《列子集释》Vol. 1

Liezi lived in Putian in the state of Zheng—the lake and marsh country of that state, roughly in the area of today’s Xingyang and Zhongmou in Henan. He stayed there forty years, and no one really knew him. That does not mean he shut himself in and never dealt with the world; it means he did not mix with ordinary society. People could not see how deep his virtue ran, so to them he might as well have been a stranger. The ruler and the great officers treated him no differently from any common subject. Commentators explain this by saying he did not wrangle over right and wrong and left no fixed track in what he did, so others could not read him.

Later Zheng had a bad harvest and food ran short, and Liezi was about to travel to the state of Wei. In this passage jia does not mean “to marry off” but “to go,” “to proceed.” Commentators also cite the Erya glossary line “jia: wang ye” (“jia means to go”) to explain the usage, and they debate whether the Liezi or the Erya came first; from this wording alone you cannot settle which text borrowed from which.

The disciple said: “Master, on this journey you do not know when you will return. I take the liberty of asking something. What will you use to instruct us? Have you not heard the words of Master Huqiu Zilin?”

Liezi smiled and said: “What did Master Huqiu say? The four seasons turn and the myriad things grow—what need is there to push them forward with words? Still, our teacher once spoke to Boyin Man (a friend of Liezi and a fellow student when they studied together under Huqiu Zilin). I only overheard from the side and will try to tell you what he said.

“The teacher said: There are things that have life, and there is a root that does not give life; there are things that change, and there is a root that does not change. What is called ‘having life’ refers to these concrete forms before our eyes; what is called ‘not giving life’ is the root that enables the myriad things to grow yet is not itself produced by anything else. What is called ‘changing’ is the arising, passing, and transformation of the myriad things; what is called ‘not changing’ is what enables the myriad things to change yet does not change along with them.

“The root that does not give life can make the myriad things grow; the root that does not change can make the myriad things transform. Whatever has life cannot fail to undergo growth; whatever changes cannot fail to undergo transformation.”

Whatever has life does not, by itself, actively bring life into being; whatever undergoes change does not, by itself, actively drive that change. They simply cannot help being born and cannot help changing—this happens of its own accord.

All things cannot fail to be born, and cannot fail to transform; yet that which does not undergo change is the fundamental master of things that do change.

Whatever stands within change and motion cannot pause even for a moment. Life keeps appearing, the myriad things keep changing—there is no instant in which they are not growing, no instant in which they are not changing. Birth and transformation depend on each other; existence and extinction cycle back and forth, and the principle involved never breaks off.

Yin-Yang (the two opposing yet mutually transforming forces in heaven and earth) and the four seasons are the same. They too are caught in change, and they too belong to the realm of living, embodied things, turning with the natural course of things. The seasons alternate without rest; the transformations of the myriad things never cease.

Whatever is shaped by Yin-Yang and shifts with the seasons is a embodied thing. Moment by moment things alter; birth and death have no end—so they always remain within the process of birth and transformation.

What is called “the non-generated” is, roughly, a singular unique existence. As the root of what is not generated, it cannot be verified by any concrete thing; one can only infer that it is deep, unified, without beginning or end. Calling it “alone” (du) means it has nothing with which it can be compared. The scripture uses the word “doubt” (yi) to express cautious inference, showing how far and subtle the principle is.

What is called “the non-transforming” stands within cyclical return; that return has no end.

The relevant passages in Master Lü's Spring and Autumn Annals (Lüshi Chunqiu), “On Recognizing Standards” (Zhidu), and Master Shen (Shenzi), “Inner Chapters” (Neipian), are largely the same as this. Han Feizi, “On Doubt” (Shuoyi), has nǐ (to liken, to match), while Book of Han (Hanshu), “Treatise on Food and Money” (Shihuo zhi), has the line “those in distant places who can yí (match, emulate),” with Yan Shigu’s commentary saying yí should be read as nǐ. All of this can serve as collateral evidence. Here yídú (standing alone in doubt/emulation) is close in meaning to bǐdú (standing alone in comparison), and is set against wǎngfù (going and returning) below.

The phrase zhòngfù (second father, chief minister) rhymes with zhōngqióng (finally exhausted); in Old Chinese the two belong to the same rhyme category (Dong/Zhong type). Shiwen (commentary on pronunciation) says dài (perhaps, nearly) is read like dài (to wait).

The Book of the Yellow Emperor (Huángdì shū): Hui Dong held that this refers to what Laozi said. Laozi’s teaching probably goes back to the Yellow Emperor (Huángdì), so in Han times Huangdi and Laozi were often paired as “Huang-Lao” (Huáng-Lǎo). Shiwen says the Yellow Emperor’s surname was Gongsun and his personal name Xuanyuan; he obtained the way of long life and ruled for a hundred years. Book of Han, “Bibliographic Treatise” (Yiwen zhi), lists Huángdì shū in four pian (sections), Huángdì junchen (Yellow Emperor: ruler and ministers) in one pian, and Huángdì ming (Yellow Emperor inscriptions) in six pian; the thought in these works is close to Daoism. Yang Bojun’s note points out that in the current Yiwen zhi, Huángdì shū appears as Huángdì sijing (Four Classics of the Yellow Emperor), and Huángdì junchen as Shidao (Ten Ways)—not ten pian; Ban Gu’s own note says these works arose in the Warring States period and their thought is close to Laozi’s. There is also Za Huangdi (Miscellaneous [works attributed to] the Yellow Emperor) in fifty-eight pian; Ban Gu’s note says they were by worthies of the Warring States period.

“Gǔ shén bù sǐ” (the valley spirit does not die): commentators say there was once a book of this title, which is now lost. A valley is empty yet can hold the myriad things—like what Zhuangzi calls the “pivot at the center” (huán zhōng). Because it is empty and without substance, it is called the “valley spirit” (gǔ shén); because it was never born and never perishes, the text says “does not die.” Yang Bojun notes that this sentence appears in Laozi, chapter 6.

“Shì wèi xuán pìn” (this is called the dark female/mystery): this is a chapter in Laozi. Wang Bi’s commentary says: “It has no form and no shadow; it does not go against and does not obstruct. It stays in the lower place without moving, keeps to stillness without exhaustion. The valley relies on it to generate the myriad things, yet one cannot see its shape—this is the most fundamental being. It stays in the lower place and is hard to name, so it is called xuán pìn.” Yu Zhenxie said that in antiquity pìn referred to a valley; what is called xū pìn (empty female) is like what we today call a hollow or cavity.

The Zhu Zi Yu Lei says: “‘Pin’ is the hole in wood that can receive a tenon. ‘Yuan pin’ is the most refined kind of pin—not an ordinary one.” That gloss seems to touch the meaning yet not quite exhaust it. I have reflected on it carefully: as for the character yuan, the Baihu Tong, “Wuxing” chapter, says that yuanming means entering a dark place; thus yuan carries the sense of entering into pin. The commentary on the Tang Lü, “Weijin shang,” says that whatever has an opening or cavity that can receive and admit things is called pin. From this we see that yuan pin is an old expression. Stating the point in this way ought to spare Confucian scholars further dispute.

Bo Jun notes: In Wang Bi’s commentary on the Laozi, the text Zhang Zhan cites reads “therefore it is called the mysterious female (xuan pin),” whereas the current standard text reads “therefore it is called the root of Heaven and Earth.” The Shiwen writes wuying as wujing and marks pin with the reading bi ren qie; jing is pronounced like ying.

“The gate of the mysterious female—this is called the root of Heaven and Earth. Continuous, it seems to endure; use it and you will not be exhausted.” Wang Bi explains: “‘Gate’ is the place from which the mysterious female issues. Tracing it to its source, it is one body with the supreme ultimate (Taiji), hence it is called the root of Heaven and Earth. Say that it exists, yet you do not see its form; say that it does not exist, yet the myriad things are generated through it—hence it is said to be continuous, as if it endured. Nothing fails to be accomplished through it, yet it itself does not toil—hence it is said not to be exhausting.”

The commentary adds: in an empty valley, qi (vital energy) settles within; when the bodily form is empty, shen (spirit) dwells inside. “Mysterious” (xuan) means subtle and without fixed shape; “female” (pin) means the capacity to respond and function as things change. The coming and going of life all pass through this—hence it is called a “gate”; the root of form for the myriad things lies here—hence it is called a “root.” It cannot be seen, yet its efficacy is inexhaustible—therefore it is said to “seem to endure.”

“Xuan zhe” (the one who is profound/mysterious) is written as “yuan zhe” in the Qin inscription version. During the Qing, the Kangxi emperor was named Xuanye, so the character was taboo-avoided and changed; here the reading of the Sijie edition is adopted and corrected back to “xuan.”

Xu Weiyu holds that “qin” should be understood as “jin” (exhausted/complete). The Huainanzi, “Yuandao xun”, says “subtle yet not to be qin,” and Gao You glosses: “Qin means jin.” In the same chapter there is also “used yet not qin,” which Gao glosses as “qin means toil/labor.” That latter gloss matches Zhang’s note, but Xu Weiyu considers it inaccurate. Zhong Fu notes that “pin men,” “gen,” and “qin” rhyme—in Old Chinese they belong to the hun and hen rhyme groups.

