《列子集释》Vol. 10

Confucius asked: “Is it because your skill is extraordinary, or because you have mastered some Daoist method, that you can do this?” Similar wording appears in the “Huangdi” chapter of Liezi and the “Zhibeiyou” chapter of Zhuangzi. In one version, an extra character zi appears before “so you can be so skillful,” which makes the sense more complete; commentators think it should be kept.

The man replied: “Each time I go in, I first act on the basis of zhong and xin (loyalty and trustworthiness); when I come out, I still follow zhong and xin. Zhong and xin allow me to settle my body in the surging waves—I do not dare to act on private inclination alone, and that is why I can enter and leave safely.” Some texts write cuo as cuo in the sense of “to place” or “settle.” Yu Yue held that zhong xin in the phrase about settling the body in the waves were redundant words carried over from the preceding line; Wang Shumin agreed. The quotation in Qunshu Zhiyao does not have these two characters.

Confucius said to his disciples: “Remember this: facing flowing water, one can still rely on zhong and xin to draw near it in safety—how much more so when dealing with people?” Here zhong xin means being loyal and keeping one’s word; cheng shen means making oneself sincere. Commentators note that the Qunshu Zhiyao citation lacks the words cheng shen and suspect they may be a later insertion in this text.

The commentary explains that zhong is adapting to outer things, and xin is having no doubt in the mind. Adapting without doubt and not putting private gain first is why one can enter the waves and come out unharmed. To adapt without doubt and not put the self first can be called understanding the Dao.

Bai Gong Sheng asked Confucius, “May one discuss matters with someone in secret?” Confucius did not answer.

Bai Gong was the grandson of King Ping of Chu and the son of Crown Prince Jian. His father, the crown prince, had been slandered by Fei Wuji, a Chu minister, fled to Zheng, and was later killed by the people of Zheng. Because of this, Bai Gong hated Zheng. He had wanted the Chu chief minister Zixi and the grand marshal Ziqi to lead troops against Zheng; they agreed but never marched. Later, when Jin attacked Zheng, Zixi and Ziqi prepared to go to its aid. Bai Gong said angrily, “The men of Zheng are right here—the enemy is not far away.” He intended to kill Zixi and Ziqi, which is why he asked Confucius whether one could plot with someone in secret. Confucius saw what he was after and therefore gave no reply. Here, weiyan (“subtle words”) means confidential speech—that is, secret plotting.

Bai Gong then asked again, “What happens if you throw a stone into water?” The commentary suggests the character wen (“ask”) in this line may be a textual interpolation.

Duke Bai asked Confucius: “If you throw a stone into water, what happens?” Confucius said: “People in Wu who are skilled at diving can retrieve it.”

The commentary takes throwing a stone into water as the stone sinking—an image for how hidden, subtle words are hard to detect. Confucius’s answer that skilled divers can find it means that things ultimately cannot stay concealed.

Duke Bai asked again: “If you pour water into water, what happens?” Confucius said: “When the Zi and Mian rivers are mixed together, Yiya can tell them apart with one taste.”

The commentary says that even when blended, someone expert at tasting can still distinguish them. The explanation holds that throwing a stone into water stands for traces that are hard to show; mixing water with water stands for mutual affinity that still cannot be hidden. That Yiya could distinguish Zi from Mian shows that only someone who truly grasps things inwardly and understands affairs thoroughly can discern the difference between them.

Duke Bai asked: “Can people not discuss such subtle principles together with others?”

Confucius said: “How could it not be so? The whole point is to grasp the true intent that words point to. What is meant by the intent of speech is the deeper meaning speech is meant to convey—and that meaning is extremely subtle. Once it shows up in concrete affairs, nothing can be kept hidden.”

To grasp the true intent of speech is not to take the surface wording alone as the guide. When feeling arises, the matter reveals itself; when flavors differ, they can be tasted; only spirit-like change has no fixed form and cannot be fully captured in words. Grasping the intent of speech depends on the mind-and-spirit taking it in.

Those who scramble to catch fish get wet; those who chase game run—not because they enjoy getting wet or running, but because the situation simply works out that way. Thus the most penetrating speech does not get stuck in phrasing; the principle itself becomes clear, and change unfolds on its own. The highest conduct looks like wuwei (non-action); the principle completes itself, and the ten thousand things follow naturally. What shallow views dispute is only the twigs and leaves.

Commentators explain: those who compete for fish are in the water; those who hunt beasts range the wild—both are pushed by circumstance, not by preference. So truly skilled speech is not a pile of words, and truly skilled action does not force things. People of shallow insight chase side issues and often lose the root.

