short? Are there things that are the same, and things that differ?”

Ge replied, “East of the Bohai Sea, an unknown number of hundreds of millions of miles away, lies a vast, deep hollow with no visible bottom, called the Guixu, the legendary abyss where the waters of the sea converge. The waters of the eight directions and the nine regions, along with the waters of the Celestial River, all flow into it, yet its waters neither rise nor fall.

“Within the Guixu stand five mountains, named, in order, Daiyu, Yuanjiao, Fanghu, Yingzhou, and Penglai. Each mountain rises and falls across a stretch of thirty thousand li, and the level ground at its summit extends for nine thousand li. The five mountains lie seventy thousand li apart, facing one another like neighbors. Their palaces and terraces are built of gold and jade. The birds and beasts are white as snow, and trees like pearl and jade grow in profusion. Their flowers and fruits are delicious, and whoever eats them lives forever. Those who dwell on the mountains are descendants of immortals and sages; countless numbers fly back and forth between the mountains day and night.

“But the mountains have no fixed roots. They rise and fall with the tides, drifting about without a moment of stability. The immortals and sages were troubled by this, so they reported it to the Celestial Emperor. Fearing that the five mountains might drift to the far western edge and leave the immortals without a home, the Emperor ordered Yuqiang, a legendary deity, to send fifteen giant turtles to carry them. The turtles were divided into three groups that took turns, with each group changing over every sixty thousand years. Only then did the five mountains stand firm.

“A giant from the Kingdom of Longbo reached the place where the five mountains stood in just a few steps. With a single cast of his fishing line, he caught six of the giant turtles, took them all back to his country, and burned their shells for divination.”

As a result, the two immortal mountains, Daiyu and Yuanjiao, drifted to the North Pole and sank into the sea. The immortals and sages who were displaced and scattered became too numerous to count. The Celestial Emperor flew into a rage and reduced the territory of the Kingdom of Longbo, making it smaller, and shrank the bodies of its people as well. It is said that even in the times of Fuxi and Shennong, the people of Longbo still stood dozens of zhang tall. The Celestial Emperor also burned their bones to determine their numbers.

Forty thousand li east of the Central Land lies the Kingdom of Jiaoyao, whose people stand one chi and five cun tall. Far to the northeast there is another kind of people, called the Zheng, who stand nine cun tall.

South of Jingzhou grows a great tree called Mingling. It counts five hundred years as a spring and five hundred years as an autumn. In ancient times there was also a great Chun tree, which counted eight thousand years as a spring and eight thousand years as an autumn. Fungi growing on decaying soil sprout in the morning and die by evening. In spring and summer, tiny flying insects emerge from the rain and die as soon as they see the sun.

North of Zhongbei lies a vast sea called the Dark Sea, or the Celestial Pool. In it lives a fish several thousand li wide, its length matching its breadth, called Kun. There is also a bird called Peng, whose wings hang like clouds from the sky and whose body is as immense as its name suggests. Who in the world could know that such creatures exist? Yu the Great saw them with his own eyes; Boyi knew their names; and after hearing of them, Yijian recorded their names too.

Among the waterside grasses of the rivers lives a tiny insect called Jiaoming. They fly in swarms and settle on the eyelashes of mosquitoes without touching one another. They rest and move about there, yet the mosquitoes do not notice them. Lizhu and Ziyu, by day, strained their eyes and raised their brows to look closely, but could not see their forms. At night, Shi Kuang bent his head and listened intently, but could not hear their sounds.

Only the Yellow Emperor and Rong Chengzi, after fasting together for three months on Mount Kongtong, with their minds calm and their bodies seeming to lose all sensation, could slowly observe them with their spiritual awareness and faintly make out the Jiaoming, as one might see the landscape in a hollow of Mount Song. Then, slowly listening with their breath, they heard the insects’ voices, loud as thunder.

In the region of Wu and Chu, there is a large tree called the pomelo. Its leaves are deep green, and it can grow even in winter. Its fruits are bright red and taste sour and astringent. Eating its bark and sap can cure illnesses such as rebellious Qi and fainting. The people of Qi prized it, but when it was moved across the Huai River to the north, it became a trifoliate orange, a citrus plant with smaller, bitter, astringent fruit.

A myna bird cannot cross the Ji River, and a raccoon dog dies if it crosses the Wen River. This is caused by the local Qi of the land and water. Even so, their forms and vital energies differ, while their natures are much alike; neither can take the place of the other. Every living thing preserves itself in its own way, and each has its own sufficiency. How can I judge which is great or small, long or short? How can I judge whether they are the same or different?