The Shiwen records: “mian” is read with the fanqie wu yan qie; “xie” with yi zhe qie—the “xie” below is read the same way.

“The source that makes the myriad things be born does not itself be born; the source that makes the myriad things transform does not itself transform.” Similar wording appears in the Zhuangzi. Xiang Xiu glosses: My life is not created by me, hence life arises of itself. What is it that creates life? It has no concrete entity—hence we say it does not be born. My transformation is not brought about by some concrete thing, hence transformation happens of itself. What is it that brings about transformation? It too has no concrete entity—hence we say it does not transform. If the source that makes things be born had itself to be born, and the source that makes things transform had itself to transform, then it would transform along with the myriad things—how would it differ from them? Only when one grasps that source which neither is born nor transforms can one understand how it serves as the root of birth and transformation.

The commentary takes this “spirit” (shen) as the master of life: it can make the myriad things arise and change, yet nothing can make it arise or change.

Wang Shumin suggests that before “hence it is not born” in the comment there may be a lacuna of three characters, “wu wu ye” (there is no thing). Supplied, “There is no thing; hence it is not born” would pair with the following “There is no thing; hence it does not transform”—mutually answering each other. The Shiwen records that Xiang Xiu, courtesy name Ziqi, was a Jin dynasty changshi who wrote a commentary on the Nanhua zhenjing (Zhuangzi).

Xiang Xiu (a Western Jin scholar who served as Palace Attendant and wrote a commentary on the Nanhua Zhenjing [Classic of Nanhua]) said: “The myriad things grow and change of themselves, manifest form and color of themselves, exert wisdom and strength of themselves, and dissolve and come to rest of themselves.”

Zhang Zhan commented: “All of this happens naturally and spontaneously—how could there be some lord or master pulling strings from behind?”

Zhongfu said: “Se, li, xi [form/color, power, cessation] rhyme; in old phonology they belong to the Zhide rhyme group. To claim that some lord makes things grow and change, display form and color, exert wisdom and strength, and dissolve and cease—that claim is mistaken.”

Zhang Zhan commented further: “If a conscious lord deliberately arranged growth and change and form and color for things, how could he also embrace heaven and earth, contain the myriad things, and nourish all living beings without leaving any out?”

The Jie [Explanation] says: “The wondrous operation turns by itself and is not driven by outer things. If, through emotional attachment, one fixates on the tangible and treats oneself as just another thing subject to birth-and-transformation, neither attitude accords with the Dao.”

Yu Yue held that wei here should be read as wei [“to deem / to take as”]. In early texts wei and wei sometimes interchange. The lines above speak of things growing and changing, showing form and color, exerting wisdom and strength, and dissolving and ceasing of themselves; so the point here is that it is wrong to deem that a lord makes the myriad things undergo birth-and-transformation, present form and color, exert wisdom and strength, and dissolve and cease. Zhang Zhan’s note—“it all happens naturally; where is a lord operating behind the scenes?”—says exactly that.

Tao Hongqing rejected Yu Yue’s reading of wei as wei. He argued that wei should be taken as in the Daode Jing: “together we call it the Origin”—the myriad things stem from the formless; the formless has no name; if one forces a name upon it, that naming is inappropriate. Later Liezi says “this is not things’ proper name,” and a note adds “things have their real states; they do not exist only through borrowed names”—which fits this reading. Reading wei as wei, he thought, weakens the sense.

Bo Jun notes: In Zhang Zhan’s phrase about “…all living beings without omission,” the Zang, Song, and Sijie editions write zhan (“to look upon”); the Shide Hall Shiwen has shan (“to nourish, to supply”). Shan is correct here.

In the Shuowen Jiezi, the character written as “shan” in the sense of “to supply” appears as “zhan” (to look toward) in some editions—the Cangben, Songben, and Sijieben—but as “shan” in the Shiwen and the Shide Hall edition; “shan” is taken as correct. The Shuowen defines “zhan” as facing something and looking at it; in a supplementary entry it gives “shan” the meaning of supplying or providing. A note on the Mencius, “Gongsun Chou” chapter, explains “shan” as “sufficient” or “fully provided.” Here it should be understood as supply or sufficiency.

For “yi” (to leave out, omit), the Shiwen and Shide Hall edition write “kui” (exhausted, depleted); “yi” is preferred. The line means: if in the mind there is a will to generate the myriad things, there must necessarily be partiality; yet now it governs heaven and earth and holds the myriad things together without omission or lack—whence one knows that it generates and transforms by itself, and is not generated or transformed by some other power.

Yu Yue read “wei” as “wei” (to say, to mean), which makes the sense smoother. Tao Hongqing’s counter-argument is regarded as not yet settled. The Shiwen writes “zhi” (know) for “zhi” ( wisdom), and “kui” for “yi,” with notes: “zhi” is read as “zhi” (wisdom), the same below; “shan” is read shi-yan qie; “kui” is read kui, meaning exhausted or used up.

Liezi said: “The sages of old regulated heaven and earth in accordance with the transformations of Yin and Yang.”

What is meant here by “heaven and earth” is the largest example drawn from among things that have form; “Yin and Yang” is used to explain the patterns by which heaven and earth operate. Every thing that has form has a basis for its coming into being and for how it runs. Heaven and earth are the greatest among them; what drives heaven and earth is Yin and Yang. Yin and Yang are transformations of Qi (vital energy); in themselves they have no fixed shape. Heaven and earth, through the changes of Yin and Yang, display the process by which the myriad things grow and perish.

Changes of Yin and Yang are relatively easy to recognize, but the wondrous nature of spirit is hard to make clear. Therefore Yin and Yang are used to explain what is harder to grasp: from this one can know that wondrous efficacy governs form, and that the life of form arises from this.

Things with form arise from what is without form. To “arise” means no longer being wholly “nothing”; yet what is wholly nothing cannot give birth to things. Since being and non-being cannot transform into each other, whence do things actually come? They seem to appear suddenly and naturally, yet no one knows why they are born. Since the source cannot be known, their coming into being is like arising naturally from nothing—but that does not mean they are truly empty. The point is: things with form shape themselves, and what is without form makes them manifest.

Then whence did heaven and earth come? Heaven and earth have no external source; they generate themselves naturally. Heaven and earth are the greatest among things with form; Yin and Yang are not spirits with mind and awareness. If things with form arise from what is without form, do heaven and earth then also have mind and consciousness? If heaven and earth are not produced by something else, whence do they come? Raising this question is meant to show that the myriad things all have their coming into being.

The commentary explains that “arising naturally” (ziran er sheng) means that the myriad things come into being of themselves. The Yulan (Imperial Readings) quotes the text as “arising naturally.”

Thus the cosmos passes through four phases: Taiyi (Great Simplicity), Taichu (Great Beginning), Taishi (Great Inception), and Taisu (Great Element). This describes how things move from the subtle to the manifest, with change linking stage to stage in a gradual process of formation.

Taiyi is the phase in which Qi (vital energy) has not yet appeared. “Yi” here suggests unobstructed flow and inexhaustible reach. At that time the myriad things were condensed, silent, and still, dwelling in the Great Void (taixu)—what could be seen there? This resembles what the Xici (Appended Remarks) of the Yijing calls the “Taiji (Supreme Ultimate),” and what Laozi describes as “undifferentiated completion” (huncheng)—the state before chaos was divided.

Taichu is the phase in which Qi first emerges. Yin and Yang have not yet separated; this is what the text below calls “undifferentiated chaos” (hunlun)—the state of mixture before distinction.

Taishi is the phase in which form first appears. Yin and Yang are already divided; the myriad things take shape from this and show distinct configurations.

Taisu is the phase in which material nature first appears. “Quality” (zhi) here means the inherent character of things. Once things are formed, each acquires its own nature—such as square or round, soft or hard, still or active, heavy or light.

When Qi, form, and quality are all present but not yet separated from one another, the commentary adds that the discussion here covers only Qi, form, and quality, and no longer treats Taiyi; Taiyi is the root of these three, and will be explained separately later.

Ren Dachun said: The Huainanzi, “Benjing xun,” states: “When merged qi transforms into things, they become categories of lie.” Gao You glosses: “Lie means form or shape.” “Yaolüe xun” has “the portent of xinglie (form-and-shape),” “Chuzhen xun” has “the Dao that possesses chapters and xinglie,” and “Binglüe xun” has “What has xinglie, all under Heaven sees it openly.” In every case Gao You takes xinglie as “shape”; the received text writes lie and does not write the plow-related graph. The Shuowen, Yuzhou, and Guangyun all list lie and do not list the plow graph; the Lei pian lists the plow graph with the gloss “raising soil when tilling fields,” the same sense as “the king plows one furrow.” Lie and the plow graph differ in meaning; writing lie as the plow graph is probably a borrowed character.

Furthermore, Jingshun in the Shiwen said: “Graphs written with the hu element are treated in transmission as mistaken.” In the Huainanzi, “Yaolüe xun,” the phrase “Ying hu has the disposition of being and non-being”—the Lei pian glosses hu as lie; that is what Jingshun meant by graphs from hu. The sense of hu matches hu (the particle/graph hu), and lie also takes its phonetic from hu, so the meaning can be made coherent. Still, Jingshun called this a transcription error; the exact reason is not yet clear.