Bai Gong, when he could not do otherwise, ended up dying in the bathhouse. Commentators hold that Bai Gong did not understand the intent behind words, rashly raised rebellion, and finally brought disaster on himself. Expositors say that in anger he went against the way things work, preferring death for a moment’s release—how the foolish disturb the constant order. Yu Yue argued that the word read as “yi” is likely a scribal error for “ye”; the “Dao Ying” chapter of the Huainanzi has “Bai Gong could not [obtain it],” and the “Jing Yu” chapter of the Lüshi Chunqiu has “Bai Gong did not obtain it”—both usable as parallel evidence.

Yu Yue held that the character written as yi should be understood as a corrupted form of ye (“also”). The Huainanzi, “Responses of the Way” chapter, has “Bai Gong did not get it” (Bai Gong bu de ye); the Lüshi Chunqiu, “Subtle Understanding” chapter, has “Bai Gong did not obtain it” (Bai Gong fu de ye)—both can serve as evidence. Zhang Zhan’s comment says: “Bai Gong did not grasp the meaning of these words, so he raised troops in rebellion and thereby met with disaster.” That is exactly the sense of bu de (“did not get/obtain [the meaning]”). The character nan (“disaster/difficulty”) is read with the fanqie nai dan qie.

Zhao Xiangzi sent Xinzhi Mugzi to attack the state of Di. Xinzhi Mugzi was Zhao Xiangzi’s household retainer Xinzhi Gou; Di refers to Xianyu. Xinzhi Mugzi won the campaign and took the two settlements of Zuoren and Zhongren. A messenger hurried in with the news of victory. Xiangzi was at his meal, yet his face showed worry. Those around him asked: “In a single day you took two cities—something anyone would rejoice over. Why do you look troubled instead?”

Xiangzi replied: “When a river’s flow is at its height, it does not stay that way for more than three days; whirlwinds and violent rain cannot last a whole morning; when the sun reaches midday, its full strength cannot hold for long. The moment momentum peaks is often when decline begins. Our Zhao house has not built up much de (virtue), yet in one day we have won the great merit of two cities—I fear disaster will soon fall on me.”

Here juren means the messenger who carries news; ye means to report or announce. The gloss that “tides have high and low” means river and flood levels rise and fall; Xiangzi uses the images of rivers, wind and rain, and the sun at noon—none of which can stay at peak for long—to warn himself not to let a moment’s success erase caution.

The same passage appears in the Huainanzi, “Dao Ying” (Responding to the Dao) chapter, again without the character for shi (to apply/impose). The character xing is read with the pronunciation mèng.

Having taken two cities in one morning, he said with worry: “Will disaster not fall on me very soon?” The commentary explains: those who do not forget that they may perish can avoid perishing. The exegesis holds that he had not accumulated De (virtue/power) yet relied on force to seize two cities. When things reach their peak they must decline; if he did not perish, when would he? Therefore one must not rejoice in greedy victory; the wise instead grow wary. Only by knowing that a lucky win brings fear can one go on accumulating De.

After hearing this, Confucius said: “The Zhao clan will probably flourish! Worry is precisely what makes flourishing possible.” The commentary: this is stern warning. “Joy is precisely what makes ruin possible.” The commentary: because people will grow proud and boast. Winning a battle is not hard; what is hard is holding the victory. Bo Jun’s gloss on the Lüshi Chunqiu notes that Gao You glossed chi as “to hold.” Wise rulers hold victory in this spirit, so their blessings can extend to later generations.

Qi, Chu, Wu, and Yue all won battles yet still ended in ruin, because they did not know how to hold victory. Liang Qichao argued that from this line one can see that the Liezi must contain later additions. He pointed out that Liezi was contemporary with Zheng Si Yang; at that time Wu and Yue had already fallen, but Qi and Chu still existed. The account of Chu’s fall need not postdate the twenty-fourth year of the First Emperor of Qin, yet it should still be after Yue Yi took Linzi and Bai Qi took Ying. In the notes, zu is written zu ran, read zi lü.

Only one who knows how to hold victory can last long. The commentary: every state had defeated others but, unable to hold victory, fell into danger and ruin. The exegesis: flaunting merit and showing off talent invites ruin; worrying over what one has gained, staying on guard, and adhering to the way of strength brings flourishing. Sages use this so blessings reach later generations; those who have the Dao use it to benefit all beings—this is called chi sheng (holding victory). Chi sheng means cautious vigilance, by which one overcomes the overbearing; only a ruler who has the Dao can do it.

Confucius had strength enough to push the bolt of the capital city gate, yet refused to be known for great strength. The commentary: jing means having strength.