Mount Taixing and Mount Wangwu each extend seven hundred li across and rise ten thousand ren high—an ancient measure signifying great height. They originally stood south of Jizhou and north of the Yellow River. In the north mountain lived an old fool named Yu Gong, who was nearly ninety. Facing the mountains…

Mount Taixing and Mount Wangwu each covered an area of seven hundred li and rose ten thousand ren high, an ancient measure for an immense height. They originally lay south of Jizhou and north of the Yellow River. At the foot of the northern mountain lived a man called Yu Gong, whose age was nearing ninety. Troubled by the mountains blocking the roads to the north and forcing people to take long detours, he gathered his family and said, “Let us do all we can to level these two obstacles, so the road will run straight to the southern part of Yu Province and reach the south bank of the Han River. What do you think?” Everyone agreed.

Yu Gong’s wife raised a concern: “With your strength, you couldn’t even cut down a small hill like Kuifu. What could you do about Mount Taixing and Mount Wangwu? And where would you put all the earth and rocks you dug out?” His family replied, “We’ll dump them by the shore of the Bohai Sea, north of Yintu.” Yu Gong then led three of his descendants who were strong enough to carry loads. They chipped at the rock and dug the earth, transporting it to the shore of the Bohai Sea in baskets. A neighbor, a widow from the Jingcheng family, had a child whose new teeth had just come in; the child also came skipping along to help. They made only one round trip between the mountains and the sea in the span of a year.

An old man from the bend of the Yellow River, nicknamed the Wise Old Man, laughed at Yu Gong and urged him to stop. “You’re not being sensible at all! At your age, with what little strength you have left, you couldn’t move a single blade of grass or tree on the mountain. What could you do with the earth and rocks?” Yu Gong sighed deeply and said, “Your thinking is so stubborn that no one can reason with you. You’re not even as wise as the widow’s child. Even when I die, I’ll leave sons behind; they will have sons, and those sons will have sons. The generations will never end, but the mountains will not grow any taller. Why worry that we cannot level them?”

The Wise Old Man from the bend of the Yellow River had no answer. The mountain spirit who held a snake heard about this and feared that Yu Gong would keep digging without end, so he reported it to the Heavenly Emperor. Moved by Yu Gong’s sincerity, the Heavenly Emperor ordered two sons of the Kua’e clan to carry the mountains away: one was placed east of Shuofang, and the other south of Yongzhou. From then on, no ridges blocked the road between southern Jizhou and the south bank of the Han River.

Kuafu overestimated his strength and tried to chase the sun’s shadow, pursuing it all the way to the valley where the sun sets. Thirsty, he ran to the Yellow River and the Wei River to drink. Their waters were not enough, so he prepared to head north to the Great Marsh for more. Before he could reach it, he died of thirst along the way. The walking stick he left behind, moistened by his body, grew into Deng Forest, a peach grove. Deng Forest spread for thousands of li in every direction.

Yu the Great said, “Within the four quarters of Heaven and Earth and among the four seas, the sun and moon shine, the stars move, and the seasons turn. The Grand Year (the ancient system of assigning years to celestial positions) sets the order of the seasons. The myriad things born of spirits take many different forms: some die young, while others live long. Only a sage can understand the principles behind this.”

Xia Ge said, “If so, then there are also beings that are not born of spirits, do not take shape through the changes of Yin-Yang, do not rely on the sun and moon for light, do not die young through killing, do not live long by being nurtured, eat no grains, wear no silk or padded clothing, and travel in neither boats nor carts. The principles they follow arise from nature and are beyond even the sage’s understanding.”

While regulating the waters and land, Yu the Great lost his way and strayed into a country. It lay north of the Northern Sea, countless tens of millions of li from Qizhou (the legendary central land); no one knew the distance. The country was called Zhongbei. No one knew where its borders lay or how they were defined. There was no wind, rain, frost, or dew, nor any birds, beasts, insects, fish, grasses, or trees. The land was level in every direction, encircled by lofty mountains. At its center stood a mountain called Huling, shaped like a wine jar. At its summit was a circular opening called the Zi Cave. Water welled up from it; this was called the Divine Spring, whose fragrance surpassed that of orchids and pepper and whose taste surpassed that of sweet wine. From a single source, the spring divided into four channels that flowed down the mountain and spread throughout the country. The local climate was balanced, and there were no epidemics. The people were mild in temperament and responsive to external things…