“Yi changes and becomes One.” [Note] What is called yi is deep, dim, and unalterable; “one qi” transforms in dependence on it, so the label “change” is used provisionally to explain. In the note, “shi zhi” (rely on it)—the Yulan citation has “chi zhi” (hold it). The Shiwen writes huang for huang (dim) and explains: from One, through change one reaches Nine—this is the number of dayan (great expansion). “Hu” is read hu; “huang” is read kuang wang qie.

“One change becomes seven; seven changes become nine. Nine changes is the ultimate.” [Note] “Jiu” (ultimate) means exhausted. Speaking of one change as seven and of change again as nine does not enumerate digits in the order of transformation; rather, it brings out the full set of yang numbers to sum their total. Hu Huaichen said: Zhang Zhan’s commentary is not very clear.

On ancient Chinese schemes of number and cosmogony, one well-known formula runs: “The One gives birth to Two, Two gives Three, and Three gives birth to the ten thousand things.” This line appears in the Laozi. Another formula runs: “One divides into two, two into four, and four into eight.” That sequence describes Taiji (the supreme ultimate as cosmic origin), Liangyi (the two modalities, yin and yang), the Sixiang (Four Images), and the Bagua (Eight Trigrams), as set out in the Xici (“Appended Phrases”) commentary on the Yijing (Book of Changes).

There is also the saying “one changes into seven, seven changes into nine,” which comes from the Zhouyi Qian Zuodu (Qian Opening the Groove—a wei (apocryphal) exegesis of the Zhouyi). Zhang Zhan’s commentary states that the whole of this chapter derives from the Zhouyi Qian Zuodu. Yet what “one changes into seven, seven changes into nine” actually means remains hard to pin down.

The Shiwen (phonetic and lexical commentary) records the reading here as “then it changes back into one.” Yu Yue argued that the character for “change” (bian) is a spurious insertion and that the original text should read: “Nine is the ultimate of change; then it changes back into one.” He surmised that because the lines above speak of “one changing into seven” and “seven changing,” a later copyist mistakenly wrote “nine changes” (jiu bian) for “nine is” (jiu zhe), which made the sense seem redundant.

Sun Yirang held that this chapter matches the wording of the Yiyi Qian Zuodu (the same material in the Yijing apocryphal tradition). There the text reads “Nine is the ultimate of the transformation of qi,” paired with the following line “One is the beginning of the transformation of form.” On that basis, this book too should originally have read the same way; in the received text, the “change” character was wrongly shifted before zhe, and the word qi was dropped. Wang Chongmin and Wang Shumin both agreed with Sun Yirang. Wang Chongmin also noted that a quotation in the Taiping Yulan reads “nine changes is the ultimate of,” which is likewise corrupt, while the Fayuan Zhulin quotes “nine is the ultimate of change,” missing only qi. In light of these citations and emendations, the original line was very likely “Nine is the ultimate of the transformation of qi.”

When Fayuan Zhulin cites this line, it reads “the nine is the ultimate of change,” simply omitting the word for Qi. In the explanatory notes, the character written as the ancient form of nai (then/thus) is discussed.

“One” is the starting point of corporeal change. The commentary says: once one enters the realm of form, principle and number push each other forward, developing from “one” through to “nine.” Nine is the end of counting; when nine is reached, one returns again to one; returning to one means returning to the starting point of corporeal change. This shows that change goes round and round in cycles without end.

Clear, light Qi rises and becomes Heaven; turbid, heavy Qi sinks and becomes Earth. The commentary says: the distinction between Heaven and Earth is nothing but the natural sorting of empty versus solid, clear versus turbid. The whole of this chapter draws on Qian Zuodu (traditionally linked to the Zhouyi). The commentary to the Xizheng Fu in Wen Xuan, when citing this passage, writes “light and clear” and “heavy and turbid” as “clear and light” and “turbid and heavy.”

Qi in which Yin and Yang are harmonized congeals and becomes the human being. The Xizheng Fu commentary in Wen Xuan cites this as “chonghe Qi” (harmonizing-and-blending Qi). Tao Hongqing held that chong should be read as zhong (middle/center), meaning Qi of central harmony. Wenzi, “Nine Guardians,” says that in antiquity the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors had a warning vessel called the youzhi: when water stood in the middle of the vessel it stayed upright; when filled to the brim it overturned. This shows that chong can stand for zhong. Wenzi, “Essence of Sincerity,” also says “holding chong, containing harmony”; Huainanzi, “Grand Unity,” writes chong as zhong—all of which prove the two graphs interchange. Zhong (center) corresponds to the preceding “above as Heaven, below as Earth”: it means harmonizing Qi situated between Heaven and Earth. Wenzi, “Superior Virtue,” says: “The ten thousand things turn their backs to yin and face yang; through chonghe Qi they reach harmony; harmonizing Qi dwells in the center.” The sense is the same as here.

Therefore Heaven and Earth store refined essence; the ten thousand things are thereby engendered and formed. The commentary says: from this one infers that Yin and Yang Qi meet everywhere, forming harmonizing Qi; with harmonizing Qi, human beings can be generated. Once a person is generated, there is something to rely on for establishing the self.

The exegesis holds that one, three, five, seven, and nine are yang numbers. When yang numbers reach their limit they return to one; operating thus in cycles, there is no end.

The Yijing says: “What is rooted in Heaven draws close to what is above; what is rooted in Earth draws close to what is below.” What draws close to what is below is the kind of thing we call plants; what draws close to what is above is the kind of thing that has awareness. So animals have spirit-consciousness (shenshi), while plants have no awareness. What lacks awareness is formed through the transformations of qi; what has spirit-consciousness changes as consciousness shifts and moves.

Thus, from “Great Change” (Taiyi), “Great Beginning” (Taichu), to “Chaos” (hunlun), what is described is the gradual unfolding of qi. The most refined portion within it is called Shen (spirit). Where spirit-qi is subtle and clear, one becomes a worthy or a sage; where spirit-qi is mixed and turbid, one becomes ordinary and dull. Living beings differ in form and endowment, so their kinds are many.

Zhongfu said: The Yijing, “Appended Remarks” (Xici) records: “When male and female unite, Yin-Yang qi begets the myriad things.” Bo Jun notes: The Changes passage cited here appears in the “Commentary on the Decision” (Wenyan) for the Qian hexagram. In antiquity jing (“essence”) and sheng (“birth/begetting”) rhymed, belonging to the same rhyme groups geng and qing. The commentary and pronunciation gloss in the Shiwen states that yi in that line should be read with the pronunciation of qi.

Liezi said: “Heaven and earth do not possess all possible functions; the sage does not possess all possible abilities; and the ten thousand things do not possess all possible uses.” Here, “complete” (quan) means fully equipped for every role.

Heaven’s office is to make the ten thousand things grow and to spread over them; earth’s office is to give them form and to bear them; the sage’s office is to teach and transform the multitude; and each of the ten thousand things has uses that suit it. Things are born each with its own nature; natures differ, and what each is fit to do differs as well. Therefore heaven has what it cannot do, earth has what it excels at; the sage too has what he cannot accomplish, while the ten thousand things each have places where they can function. A thing’s form or capacity fits only in certain respects; shifted to other respects, it meets obstruction. As Wang Bi put it, forms each have their limits, and sounds each belong to their pitch: what is warm cannot become cold, and the gong tone cannot become the shang tone.

Why is this so? Heaven, which grows and covers, cannot like earth give form and bear; earth, which gives form and bears, cannot teach the ten thousand things; the sage, who teaches and transforms, also cannot go against what each thing is naturally suited to. When each follows what suits it, affairs run smoothly. What is already fixed as suited to a certain role cannot step outside its allotted place and measure. Commentators hold that the ten thousand things each have set boundaries that must not be violated; some textual critics suspect that in the line “what is fixed as suited cannot leave its place,” a character for “able” (neng) may be missing after “not” (bu).

The phrases "cannot exceed one's own position" and "cannot bear physical form" share the same sentence pattern. The next line, "one who cannot leave the place assigned to them," includes the character for "ability" (neng), which can serve as evidence. Zhang Zhan's commentary suggests that the version he saw had not yet suffered textual corruption.

The Shiwen (Textual Explanations) states that "fen" (division/portion) is read with the pronunciation fu wen qie, and the same applies to "fen" in "ming fen" (name and boundary) and "xing fen" (form and boundary) below. Thus the pattern of heaven and earth's operation is either yin or yang; the sage's teaching is either benevolence (ren) or righteousness (yi); each thing's appropriate nature is either soft or hard. All of these follow their respective needs and cannot step outside their original place.