The Yilin (Forest of Meaning) cites the word as ju (“to lift”), which fits the sense, though it is probably not the original wording in the Liezi. An old commentary says jing is read with the fanqie ju-sheng, meaning “powerful” or “strong”; in one manuscript tuo is written as zhao. Li Shan’s commentary on the Wenxuan (Rhapsody on the Wu Capital) says zhao is the same as qiao (“to raise”). The Huainanzi has shao. Xu Shen explains that shao means “to pull” or “to draw.” In antiquity a city gate hung on its pivot and had to be hauled up from below—a very strenuous task. Mozi excelled at defending cities; Gongshu Ban (Lu Ban) was brought to submission by him yet would not admit that Mozi understood warfare.

The commentary says: Gongshu Ban was skilled at making siege engines; Mozi set up defenses and could repel attacks, so Gongshu Ban submitted to him. Mozi did not present himself as one who understood warfare—he did not boast of his own ability. Ban is read as Ban (Gongshu Ban’s name).

Therefore, one who is good at holding the advantage of victory makes strength appear as if it were weakness. The commentary says that only in this way can one grasp the root of attack and defense. The exegesis holds: some have great strength and can lift a city gate; Mozi was good at defense and could overcome the enemy. Yet not to make a name by force or stratagem but to be known through De (virtue) is truly to be good at keeping victory and showing strength as weakness. Those who become famous through craft are often driven by others; those who compete for dominance eventually meet someone stronger. Only those who live by Dao, virtue, and humaneness can master external things and carry out transformation and teaching.

In the state of Song there was a man who devoted himself to benevolence and righteousness and did not slacken for three generations. A black ox in his household calved a white calf for no apparent reason, and he went to ask Confucius. Confucius said, “This is an auspicious sign; you may offer it in sacrifice to Heaven.” A year later, his father inexplicably went blind.

The ox calved a white calf again, and the father told his son to ask Confucius once more. The son said, “After I asked last time, Father lost his sight—why ask again?” The father replied, “A sage’s words sometimes seem wrong at first and only later prove true. The matter is not finished; go and ask again for now.”

The son asked Confucius again. Confucius said, “This is an auspicious sign,” and again told him to sacrifice the white calf. The son went home and told his father, who said, “Do as Confucius said.” A year later, the son also went blind for no apparent reason.

Later Chu attacked Song and besieged its capital. The people reached the point of exchanging children to eat and breaking up corpses for fuel; able-bodied men went up on the walls to fight, and more than half of them died. That father and son, because they were blind, were both spared from going up to fight. When the siege was lifted, both men’s eyesight returned.

A commentary note says that this is exactly how misfortune and good fortune depend on each other and turn into one another.

The explanation holds that benevolence is caring for others and righteousness is helping all things. Three generations of unbroken good conduct meant the accumulation was already deep; if one had talent, rank and salary would come; if not, one could still receive blessing—this is the fortune ancestors bequeath. An auspicious sign is the response to doing good, preserving life and bringing benefit. Is the retribution for accumulating virtue and doing good mere empty talk?

In the state of Song there was a man called “Lan Zi.” Older commentators took “lan” to mean “to enter rashly” or “to intrude without warrant,” so “Lan Zi” referred to someone who wandered about relying on a skill. Later exegetes did not all agree on how to read “lan”; some held that it was interchangeable with “lan” meaning a barrier or pass, implying entry without proper credentials. In any case, this Lan Zi was probably someone who made a living by taking his art from place to place. The text goes on to say that he sought an audience with the ruler of Song by virtue of that skill.

Wang Chongmin stated that when this passage is quoted in Yiwen Leiju, juan 60, and Taiping Yulan, juan 344 and juan 483, the character jun (lord) appears below Song Yuan. Wang Shumin also pointed out that when it is quoted in Beitang Shuchao, juan 122, Baitie, juan 33 and juan 61, and Taiping Yulan, juan 569, jun likewise appears; the same holds when Shilei Fu, juan 13, quotes it from the Liezi zhuan. Yang Bojun held that Song Yuan should be supplemented with jun according to these quotations. “Song Yuan jun” is probably the “King Yuan of Song” mentioned when Chu Shaosun supplemented the Shiji, “Liezhuan on Turtle Divination.” Sima Zhen’s Shiji suoyin also calls King Yuan of Song Song Yuan jun, which can serve as corroboration.

Song only began calling its ruler “king” under Yan; it was later destroyed by Qi, so it had no formal posthumous title. Later writers sometimes privately called him King Kang (see Zhanguo ce and Lüshi chunqiu, “Yinci”), sometimes King Xian (see Xunzi). Whether this King Yan of Song is identical with Song Yuan jun remains doubtful. Qian Mu, in “Examination of King Yuan of Song” in his Xian-Qin zhuzi xinian kaobian, thought King Yuan of Song was Yan’s crown prince—again only a conjecture. Lüshi chunqiu, “Junshou,” records that “a man from a border town of Lu sent something to King Yuan of Song”; that King Yuan of Song should be the same person as in this passage. Song also had a Duke Yuan, son of Duke Ping of Song, but he is not the Song Yuan jun meant here.