[Note] Square and round, stillness and agitation—by the logic of things they cannot be combined in one and the same entity. Yet when one examines concrete shapes and things, names and boundaries must not be confused; when one follows the Way and handles matters accordingly, square and round need not necessarily clash. Therefore the virtue (de) of yin and yang in heaven and earth, and the Way (dao) of the sage, can both nurture living beings and extend grace to the myriad things, allowing each to fully display a nature that is clear, tranquil, steadfast, and pure. Different paths thereby connect with one another, and movement and stillness return to a unified clarity. This is because the sage does not go against the innate nature of things, and things do not violate the sage's teaching. Whoever clings to only one side is simply blocked by physical form and by the limits of division. The operation of the Way is always deep and penetrating, and does not depend on anything external.

[Explanation] The movement of qi (vital energy) can cover and support the myriad things; the movement of shen (spirit) can carry out teaching and transformation. Seen in this light, heaven and earth generate the myriad things, while the sage applies them according to each thing's form. Zhongfu said: In the commentary, "jing zao" (stillness and agitation)—the quotation in the Qunshu Zhiyao (Essentials of Government from the Collective Books) has "jing zao" (tranquility and agitation). The Shiwen states that "tao" is read as "dao" and means to cover; "cui" is read as "sui" and means deep and remote.

Therefore there are things that come from birth, and there is also the root that enables the myriad things to be generated; there is physical form, and there is also the root that gives form its shape; there is sound, and there is also the root from which sound is emitted; there is color, and there is also the root by which color appears; there is flavor, and there is also the root from which flavor arises.

[Note] Form, sound, color, and flavor all appear suddenly; they cannot generate themselves. Hence there must be a root that makes them come into being. Since they cannot generate themselves, that root is the basis of wuwei (non-action).

Wuwei (non-action)—acting in accord with nature and not forcing outcomes—is the root of all things. It does not fix itself to any single appearance, nor cling to any single flavor, and so it can be master of form and qi; every movement of the myriad things is driven by it.

The beginning of what has form is called “birth”; what allows life to arise is form and spirit—the inner force that keeps the body and life in motion. Whatever gives form its shape, sound its voice, color its hue, and flavor its taste is the work of shen (spirit): it governs the formed through the formless.

Things born from “birth” must in the end die, yet the root that keeps the myriad things endlessly renewing never ceases. A form shaped by some process becomes a concrete thing, but the root that enables form itself does not show up as any particular shape. Sound is heard, yet the root that produces sound does not itself sound; color appears, yet the root that presents color does not itself show; flavor is tasted, yet the root that yields flavor does not itself appear as flavor. All of this is the operation of wuwei.

Whatever is confined to one fixed form will shift and perish with change; hence every living individual must end, while the root that endlessly renews the myriad things does not change with them. As for “supreme nonbeing” (zhi wu), precisely because it has no form and leaves no trace, it can be the foundation of countless transformations. Form, sound, color, and flavor cannot generate or distinguish themselves on their own; what works hidden behind them is shen. Without deliberate striving, it yet makes the myriad things transform.

The commentary cites Huainanzi, “Spirit Training”: when a tree dies it still looks green because the green has departed from the tree—the root that makes the tree grow is not the tree itself. From this one may say that the root that gives birth to things does not die, and the root that transforms things does not change along with what it transforms.

It can manifest every paired state: yin and yang, soft and hard, short and long, round and square, life and death, heat and cool, floating and sinking, the gong and shang pitches, showing and hiding, black and yellow, sweet and bitter, gamy odors and fragrance. Jiang Youhao held that yang, gang (hard), fang (square), liang (cool), shang, huang (yellow), and xiang (fragrance) rhyme—in Old Chinese they belonged to the same yang rhyme group. Shan (written with the “sheep” radical), read shi lian qie, denotes the rank, gamy smell of mutton and similar foods.

It neither knows nor can do anything, yet knows everything and can do everything. The commentary explains: when knowledge reaches its limit, it is as if there were no knowledge; when capacity reaches its limit, it is as if there were no capacity—hence “neither knows nor can” and yet “knows all and can do all.”

He Yan’s Lun Dao (Discourse on the Dao) says: what is you (being) becomes being only by depending on wu (non-being) to come forth; affairs are accomplished only through wu. The Dao cannot be stated in words or fixed by a name; it has no visible form and no audible sound—this is the Dao in its fullness. It lets sound and echo appear, lets qi and the myriad things arise; it holds form and spirit together and lets light and shadow show. Through it, the dark becomes black and the plain becomes white; the square is set by the carpenter’s square and the circle drawn by the compass. Round and square then have shape, while the Dao itself has no shape; black and white then have names, while the Dao itself has no name.

[Commentary] The Laozi says: “I do not know whose child it is—it seems to have been before the Lord on High (di).” That is the Dao being spoken of. The Dao is prior to Heaven and Earth; it can make ghosts, spirits, and the Lord on High manifest. No one can fully know it, and no one can demonstratively prove it. Whoever personally grasps and embodies this Dao can penetrate all that lies between Heaven and Earth and act as if capable of everything.

The Liezi records that Liezi was traveling to the state of Wei when he stopped to eat along the road. Someone in his party noticed a human skull that had lain there for a hundred years. In the text, dulou denotes the bones of the head—that is, a skull. The notes in the original about writing jing for ying, and about how to read lun, shi, ming, xiang, and jing, are editorial remarks on variant readings and pronunciation; jing here is used in the sense of ying (shadow or reflected image).

Liezi was on his way to the state of Wei. While eating beside the road, those traveling with him saw a skull that had lain there for a century. Tao Hongqing argued that Liezi himself should have been the one who saw the skull, pulled up wormwood, and pointed it out to his disciple Bai Feng—so the wording should not be “those traveling with him saw [it].” In the “Zhi Le” chapter of the Zhuangzi the text reads as if one “saw a hundred-year-old skull from the road,” without the particle often rendered as “zhe.” Tao held that the passage ought to follow that wording.

Tao took “cong jian” to mean “saw [it] from the road,” understanding “cong” as referring to the road. Ji Bin considered that reading unsatisfactory: “cong” is likely a scribal error for “tu” (traveler/by the way). In early phonology “tu” and “tu” (road, as in “on the road”) could interchange, so “eating on the road” is the intended sense. Tao was correct that “zhe” is a later interpolation, but he wrongly attributed the Zhuangzi passage to the “Qiu Shui” chapter instead of “Zhi Le.”

The Shiwen records “eating on the road (dao tu),” citing Sima Biao’s gloss of “tu” as the roadside, and also notes a variant that writes “cong.” “Dulou” is read du-lou and means a skull. “Qian peng er zhi” is to pull up wormwood and point with it; “qian” means to pull up. The Leiju quotation has “qian peng er zhi zhi,” and the Shiwen writes the plant name as “feng” for “peng,” with a note that “qian” should be read jian.

Gu said to his disciple Baifeng: “Only that man and I understand that we have never truly been born and have never truly died.”

The commentary explains: If you look only at the changes of the physical form, I am alive and he is dead; if you press to the root of change, then in principle there is neither true birth nor true death. It adds: The body has birth and death; spirit (shen) is not something to which birth and death apply. I seem to be someone whose spirit remains; he seems to be someone whose spirit has left. The skeleton and I look different with respect to birth and death, but if you grasp that spirit has never truly been born or died, you know it has never truly come into being or truly perished.

“Is this because of excessive worry about nurturing life? Or because of excessive delight?” The commentary says: Once there is a body, one cannot avoid anxiety about preserving it; once there is life, one cannot avoid joy. Yet such worry and joy are the slips of ordinary people, not the way things are in themselves. The commentary also holds that, having received a body, one worries, rejoices, and clings to nurturing life—and in the end one moves toward death. Hong Yi notes that in the Zhuangzi chapter “Perfect Joy” (Zhi le), both occurrences of the word rendered here as “excessive” (guo) appear in the text as guo (fruit). Yu Yue argues that yang should be read as yang (ailment), meaning sorrow; you (worry) and huan (joy) are paired, just as sorrow and joy are paired. The graphs for ailment (yang) and nurture (yang) could interchange in early writing; in the Classic of Poetry, “Two Sons in a Boat,” the line zhongxin yangyang is glossed with yang as sorrow.

“How many kinds are there?” The commentary: The question first asks how many kinds of change there are; the text below will take them up one by one.

Su xing (also called shui xi, a rush-like plant that grows at the water’s edge, related to alisma) sends up jointed stems section by section without a fixed root anchored in soil, hence the name “shui xi” (water sandal). That fits the main text’s line that “given water it can grow.”

The Shiwen gloss reads the character □ as ji. Sima Biao explains: although things already show signs of sprouting, they only grow on in succession once moistened by water qi. Plants that live where water meets earth form what is called bin zhi yi—a coating of moss or algae-like growth on objects in the water. Here yi means a covering, not a garment in the human sense.

Wang Xianqian notes that the Erya, “Explanation of Plants,” records yu and xu; Guo Pu glosses xu as what is today called ze xie (alisma). On that identification, the plant in question is shui xi. The Bencao calls alisma shui xie, again shui xi. Tao Hongjing says its leaves are long and narrow and grow in clumps in shallow water. Su Song’s Illustrated Classic says the leaves resemble ox-tongue grass, single and long; in autumn it bears white flowers clustered like gujing grass, and the roots are dug and dried at the end of autumn. Read this way, the passage’s “growing where water and soil meet” refers to the fact that only after it takes root is there a harvestable root.

Ma Xulun cites the Erya, “Explanation of Plants”: “tan is stone garment.” Hao Yixing holds that tan and tai (moss) are near in sound, and that what old books call shui yi (water garment) is moss, also named stone garment or fish garment. The Zhouli, “Master of Pickling,” lists bin pickle among the offering baskets; Zheng Zhong glosses bin as fish garment in the water. Hao Yixing therefore takes bin zhi yi in the text to be fish garment. The character bin appears in various old books as bin, bi, and related forms; associated graphs and glosses were mixed up in transmission.

The Bencao (pharmaceutical literature) states that qifu (also written qicáo, the larvae of scarabs and related beetles) grow in marshlands within river basins, as well as in household manure piles and heaps of straw. Specimens that crawl with the body arched backward are considered medicinally superior. Tao Hongjing notes that qi is also written qi (another graph for the same insect); the Fangyan says qi is another name for the same creature. Here the two graphs are near homophones.

Ma Xulun points out that qicáo and cáoqi are not the same insect. Han Baosheng, Su Song, and Chen Cangqi also distinguished them. The “Formless” chapter of Lunheng says that qicáo transforms into fuyu, and fuyu in turn becomes the cicada. Chen Cangqi says qicáo live in manure soil, have short bodies and long legs, and carry hair and sinew on the back; from summer through autumn they molt and turn into cicadas. Li Shiwen says qicáo look like silkworms but larger, with short bodies and tight segments, and long legs covered with hair. Those born in tree roots or dung are yellow outside and black within; those born on old thatched roofs are white outside and dark black inside.

The Shiwen cites Guo Pu’s commentary on the Erya, saying this insect lives in trees. Although people everywhere today call it xie (scorpion), what they mean by that name is not the same everywhere. “Its ye becomes a butterfly”: the commentary explains that gen is the root entity and ye is what branches off from it—meaning wuzu is the root of qicáo, and its terminal part differentiates and becomes the butterfly. For the phrase “its terminal,” a Northern Song edition reads “its not-yet”; Wang’s edition also follows “its not-yet”; here the reading is corrected to “its terminal” following the Sijie edition.

The Shiwen says die is read die (same as jiádié, the butterfly); jia is read jia. In “the butterfly xu ye,” xu is glossed as “all,” meaning every kind of thing can transform. Yu Yue holds that xu ye should be read with the next line, as “the butterfly xu ye transforms and becomes an insect”—thus matching the following “… after a thousand days becomes a bird”: “a thousand days as bird” stresses how long the change takes, while “xu ye transforms and becomes an insect” stresses how swift the change is. The master’s interpretation cited in the Shiwen also takes xu to mean “slight” or “little,” i.e., the time required for transformation is very short.

“Jiu” means “old.” “You” is a kind of worm. The nine you worms are produced from the small insect maorui. Zhu Junsheng held that “maorui” is the same as “mao [variant character]” with only a change in pronunciation. The commentary states that “mao” can be read as “mao” or “mou,” and “rui” is read as “rui” (meaning a small fly-like insect that flits about). Maorui in turn arises from fuxuan. The commentary treats these as examples of life returning after death in another form. “Fu” is read as “fu,” and “xuan” as “quan,” with some also reading it as “huan,” referring to the yellow beetle found inside melons.

Sheep liver transforms into “digao.” Bo Jun’s note cites Liu Rulin’s view that “digao” here should be written as “digao” (earth paste); “gao” and “xue” (blood) are often paired, so “digao” means “earth blood.” Both the Shuowen and the Erya yi say that ru lu (madder) is associated with human blood and is therefore also called “earth blood.” The Bencao likewise records that madder root dyes a deep red and is also named “earth blood.” The ancients may have thought that because madder dyes red, it was transformed from the paste and blood of animals.

Horse blood transforms into “zhuanlin.” Hu Huaichen suggested that the character “zhuan” may belong before “wei,” so that “zhuan wei lin” parallels the earlier “hua wei digao.” Gu Yin in the Hanshu jijie said “lin” resembles the “lin” of muddy slime; the Shuowen writes it as “lin” (phosphorescence), with variant forms, all denoting ghost fire (will-o’-the-wisp). The Huainanzi also says blood becomes phosphorescent fire. “Lin” is read as “lin.” Human blood becomes wild fire. The commentary treats the above as examples of transformation within the same bodily form.

The yao (a bird of prey) becomes the zhan (another raptor), and the zhan becomes the cuckoo (bu gu). The commentary reads “yao” as “yao” and “zhan” as “zhan.” The Shiwen writes “bu gu” as “bu gu,” and notes another version has “gu.” Lu Ji’s Maoshi niaoshou shu records that the zhan resembles the yao: yellow feathers, a yao-shaped head, and a gray-blue body much like the yao’s; it flies swiftly and preys on turtle-doves, pigeons, swallows, and sparrows.

“Bu gu” refers to the jie ju (lesser cuckoo), also called the shi jiu, ji gu, or cheng jiu; it is read as ju. Legend says that in mid-spring, sparrows, harriers, hawks, and goshawks can transform into this bird.

Qin Enfu held that gu and gu (grain vs. hub) could be used interchangeably in old books—for example, Laozi’s “not a valley” (bu gu) also appears as “not a hub” (bu gu). On the idea that birds change form, Wang Shumin noted that when the Taiping yulan quotes Zhuangzi, “after long time again becomes a harrier” appears as “then again becomes a harrier” (zhi fu wei yao), so the text should read that the bu gu turns into a harrier. Emperor Huizong of Song’s commentary also said transformation might cycle in turn: harrier to goshawk, goshawk to bu gu, bu gu back to harrier; the version he saw likewise wrote zhi (“then”) rather than jiu (“long time”).

Swallows turning into clams follows the same pattern of change. Ha (clam) is read he. The Jia yu says that in winter swallows and sparrows fly into the sea and become clams; some texts write “sparrow” where others write “swallow.” The Zhou shu likewise says that when sparrows enter great waters they become clams.

Field mice turning into quail belongs to the same class of transformation. The Shuo wen treats quail as a kind of bird. The Da dai li records that in the third month field mice change into quail; the Zhou shu says they change into ru (another quail-like bird). Guo Pu’s note on the Erya says ru is also a quail-type bird; ru is read ru. Bo Jun pointed out that the current Shuo wen uses a placeholder graph and glosses it as a certain bird, unlike the version Jingshun saw in his day.

Rotten melons turning into fish and old leek turning into amaranth are listed as the same sort of change. Some texts write a homophone for “rotten” instead of the usual graph, with the same pronunciation as xiu. Some write guan (rush-like plant) for xian (amaranth); commentators took guan as read guan, shaped like round cattail used for matting. Yang Chengqing thought the character here should be read guan and that writing xian was a copyist’s error. Ren Dachun cited the Yizhuan on xian and linked its reading to the guan in guan er er xiao (“smile gently”) in the Lunyu.

The exegesis on the Yi hexagram Guai states that the character read as xian had three schools of pronunciation given as qi lian fan, while another manuscript writes guan. The exegesis on the Analects gives xian er with the fanqie hua ban qie, noting that the current form is guan. In Chuci, “Yufu,” the phrase guan er (“with a slight smile”) also appears in a version written xian er, which shows that guan and xian could be used interchangeably for the idea of smiling faintly.

Guanzi, “Diyuan,” records a line about plants layering downward—ye below something is yu; something below xian, and xian below pu (cattail)—and “Shanguo gui” speaks of soil suited to guan and pu. Da Dai Liji, “Quxue,” likewise says guan and pu grow there. From this it is clear that xian and guan are both associated with pu, which is why “old leek” (lao jiu) is called guan and is sometimes written xian.

An old ewe turns into an ape. Here yu denotes a ewe. Shuowen jiezi says the female of the summer sheep is called yu; Duan Yucai, citing Yan Shigu’s note on the Jijiupian, also says yu is the female of the summer sheep. So writing pin (“female”) is correct. The exegesis gives yu with the reading yu, meaning a ewe and also a black sheep, and yuan (“ape”) with the reading yuan.

Fish roe turns into insects. The comment explains that these are spontaneous transformations without an external trigger. Wang Shumin holds that the word chong (“insect”) should be followed by ye (“also”) so the sentence parallels the pattern above. Taiping yulan, juan 887, citing Zhuangzi, does include ye. The exegesis gives luan (“roe”) with the fanqie lai duan qie.

On Mount Duanyuan, a kind of beast can reproduce on its own; it is called lei. The comment says dan is read chan. Shanhai jing records that on Mount Duanyuan there is a beast shaped like a raccoon dog, covered with hair, named lei; male and female in one body, it breeds by itself. Lu Wenchao notes that the comment’s “er you fa” (“and having hair”) appears in Shanhai jing as mao.

Ren Dachun says: In Guo Pu’s commentary on the Shanhai jing, some manuscripts write one graph as another that means “hair.” Present editions that show “hair” where other versions have the graph for hanging locks are therefore exactly the variant Guo Pu had in mind. The Shiwen reverses the pair—writing “hair” where others have the lock graph—and glosses the line as follows: the compound read as “dan yuan” splits its upper portion with the sound of chan and its lower with yuan; li is given the fanqie “li zhi qie”; the lock/hair graph is read mao and means hair hanging down; pin is “pi ren qie”; mu is simply mu.