Shiwen writes ji (skill) as ji (entertainer), with the reading qu qi qie. Song Yuan jun summoned the man and had him enter for an audience. Shiwen says jian (to see/meet) is read xian bian qie. Yang Bojun thought the character jun was probably lost below yuan, because the text below consistently says yuan jun (Lord Yuan).

On the performers’ implements, the various editions differ in wording: “His skill used two poles, each twice his height, attached to his shins” means he used two long poles, each twice his own height, and fastened them to his lower legs. The Shide Tang ben writes zhi (branch/pole) as ji (skill); Taiping Yulan, juan 344 and juan 483, quote zhang (staff), while juan 569 quotes zhi. Shiwen explains bei as read literally; shu is read zhu, and jing is read jing, meaning the shank or lower leg.

A man ran alongside and kept seven swords in the air by tossing and catching them in turn, his body leaping with the rhythm so that five swords were always aloft. Lord Yuan was greatly astonished and immediately rewarded him with gold and silk.

Another man named Lanzi was skilled in “swallow play” (an ancient acrobatic art; commentators compare it to handstands, squeezing through narrow spaces, and similar feats). Hearing that the first performer had been rewarded, he too came to show his art to Lord Yuan. Lord Yuan was very angry and said: “Once before, a man who performed strange tricks came to see me. Though his skill had no practical use, I happened to be in good spirits and gave him gold and silk. Lanzi must have heard of that and came to perform, hoping I would reward him again.”

Lord Yuan had Lanzi imprisoned and intended to execute him; only after a month did he release him. Commentators note that the same kind of skill, shown at the wrong moment, cannot be counted on for reward. The explanation holds that those who accumulate benevolence and hold to the right Way can keep their blessings secure, while those who rely on strength and tricks to gamble for profit find stipends and gifts unstable. Liezi gives these two cases to show that virtue can bring benefit.

Duke Mu of Qin said to Bo Le, “You are already advanced in years. Is there anyone among your descendants who can take your place in seeking out fine horses?”

Bo Le replied, “Fine horses can be recognized by their appearance and bone structure. But the finest horses under heaven seem half-visible and half-vanished, as if they were not before one’s eyes. When such a horse runs, it leaves the dust behind; even the tracks of its hooves are hard to follow.”

My sons have no talent to speak of. Wang Lai argued that, following Lu Jie’s explanation of “zi xing” (clan name), the word xing should be omitted after “chen zhi zi” (the minister’s son). Yang Bojun showed that in the Huainanzi, “Daoying xun,” there is likewise no xing after “chen zhi zi,” so Wang Lai’s emendation is not fully convincing.

One can explain the principle of fine horses to them, but one cannot explain the condition of every horse under heaven.

I have someone who shares with me the work of shouldering loads, carrying things on a back-strap, and gathering firewood and vegetables… [Note] Carrying ropes, firewood, and vegetables on the back suggests someone in a menial role. In various editions the word written as chan (twist/bind) should read mo (rope). Wang Niansun noted that in classical texts chan means to wind or bind, never “rope,” so chan here is a scribal error for mo. Mo denotes rope; it is also written with the variant form (same meaning). The Zhouyi, Kan hexagram, says “bound with hui and mo”; Ma Rong glossed hui and mo as rope; Liu Biao said a three-strand cord is hui and a two-strand cord is mo. Scribes often miswrote mo as the more familiar chan. Only the Daozang edition of the Liezi shiwen has mo, read as “mo,” which proves the received text is wrong.

Zhu Pei pointed out that xincai (gathering firewood) appears in the Gongyang zhuan and in commentary on the Shijing, “Daya”—meaning to collect firewood, i.e., pick up fuel; cai is sometimes written as the homophone for “vegetables.” In the Liezi phrase “dan chan xincai,” one should understand shouldering a pole, carrying things on the back, and gathering firewood and greens.

Yu Yue held that gong should be read as the homophone gong (to supply): some Shiwen manuscripts write gong, which is correct. The sense is that these tasks—shouldering, back-carrying, and collecting firewood and vegetables—were all provided or undertaken by that man. Dan (pole-carrying) and chan/mo (back-load) are two distinct actions: dan is carrying on a shoulder pole; the other is bearing loads on the back.

In Mencius, bi means “all”—that is, “what Heaven has given me.” In Jia Yi’s sense of bi wu, it means to compare or classify things. Here bi cannot be read as a sentence-initial modal particle. Moreover, in the received text of Mencius this word often appears as ci (“this”), and the bi in Jia Yi’s Xin shu is also written ci. So in old books bi and ci were often confused because the graphs look alike. The correct reading here should be ci, not bi; the edition follows the Daozang plain-text version. The commentary notes that another manuscript has bi.