Birds of rivers and marshes that need only look at one another to reproduce are called yi. The note explains that these are birds which conceive by mutual gaze. Zhuangzi, “Heaven’s Revolutions,” says that white yi birds face each other without rolling their eyeballs and in that way respond and breed. Yang Bojun remarks that this quotation comes from “Heaven’s Revolutions,” and that the two words zhi ye in the citation are missing from current texts and were probably inserted by Zhang Zhan. The Shiwen gives yi the fanqie “wu li qie.” The San Cang identifies cang with yi. Sima Biao glosses “niao zi” as nestlings. Mou (eye) is read mou.

Creatures that are all female are called da; those that are all male are called zhi feng. The commentary takes da as turtles and the like, and zhi as “young” or “small.” Such beings generate without pairing of male and female. The passage above treats insects and beasts; what follows shows that human affairs offer parallels.

Huang Chengji argues that feng here is the usual spelling for feng “sharp point, sting”—also “keen force”—and that zhi feng contrasts with da as a description, not an insect name. The Shiwen treats zhi as the old form of “juvenile” and reads feng as feng. Sima Biao instead describes the zhi feng as a slender-waisted bee that catches mulberry caterpillars and somehow reshapes them into something like its own brood.

A woman who yearns for a husband may conceive by sympathetic response even when no husband is with her; a man who yearns for a woman may impregnate her though no husband is present. The note quotes the Dahuang jing: in the land of Siyou, men do not marry nor women take husbands; by latent essential qi responding mutually, they bear children without intercourse—again the same pattern as the white yi. Hou Ji was born from a giant’s footprint: tradition has Gaoxin’s consort step on such a track, respond, and conceive—once more, conception like that of the white yi.

Hou Ji is said to have been born from a giant’s footprint. Biographies relate that Jiang Yuan, consort of Emperor Gaoxin, saw an enormous footprint, was drawn to it, and stepped on it; as if sensing a human presence, she conceived and gave birth to Hou Ji. Hou Ji grew up wise, assisted Emperor Yao, and became the ancestor of the Zhou people.

Yi Yin is said to have been born from a hollow mulberry tree (kong sang). Biographies relate that Yi Yin’s mother lived beside the Yi River. After she became pregnant, she dreamed that a divine being warned her: “When water gushes from the mortar, flee east and do not look back!” The next day she found water indeed gushing from the mortar. She told her neighbors, fled ten li eastward, then looked back and saw her homeland submerged by flood; she herself turned into a hollow mulberry. A woman of the Youxin clan, gathering mulberry leaves, found an infant in the hollow tree, named him Yi Yin, presented him to the ruler, and he was raised by a cook. Yi Yin grew up wise and became minister to King Tang of Shang.

Juezhao (a legendary tiny creature) is born in damp places because moist qi (vital energy) rises and generates them. Old commentaries say juezhao is also called guli; some identify it as the dragonfly, which often circles trees and cannot leave them.

Xiji (tiny flying insects akin to midges) are born in wine because the sour vapor of wine gives rise to them.

The Explanatory Text (Shiwen) states that xiji refers to miemeng, a kind of minute flying insect. Yangxi (a grass) grows next to sun (bamboo shoots). The passage is about unlike kinds of things growing close together. In the Shide Hall edition, sun is written as xun; Qin Enfu held that xun in the Zhuangzi represents a lacuna in the text and that the sentence should be read together with what follows.

Beside jiuzhu (a bamboo) qingning (an insect name) appears. Commentators explain that this means such beings arise in mountain forests and marshy country. When the Imperial Readings (Yulan) quotes the Zhuangzi, two extra characters, bu □, appear before jiuzhu. Wang Shumin argued that “yangxi bi hu bu □ jiuzhu” should form one clause and “bu □ jiuzhu sheng qingning” another, so the sense is clear; he also thought four characters, “bu sun jiuzhu,” were probably lost before “sheng qingning.” The Shiwen, however, treats everything from yangxi through qingning as a single sentence. Sima Biao glossed yangxi as the name of a plant whose root resembles a turnip; it grows beside jiuzhu, and both cases are unlike species living in proximity. Qingning is a kind of insect.

Qingning gives rise to Cheng. Commentators say that from qingning to Cheng we are dealing with living things capable of propagation and transformation—including insects, birds, and beasts. Their changes follow no fixed rule: some alter their bodily form, some after death reappear in another shape, each stage depending on the last in an endless cycle. The Shiwen cites the Shizi: in the Central Plains Cheng is called bao, in the region of Yue mo. According to the Erya, the bao is born of creatures such as bears and tigers; the Classic of Mountains and Seas says that south of the mountains there are many mo and bao, and Guo Pu’s note calls mo the white bao. On this view, Cheng is another name for mo. The mo looks like a bear, with yellow-black glossy fur; it is pronounced mo.

Bo Jun notes: the Erya, “Explaining Beasts,” has the original “xiong hu chou, qi zi gou” (“bears and tigers mate; their young are gou”), yet Jingshun’s citation reads “qi zi bao” (“their young are bao”); the reason is unclear. Cheng gives rise to the horse. Shen Kuo wrote that he once saw in a philological note that people of Qin called the leopard Cheng; later, when he reached Yanzhou, locals still called tigers and leopards Cheng, apparently treating them too as “insects” in that broad sense.

Could expressions found in regional dialects also be survivals of older custom? For example, the saying that “a horse gives birth to a human.”

Jiang Chaobo held that such phrases might be alternate names for plants and herbs, comparable to designations like “black goose” or “horse servant.” Li Shan’s commentary in the Shiwen cites the Sou Shen Ji: under Duke Xiao of Qin there was a prodigy of a horse giving birth to a human; Liu Xiang treated it as a calamity brought by horses.

“Humans again enter into ji.” Wang Shumin notes that in the original Zhuangzi the character should read “again” (you), which ought to be followed; “long-lasting” (jiu) is a mistaken form for “again,” the two graphs being easily confused. The “long-lasting” in the phrase below, “advancing to the root and not again…,” should likewise be corrected to “again.”

All things are generated from ji—the root and pivot of change in the ten thousand things—and all return into ji.

The annotation asks: how can birth and death, transformation and change, be measured? What is born here may die there; what dies there may be reborn here. The life borne by form does not rest for an instant. Hence the sage knows that life is not permanently retained and death is not forever annihilation; the ten thousand things are but the same primordial qi in unceasing change, turning into diverse shapes. Though the myriad forms transform without end, that which does not perish with them is ascribed to “non-transformation,” and is therefore called ji. Ji is the starting point of all existence and the ground on which the movement of things depends; from nothing something arises, and from something it disperses back into nothing—nothing is outside this process.

The expository note: the discussion here concerns relations among kinds, asking whether different kinds generate one another. The question is raised to show that where spirit (shen) attaches, there is manifest life; where spirit departs, there is manifest death. Form has no fixed sovereign, and spirit has no fixed form. Spirit has no appointed term, yet form can coalesce into shape. Once a corporeal body is received, one is as if bound by mechanism and trigger; birth is emergence from ji, death is return into ji.

In the annotation, “the life of form-born life” appears in the Four Explanations edition and the Shide Hall edition as “the sovereign of form-born life.”

When the physical form moves, it is not that the form itself generates the shadow; when a sound is issued, it is not that the sound itself generates the echo. Commentary: wherever there is a physical form, a shadow naturally accompanies it; wherever there is sound, an echo naturally follows. The two arise together and cease together—there is no basis for saying that one must occur first and the other only then depend upon it. Guo Xiang treats this at length in his commentary on the Zhuangzi. Ordinary discourse often runs: when the form moves, the shadow moves with it; when sound is uttered, the echo answers in turn. The sage uses this as a parable: when the ten thousand things stir, they lose their root; when they settle, they return to the root. That is not a claim about some intricate causal chain linking form, sound, shadow, and echo. (Phonetic glosses: xiang [echo/resound], as below; ying [respond]; fu [again/repeat].)

Without stirring, one can yet bring forth being from non-being. Commentary: what we call “being” (you) arises by relying on “non-being” (wu). Where we speak of coming-to-be, the starting point must be wu; wu can in turn give rise to you. The efficacy by which the ten thousand things run and transform necessarily depends on wu, so terms like “birth” and “movement” are fixed only relative to the concrete situation of each thing. Exegesis: physical form can beget only physical form, not wu—the shadow is an instance of this. Shen (spirit), having no corporeal form, can in its activity produce you—the ten thousand things illustrate this. Lu Wenchao proposed that the phrase in the commentary “yet can bring forth being from non-being” should insert yu after bu sheng. Yang Bojun rejects this: the passage means that you is not an entity produced out of wu as a separate thing, but arises from the condition of wu; the sense is already clear, and adding yu would distort the original meaning. (Phonetic gloss: cheng [to name/designate].)

Physical form must come to an end—then do Heaven and Earth also end? Heaven and Earth end together with me. Commentary: if one compares magnitude and reckons the span of life, Heaven and Earth and the self are certainly not the same; yet in the end all converge on termination, and in that respect the principle does not differ. Exegesis: though large and small differ, all alike return to extinction. (Phonetic glosses: jie [together with], liao [to know/expect].)

As for when Heaven and Earth will end—that is not known.

The character rendered as “jiu” (long/enduring) is probably a corrupted form of “you” (again/also), which in old books often stands for “you” (to have/exist). The commentary reads: “jiu” is to be read as “you.”

Things that have life eventually return to non-birth; things that have form eventually return to formlessness. Commentators explain that what has life reaches an end and what has form returns to emptiness—this is the natural order. The exposition holds that whatever has a beginning and an end ultimately stems from no-beginning and finally returns to non-being. The discussion starts from the primordial undifferentiated state: once there is a beginning, how could there be no end and no extinction?

“Non-birth” here, commentators say, means life comes first and death and dissolution follow—not that there was never life at all. “Formlessness” means form exists first and then disperses—not that there was never form. “Non-birth from the outset” means no arising and perishing from the very start; “formlessness from the outset” means no gathering and dispersing from the very start.

The root that ceaselessly generates the myriad things does not itself beget; the root that gives the myriad things form has no form, so it can generate and shape them while its own substance stays unchanged. To say that once the myriad things are generated and formed they later return to non-birth and formlessness is only the cycle of being and non-being—not changelessness from first to last.

When the exposition says “Shen (spirit) does not beget,” it does not mean Shen never arose at all. That the myriad things can thrive without ceasing and each take shape is due to Shen’s transforming work. Shen can bring the myriad things into being while its own substance has no arising or perishing. That is not to say it wholly lacks form and generation, like the qi of the great void. Life must in the end reach its conclusion.

All life ends in the end, just as when life begins it must come into being. Living beings grow according to the natural order, yet they do not know why they are born; because they do not know where life comes from, they cannot make life last forever. Likewise, people do not know where death comes from and cannot hold it back. To want life to go on forever and at the same time try to stop life from ending is not to understand the natural law.

In the phrase “hua qi zhong” (marking or reaching the end), some take “hua” to mean “perishing” or “dying out,” while others hold it should mean “stopping.” Yu Yue read the whole line as saying: one wants life to stay unchanged for a long time, and also wants to block its coming to an end. Since life necessarily has a terminus, it cannot remain forever unchanged, nor can that terminus be halted—so such a wish is confusion about the natural law.

The closing line speaks of “jing shen” (essence and spirit) as “tian zhi fen” (heaven’s allotment or portion). In some versions “fen” appears as “jiu” (long-lasting); commentators suggest one character may have been corrupted through resemblance in ancient script forms.

Wang Chongmin pointed out that beneath the character for “ghost” (gui), the word zhe (“that which”) originally appeared in the text, but it has dropped out in standard editions. The Han Poetry Outer Tradition, the “On Death” chapter in Balanced Discussions, and Comprehensive Meaning of Customs and Mores all explain: “The dead become ghosts; gui means ‘return.’” When a person dies, the spirit leaves the body and the bones return to the earth—hence the name “ghost.” When the Forest of Meaning cites the passage, it also reads “gui zhe gui ye” (“ghost: that which returns”), which shows that zhe originally stood under the character gui.

The Yellow Emperor said: “The spirit enters its gateway; the bones return to their root—what of me remains?” The commentary explains: No life can exist apart from form, no form can exist apart from qi (vital energy), and no qi can exist apart from spirit (shen). Therefore mind and body are a whole woven of yin and yang, and also qi gathered in one place. When they leave the body and return to the root, they reach their true home; then the so-called “I” has no substance left to seek.

The exegesis holds that ordinary people take the body as “self,” and from that arise all sorts of feelings. The more feelings, the deeper attachment and indulgence; fewer feelings mean lighter cravings and desires. Only the “perfect person” (zhi ren)—one whose cultivation has reached a profound level—does not cling to self and can understand the nature of spirit; ordinary people do not grasp this, and their clinging runs deeper. When spirit returns to its authentic source and the body returns to the earth, where finally is that “I” one once took for granted?

Bo Jun notes that gen cun (“root remains”) rhymes, both belonging to the wen rhyme group in Old Chinese; he also points out that feng zhi should read feng zhi (“to establish and propagate”), a term that appears in Zuo’s Commentary, Duke Zhao, year 2.

From birth to death, the transformations of life fall roughly into four stages. Body and mind change throughout this span without a moment’s rest; speaking of “four stages” is only a broad summary.

In infancy, the heart-mind has not yet formed distinctions of right and wrong or stirrings of desire. De (Virtue/Power) is thick and unspoiled, and the heart-mind is single-pointed. When one reaches adulthood, desires and deliberation gradually multiply, and the pull of external things increases accordingly. In old age, qi and blood weaken, desires and deliberation ease, and the body is ready to rest; at this point one is paradoxically closer to the Dao (the Way). When life reaches its end, one returns to stillness.

The infant’s breath is unified and the heart-mind pure; body and mind are harmonized to the utmost, so harm from external things is hard to inflict, and nothing surpasses such De. The Laozi says: “One whose De is deeply held is like a newborn infant.”

In the prime of life, qi and blood are vigorous and restless, while desires and deliberation keep growing. People are therefore easily moved by external things, and De declines. Adults stand in the arena of rivalry and contention, and the world often contends with them in turn.

In old age, desires and deliberation subside and the body prepares to rest. Because one no longer competes, external things do not contend with one. The elderly may not yet match the infant’s wholeness, but compared with the prime of life—when qi and blood surge and desires multiply—they are far more settled.

At death, one returns to stillness and comes to the terminus of life.

The commentary explains that closeness to one’s true nature enables one to discern the great Dao, while being bewitched by emotion and desire loses that purity. Hence the deeply virtuous person is like an infant. Even merely ceasing to strive when weary counts as a lesser attainment; set beside frantic competition, the difference is plain.

Confucius traveled to Mount Tai and saw Rong Qiqi walking in the open country at Cheng—a district within the state of Lu.

Rong Qiqi wore a coarse deerskin cloak and had a cord for a belt; he played the zither and sang as he went. “Luqiu” means a rough hide garment; “daisuo” means using a rope as a waist tie.

Confucius asked him, “Sir, why are you so happy?”

Wang Chongmin noted that in passages cited from the Taiping yulan (Imperial Readings of the Taiping Era) and the Chuxue jilin (Forest of Records at the Beginning of Learning), the wording appears as wei le (“to take as pleasure”), meaning why one feels happy. Rong Qiqi replied: “There are many things that make me happy: Heaven and Earth nurture the myriad beings, and among them the human is most honored. That I can be a human is the first happiness.”

The annotation observes that from this one can see human spirit (shen) and vital energy (qi) are not essentially different from those of other living beings; only the situations each occupies differ, so forms and appearances vary. Rong Qiqi deeply understood that fortune and misfortune depend on each other, and also understood the signs that link the hidden and the manifest; therefore he rejoiced that he had gained a human body and moreover had become a man—this was not empty talk.

Rong Qiqi went on: “Men and women are distinguished; the man’s standing is higher and the woman’s lower. I have already become a man—this is the second happiness.” The commentary explains that before birth, male and female are not yet fixed, so he was again glad to have received a male body.

The text continues: “In human life, some die before they have seen sun and moon; some do not even pass through infancy.” Yaobao denotes the cloth bands and bedding used to wrap and carry an infant on the back. The annotation quotes the Bowu zhi (Records of the Investigation of Things): the band is woven from silk thread, eight cun wide and one chi two cun long, used to tie the child on the carrier’s back.

I have already lived to ninety years. Wang Chongmin notes that in the citation in Yiwen Leiju (Collection of Literature Arranged by Categories), juan 44, the text reads “I am ninety-five years old,” and he suspects that in the present Liezi text the two characters “you wu” (meaning “and five”) were lost after “ninety.” Shuoyuan, “Zayan” chapter, and the citation from Shengxian Gaoshi Zhuan (Biographies of Sages and Eminent Recluses) in Taiping Yulan, juan 509, likewise write “ninety-five.” The version used by Shengxian Gaoshi Zhuan was probably an old text of Liezi, so the original after “ninety” did have the two characters “you wu.”

Yang Bojun holds that there are two works called Gaoshi Zhuan: one by Huangfu Mi; the Jin shu biography of Huangfu Mi records that in his Shiquan lun (Exhortation on Release) he says “Rong Qi used the three joys to move Confucius,” referring to this very episode. The other is by Ji Kang, titled Shengxian Gaoshi Zhuan, which also includes Rong Qiqi—see the citation in Taiping Yulan, juan 509. The Rong Qiqi zan (Eulogy for Rong Qiqi) by Sun Chu cited in Yiwen Leiju, juan 36, relies on pre-Qin and Han books, not on Liezi. Tao Yuanming’s line in Yin jiu (Drinking Wine), “at ninety he goes with a cord,” also draws on this story. This shows that in ancient books Rong Qiqi is sometimes recorded as ninety years old as well.