“Qing jian zhi” means “please let me see him.” The note explains that “fei chen zhi xia yan you guo yu ji” means it is not that a subordinate’s words surpass one’s own.

Those who carry firewood and vegetables are lowly laborers. Zixing refers to clansmen of the same surname. The commentary gives guo as gu wo qie and jian as xian bian qie, the same below.

Duke Mu summoned the man and sent him out to find a horse. Three months later the man returned and reported: “I have found a horse; it is at Shaqiu.” The note says Shaqiu is a place name.

The duke asked: “What kind of horse?” The man answered: “A yellow mare.” The commentary gives pin as pin ren qie. The duke sent someone to fetch it; what was brought back was a black stallion. The commentary gives mu as mu hou qie and li as li yi qie. The duke was very displeased. The commentary notes shuo is read as “pleased” (yue).

Duke Mu called in Bo Le and said to him: “This is bad—the man you sent to find a horse…” The note identifies this person as Jiufang Gao. Wang Shumin points out that Yiwen leiju, Shilei fu, Taiping yulan, Jizuan yuanhai, Shiwen leiju houji, and similar works all quote zhi after zi, and Huainanzi, “Daoying,” agrees; therefore the text should be supplemented as zi zhi suo shi qiu ma zhe—“the man you sent to find a horse.”

When even a horse’s coat color, markings, and whether it is stallion or mare cannot yet be told apart, how can one recognize horses at all? Bole sighed and said, “To have reached such a level! This is where he far surpasses me—surpasses me countless times beyond counting.”

Gao Tao, when judging horses, looked at their inner spirit and essential quality, not at outward appearance alone. Outward form is what ordinary people find easy to distinguish. Bole marveled that Gao Tao could forget the outer shape and seize the horse’s inner spirit. His mind was concentrated to that degree; Bole felt he fell far short by comparison. Thus Duke Mu of Qin thought the horses he picked were unsuitable, while Bole held that this was precisely the art of knowing horses.

What Gao Tao observed was the horse’s innate endowment—its natural capacity hidden within the body, governing how hooves and limbs move. He grasped it inwardly and did not display what he saw on the surface. He held to what was essential and passed over crude, superficial traits.

Works such as Yiwen Leiju and Piya quote a version of the text that includes an extra character er (“and”). Guo Xiang’s commentary explains that cu (“coarse”) here means the same as lu (stag/deer—in the sense of outward marks). When Jiufang Gao looked at horses, his mind and spirit fixed on what mattered inwardly, so he did not get hung up on outward appearance.

The commentaries say that “refining the inner” refers to the horse’s tianji—its innate endowment; “coarseness on the outside” refers to sex and coat color. Xu Weiyi holds that zai means “to observe.” Jiufang Gao looked only at what he should look at—the horse’s innate endowment—and not at what he should not—color and sex. He attended to what deserved attention and did not waste thought on what did not. This kind of talent for recognizing people and things is worth far more than the skill of judging horses. What is meant by “what the spirit attains” is a capacity grasped through the mind and spirit, one that cannot be spelled out by outward methods.

Huainanzi, “Responses of the Way” (Daoying), puts it similarly: “What he selected in this way was worth far more than the horse itself.” When the horse arrived, it proved to be a steed rarely seen in the world.

The exegesis holds that the physical form is the part of things that shows outwardly, while shenqi (spirit and vital force) is subtle and without fixed shape. Formless spiritual power turns and moves what has form, and what has form also functions through the action of formless power. People use this power all day without knowing how it works; they are carried by it all year without feeling weariness.

People employ the Dao all day long yet do not know what it does; year after year they follow the Dao without feeling worn out. Those who grasp this and can cultivate themselves are the true masters of the Dao. Gao’s insight could see through what lay before his eyes and penetrate things as they are because he put his spirit (Shen) to work. Those in tune with his spirit held spirit more precious than horses, while people in the world fail to see that spirit is what truly matters.

King Zhuang of Chu asked Zhan He, “How should one govern a state?”

Zhan He answered, “I know how to cultivate myself, but I do not know how to govern a state.”

King Zhuang said, “I bear the duty of sacrificing to the ancestral temples and guarding the altars of soil and grain. I wish to learn how to protect the state.”

Zhan He answered, “I have never heard of anyone whose self was well cultivated while the state fell into disorder, nor of anyone whose self was in disorder while the state was well governed. The root lies in cultivating oneself; I dare not answer only with the branch matter of governing the state.”

The king said, “Well said.”

To govern a state, the key is to settle the ruler; to cultivate oneself, the key is to settle the spirit. When spirit is settled, the Dao can show itself and the state is well governed. Spirit is the root of the body; the Dao is the way spirit functions—so Zhan He dared not speak only of governing the state as a secondary topic.

The elder of Huqiu asked Sun Shu’ao, a grandee of the state of Chu: “Do you know the three ways a person invites resentment?”

Sun Shu’ao asked: “What are the three?”

The elder replied: “When one’s rank is high, people will envy him; when his office is great, the ruler will dislike him; when his salary is ample, resentment will gather against him.”

Sun Shu’ao said: “Then what should one do?”

The elder replied: “When one’s rank is high, people will envy him; when his office is great, the ruler will dislike him; when his salary is ample, resentment will gather against him.”

Sun Shu’ao said: “The higher my rank, the more I lower my aspirations; the greater my office, the more cautious my mind; the richer my salary, the more widely I bestow kindness on others. Can that remove these three resentments?”

Here “shi” means to give or bestow. Commentators explain: a humble mind is the application of the Dao; widely giving kindness is the application of De (Virtue/Power). With the Dao, one stays modest and has little resentment; with De, one gives broadly and can win the ruler’s favor. Thus, from where would the three resentments arise?

Sun Shuao was seriously ill and near death. He warned his son: “The King of Chu offered me fiefs many times, and I always refused. If, after I die, the king offers you a fief, you must not accept rich, fertile land.

On the border between Chu and Yue lies a place called Zhenqiu. The soil is poor, and the place has an ill reputation. The people of Chu put their faith in ghosts and spirits, while the people of Yue put theirs in omens and auspicious signs—so neither state wants that land.”

According to the Shuowen Jiezi, which cites the Huainan Zhuan: “People of Wu call it gui (ghost); people of Yue call it [a term written with a character here corrupted as ji].” Here ji is a mistaken form of that other character. The commentary glosses ji (also written ji in some texts) as read ji, meaning an auspicious omen; it is also read ji. “Only such a place can be held for long.”

After Sun Shuao died, the King of Chu intended to enfeoff his son with rich land. The son declined and asked only for Qinqiu (in what is now the Gushi area of Henan). The king granted Qinqiu, and that fief has been retained down to the present. The Shiji records that Sun Shuao treated You Meng well; later You Meng remonstrated with King Zhuang of Chu, and the king summoned Sun Shuao’s son and enfeoffed him with Qinqiu.

In the Han, Xiao He likewise said that his descendants should not let a powerful house seize their fief—a stance similar to Sun Shuao’s.

Commentary: What people scramble for, the powerful will try to take; what yields little profit, people usually do not want. What you do not fight over, you can keep for a long time; what everyone fights over is hard to hold for long. People see only the thick immediate gain and rush to compete, and do not see that being able to keep something for long is itself the deeper kind of benefit. Thus craving and desire draw one into rivalry; preserving the great Dao (the Way) is the method of endurance. One who is good at grasping the Dao can extend this insight to all sorts of things and, wherever one is, act in accord with the Dao.

Bo Jun notes: The accounts in the Huainanzi, “Renjian xun,” and the Lüshi Chunqiu, “Xianshi” chapter, are largely the same as here. Only the Han Feizi, “Yulao,” differs: after King Zhuang of Chu defeated the enemy he hunted at Heyong; on returning he wished to reward Sun Shuao. Sun Shuao asked to be enfeoffed with a sandy, stony tract between the Han River and [its branches]. Under Chu law, salary lands were resumed after two generations—only Sun Shuao’s fief was kept permanently.

Niu Que was a well-known Confucian scholar in the Shangdi region. When he traveled down to Handan, he ran into bandits in the Ousha area. They took all his clothes, carriage, and horses, and Niu Que left on foot.

The bandits noticed that he looked calm and showed no sign of distress, so they caught up and asked why. Niu Que replied that a junzi (noble person) does not let the things used to support bodily life harm the virtue he is committed to guarding. Here, “things used to support bodily life” means everyday goods such as clothing, carriage, and horses; he held that one should not damage one’s own moral character in order to hold on to such property.

The commentary notes that Ousha may refer to the Shahe in present-day Shahe County, Xingtai, Hebei. On the original line rendered as the bandits taking his clothes and carriage and Niu Que walking away, textual critics argue the wording has omissions or errors and should read that the bandits took his clothes and carriage and Niu Que departed on foot. The closing cites parallel passages in the Zhuangzi and the Lüshi Chunqiu to clarify the meaning of “what one nurtures” (suo yang).

In the Yulan (short for the Taiping Yulan), the quoted line reads “the noble person does not let what he nourishes harm what nourishes him”—but that wording does not make sense. The suspicion here is that the character yi (“by means of” / “with”) that follows suo was originally placed under the earlier suo, and was wrongly shifted when the passage was cited.