These are the three sources of joy that Rong Qiqi spoke of: poverty is the ordinary lot of scholars, and death is every person’s final destination; by accepting the ordinary lot and calmly awaiting the end of life, what is there left to worry about?

Lu Wenchao points out that for “de zhong” (reach the end), the character “de” in Shuoyuan, “Zayan” chapter, is written as “dai” (await). Wang Chongmin thinks “dai” is correct: Rong Qiqi, content with Heaven and knowing his allotted fate, understood that poverty is the scholar’s ordinary state and death is life’s end, so he said he rests in the ordinary lot and awaits life’s end—he did not speak of worry. The citation in Taiping Yulan, juan 468, also has “dai”; the Yiwen Leiju, juan 44, citation reads “ju chang yi dai zhong” (dwell in the ordinary and await the end)—wording differs slightly, but the character “dai” is not wrong. Yang Bojun agrees with Lu and Wang. Zhang Zhan’s commentary below likewise says: “Content with Heaven and knowing fate, calmly awaiting the end.”

The wording “awaiting the end” (daizhong) is carried forward in this passage of text, which shows that the version Zhang Zhan saw still read “await” (dai) rather than another character. In the phrase “what is there still to worry about?” (dang he you zai), “dang” should be read as “shang,” meaning “still” or “any longer.” The Records of the Grand Historian, “Biography of Lord Xinling of Wei,” says: “If Qin were to breach Daliang and destroy the ancestral temple of the former kings, how could the lord still hold up his face under Heaven?” There too “dang” should be read as “shang”; the two passages confirm each other.

Confucius said: “Well said! He truly knows how to comfort himself.”

The comment says: He had not completely forgotten worry and joy; what Confucius praised was his ability to use principle to lighten his own heart.

The explanatory note says: When a master smelter casts metal, he follows the mold to give it shape; the human spirit is like that mold, and the various bodily forms are shaped through it. The difference between male and female, and whether the stature is long or short, are all fixed by Yin-Yang. Why is this so? Because the spirit exercises the work of transformation (zaohua), while the physical form is merely the outcome of that work. The form by itself cannot decide how it will be shaped; yet before the spirit has appeared as a formed body, it already possesses innate understanding.

Rong Qiqi only began to feel joy in his later years, which shows that he grasped the Way rather late. His feelings were still tied to the physical form. Confucius only approved his power to console himself; he did not affirm that Rong had already deeply penetrated the Great Dao (Da).

Lin Lei was nearly a hundred years old—a recluse from antiquity who appears nowhere else in the written record. In spring he wore a fur coat, walked through old fields already harvested, and picked up stray ears of grain while singing as he went.

Confucius was on his way to the state of Wei when he saw the man from afar. He turned to his disciples and said, “That old man is someone worth talking to. Go and try to speak with him.”

Lin Lei walked to the edge of the field and still went on singing without stopping. Zigong kept questioning him until at last Lin Lei raised his head and answered: “What would I have to regret?”

Zigong said: “In youth you did not diligently take up worldly tasks; in maturity you did not seize the right moment; now you are old, without wife or children, and death is close. What happiness could there be in that, that you should sing while gathering fallen ears of wheat?”

Lin Lei smiled and said: “The reason I feel joy is something every person already has; only people turn it around and call it sorrow.”

The annotation explains that everyone has this joy, but because they cannot meet every turn of events with equanimity, even a brief gladness is hard to hold. When one can live as “the benevolent are without anxiety, the wise without fear,” not tugged about by outer things, one is not saddened by poverty and low station, nor thrown into turmoil by wealth and rank. People fail to see this and instead treat it as grief—so why should you find me odd?

Lin Lei did not labor in youth for reputation, nor in later years scramble for opportune gain; in that way he could reach such an age. The commentary takes this to mean that neither fame nor the pull of profit and desire is lodged in the heart; long life then need not be sought on purpose—it arrives of itself.

(Lin Lei explained:) “If a person toils at things they ought not to do, and also fights for days beyond what fate allots, pursuing without knowing when to stop, they will harm life and shorten their lifespan. The reason I can le tian zhi ming—accept heaven’s decree and rest content with my lot—is precisely that I have thereby been able to live long.”

Wang Lai held that in Lu’s commentary, the phrase qi zhi bu ba should read ba as huo (obtain). The Shiwen notes that shou should be read as shou (receive/endure).

(Someone asked Lin Lei:) “You are old, have no wife or children, and the time of death is approaching—why can you still be so joyful?” Commentators explain: what is meant by le tian zhi ming is precisely that one is free of worry on that account. Lin Lei replied: “Wife and children only make people weary and anxious—how could they extend a person’s life? I calmly await the end of life day by day, with no grief or sorrow in my heart, and that is why I can be this joyful.”

Ziweng (a disciple of Confucius) said: “Long life is what people desire; death is what people loathe. You treat death as something joyful—why?”

Lin Lei said: “Death and life are merely going from here and coming from there in turn. One dies here—how can one know one will not be born again there? Therefore, how do I know that death and life are not the same thing?”

Liang Zhangju thought that the idea of rebirth in cycles probably stems from this passage. Yu Yue thought an an was missing after the character for “I”; since the preceding line says “death and life go and return,” the text here should read an zhi qi bu xiang ruo—how could one know they are not alike?—meaning death and life are not really distinct. The next line, “And how do I know that scheming busily to cling to life is not delusion?” follows directly from that. In plain terms: rushing and striving to stay alive—how is that not a kind of befuddlement?

After death, a person’s hun and po dwell in obscurity within, yet also wander in the outer realm, moving back and forth with the human world—so how could there be any real split between “utterly ended” and “not ended”? The commentary takes dying in one place and being born in another as a necessary truth. When Lin Lei asks “how can one know,” he is only voicing doubt and uncertainty; hence the claim that life has not truly come to an end.

Collation note: In the phrase “within obscurity, outward roaming,” the word for roaming appears as “reverse” in the Northern Song edition, and Wang’s text kept that reading; the annotator treats that as mistaken and, following the Daozang and Shide Tang editions, emends it to “roam.”

Phonetic glosses: zu (cang mo qie), zao (qi dao qie), qu (qiu lü qie), chu (chang ju qie).

Zi Gong had grown weary of study and said to Confucius, “I want to rest a while.” Confucius replied, “In life there is nowhere one can truly stop.” Wearying the spirit with thought and wearing the body with labor are what the living must go through. Zhuangzi also said that human life is like being on corvée duty.

Zi Gong asked, “Then is there nowhere I can rest?” Confucius said, “There is. Look at the shape of a grave: it rises high, as grand as a prime minister’s mansion, as solid as an earthen embankment, and in form like a large pot that is narrow at the top and wide below. When you see this, you know where a person finally comes to rest.”

Here the grave is used to show that while alive one always has toil and worry, and only after death is there repose. What the commentary calls “like a li” describes the tomb’s outline as resembling a li—a cooking vessel narrow above and broad below.

Zhuangzi said: “Death is rest.”

Zeng said: “Death is indeed momentous! The junzi (exemplary person) can thereby settle into repose, while the xiao ren (petty person) can only lie prone and never rise again.”

Commentators explain: The junzi delights in aligning with tianming (Heaven’s mandate), knows his own ming (destiny), and can calmly await the end of life—this is the junzi’s repose; the xiao ren leaves behind sorrow and pain and dies in obscurity and unawareness—this is the xiao ren’s sinking into silence. Here “fu” means to collapse and fall still.

Confucius said: “Ci (Zeng’s courtesy name), you already grasp the principle at work. People all know that life holds joy, yet do not know that life also holds hardship; they know that old age brings weariness, yet do not know that old age also holds ease; they know that death is fearsome, yet do not know that death is also a kind of rest.”

Commentators cite Zhuangzi, “The Great Ancestral Teacher” (Da Zongshi): “Heaven and Earth gave me a form, had me toil for life, granted me ease in old age, and rest in death.” They further explain that while one lives one must act and labor; only after death can one truly rest. The sun runs its course, the myriad things stir; the junzi seeks reputation, the xiao ren pursues profit—none of them ever truly stops.

Yanzi (Yan Ying, chief minister of Qi) said: “The ancients who understood death—how excellent! The ren person (humane person) thereby finds repose, the bu ren person (non-humane person) thereby sinks into silence.” Commentators explain: The ren person cultivates himself and acts with caution, often living with worry and vigilance; the bu ren person indulges greed and is never satisfied—these are their hardships. Only when death arrives does each in turn find repose or sink into silence.

The commentary states that people who act with caution always carry wariness and anxiety in their hearts—this is what kind and generous people worry about—whereas indulging greed without ever feeling satisfied is the distress of unkind people. Only after death can one finally stop and rest in peace. Yang Bojun’s textual research identifies this passage as coming from the “Jian Shang” (Admonitions, Upper Section) of the Yanzi Chunqiu (Spring and Autumn of Master Yan).

It also says that “death” is the ultimate destination of De (virtue or attainment). The commentary explains that “De” here means “de” (what is attained), and “jiao” means “gui” (return)—that is, each thing goes back to where it belongs. The ancients called the dead “gui ren” (returning persons). Since the dead are called returning persons, the living…