The bandits said: “Ah, this man is truly worthy!” Then several of them conferred: “Given his worth, if he goes before the ruler of Zhao, the ruler is sure to put him in charge of affairs—and then he will certainly get us into serious trouble. Better kill him.” So they went after Niu Que together and killed him.

When people in Yan heard of this, they gathered their clans and warned one another: “If you meet bandits, do not handle it the way Niu Que did!” Everyone accepted the warning.

Before long, Niu Que’s younger brother set out for Qin. When he reached the pass (here, the area around Hangu Pass), he did indeed run into bandits. Remembering his brother’s warning, he fought the bandits with all his might.

After a while, the younger brother could not overcome the robbers.

Bo Jun notes: One edition reads “Que” instead.

Sure enough, he ran into robbers. He remembered his elder brother’s warning—the Shiwen writes one form of “yi” as “yi” and says another edition has the other “yi”—and fought with the robbers. The Shiwen says that “zheng” is to be read as “zheng.” After a while, he still could not best the robbers. Bo Jun notes: “ru” should be “yu.”

The younger brother pursued them again and spoke humbly, asking that their goods be returned.

The robbers said angrily: “I have already been lenient and let you go, yet you keep chasing me without stopping; our trail is about to be exposed. Since you have already turned robber, where are benevolence and righteousness?” The Shiwen says “yan” is read as in the yu qian fanqie.

So the robbers killed him and also killed four or five of his companions.

[Note] Niu Que suffered disaster though he had not invited trouble; the people of Yan were harmed because they pretended to care. Such cases show that safety and danger, fortune and misfortune, cannot be known in advance.

[Commentary] Those who know how to follow the times and accord with reason are not baffled when things arrive and do not miss the moment when it comes; action fits the situation and conduct adapts to change. If one only tries to show off a name and leave a trace, without suiting the age, one fails at every turn. Niu Que did not know how to judge the times, and his younger brother also went too far. This is like the two sons of the Meng family, one modeling King Wen and one King Wu. People who overcorrect reputation and conduct often end up in the same plight.

Yu Shi was a wealthy magnate of the Liang region; his household was extremely prosperous, with more gold, silk, and cloth than could be counted and assets beyond reckoning.

He built a high tower facing the main road, set out musical instruments and laid out food and wine, and played boyi (an ancient board game with betting) on the upper story. Boyi was played by two people seated opposite each other: they cast dice and moved pieces on a board, each side striving to win with their counters. The game also used pieces called “fish” and stake tokens—pulling a fish from the board earned a tally, and “turning” a fish earned a tally as well; if one had already taken two fish and still lost, it was called bei fan shuang yu (“doubly overturned fish”), and the opponent won heavily.

At that moment a band of wandering knights-errant (xiake) passed by together. [The text says the people upstairs at the game “shot toward them” (chao tamen she qu)—the narrative is unclear here.] Chao Fu’s annotation holds that “upstairs” (lou shang) may originally have read “downstairs” (lou xia): meaning that as the knights passed below, a rotting dead rat happened to fall from above and strike them, whereupon they suspected Yu’s household had done it on purpose and felt deeply insulted.

If the knight-errants had already gone upstairs, this misunderstanding would not have arisen. The error probably came from the earlier phrase “striking at gambling games upstairs,” which led the text astray. Yiwen Leiju (Collection of Literary and Historical Materials), juan 95, quotes: “The knight-errants went together and reached the foot of the stairs; the gamblers hit the mark and laughed.” The original is terse, but the two characters lou xia (“at the foot of the stairs”) are correct. Yang Bojun argued that if one reads the two characters lou shang (“upstairs”) as belonging to the following clause, one can see that the companions of the knight-errants were downstairs.

Shiwen (Commentary on the Text) punctuates bo zhe she as one phrase. She is read with the fanqie pronunciation shi-yi. “Mingqiong scored a hit; they turned up fish and laughed” means: the dice showed Mingqiong (the five white pips), the throw won, two fish came up on the turn, and they laughed. Here she means casting or throwing in the game to win and hit the scoring combination; fan (“turn over”) is equivalent to fan in the sense of flipping. Pei Yin explains: “Bao cai—gaining fish as the payout.” In some editions of the true classic text the relevant character is written as yu (fish); in the Dabo jing (Great Classic of the Broad Game) it is written as die (flatfish, i.e., the sole). According to the sense of the passage, either die or yu should be used here—not both characters together. The whole sentence describes winning a scoring throw in the game, turning up two fish, a big victory, and therefore laughter.

“Fei yuan shi zhui qi fu shu er zhong zhi” means: a flying yuan (a bird of prey such as a kite hawk) happened to drop down and strike that rotten dead rat.

The wandering knights talked it over among themselves. “The Yu clan has long lived in wealth and comfort, yet they habitually look down on others. We gave them no cause for offense, but they humiliated us with a dead rat. If we let this pass unanswered, we cannot hold our place under heaven or prove our mettle. Stand with me in one united purpose, lead your men—we must destroy the Yu household root and branch and bring them to the same ruin we suffer.” All agreed. On the night they had set, they mustered forces, readied arms, struck at the Yu family, and slaughtered them to the last. In this passage, lu li yi zhi means to pull together with a single will; fu shu is a dead rat, used here as an insult; qin means bold or brave.

Commentators observe that the Yu clan’s pride and lavish living drew disaster upon them, and the reasons were not all of one sort. The Yus may never have meant to bully anyone, yet the fall of their house also owed something to their failure to show clear humility and restraint in ordinary life. An earlier chapter teaches that practicing benevolence and righteousness brings good fortune; this one teaches that pride and excess piled up over time can in a morning call down calamity. When good conduct never truly appears in one’s actions, misfortune may still arrive as if from nowhere. Blessing and disaster have no fixed doorway—people open them for themselves. The two cases are set side by side to warn the world in the strongest terms.

The fragment rendered in the source as “someone in the east … king” survives only in broken wording; its sense cannot be recovered from what remains.

A man from the east named Yuan Jingmu was about to go out on business when he collapsed from hunger on the road. In Hu Fu there was a thief named Qiu who saw him lying by the roadside; he set down his food vessel and took out food to feed him. Yuan Jingmu had to be fed three times before he regained consciousness. He asked, “Who are you?” The man replied, “I am from Hu Fu; my name is Qiu.” Yuan Jingmu said in surprise, “Ah! Aren’t you a thief? Why did you give me food?”

The collation notes point out that the character for “eat” (shí) was originally written as “meal” (cān) in the manuscript, and is here corrected according to the Shide Hall edition. The “Establishing Integrity” (Jie Li) chapter of Master Lü’s Spring and Autumn Annals (Lüshi Chunqiu) also reads “eat.” The Classic of Interpretations (Shiwen) says “eat” is read as sì, meaning “I speak of moral principle and will not eat your food.” Ai Jingmu (Ài Jīngmù) propped himself up on both hands and spat the food out. The white-text Daozang edition writes “retch” (ǒu) for “spew” (ōu); Explaining Graphs and Analyzing Characters (Shuowen) says ōu means to vomit, while ǒu is the later common vulgar form. Shiwen says ōu is read yī kǒu qiè.

He could not bring it up; he could only make a “kè kè” sound, then bowed forward and fell dead on the ground. Wang Shumin notes that Shiwen originally had the word “ground” (dì), which should be kept. The Jie Li chapter of Lüshi Chunqiu, the “Men of Integrity” (Jieshi) chapter of New Arrangements (Xinxu), and the “Miscellaneous Records, Part 1” (Zaji shang) of The Golden Tower Master (Jinlouzi) also have “ground.” Shiwen writes “he lay prostrate on the ground and died,” and glosses “kè” as read kè; another edition lacks “ground.”

The man of Hufu (Húfù, a place name) practiced robbery, so he was a robber; yet the food he offered was not stolen goods. Because one person is a robber, to treat the food he gives as stolen property and not dare to eat it is to confuse names with realities.

Commentary: To chase reputation yet lose what is real, to go against principle and lose one’s life—this is what Ai Jingmu did! A person of the Way (Dao) would not act so. If a robber changed his mind, became humane and generous, and personally practiced humaneness, people would also be transformed by him. A gentleman who rescues someone in peril can accept food and satisfy both ends; if he spits the food out, he fails on both counts. Spitting until it goes “kè kè”—is that not merely putting on a show of foolish stubbornness?

Zhù Lìshū served Duke Ao of Ju. Feeling that the duke did not understand him, he left and went to live by the sea. Manuscripts differ on the wording around “left”: Táo Hóngqìng argued the original should read something like “he thought the duke did not know him, so he left and lived by the sea”—that is, he left because he felt unrecognized. A friend of Zhù Lìshū later says the same: he left because he felt unknown. Zhù Lìshū himself eventually says: “It was not like that. I thought he did not understand me, so I left; now that he is dead, that proves he truly did not understand me.” A close parallel appears in the “Valuing Rulers” section of Master Lü’s Spring and Autumn Annals, which can serve as corroboration. In the “Establishing Integrity” chapter of Shuoyuan, Zhù Lìshū is written as “Zhū Lìfù” and Duke Ao as “Duke Mu.”

In summer Zhù Lìshū ate water plants such as water caltrop (ling). In classical commentaries, ling and ji often refer to water caltrop; some versions have ling qian, where qian is gorgon fruit (Euryale ferox)—an aquatic plant whose seeds are edible. In winter he ate acorns and chestnuts.

When Lord Ao of Ju fell into hardship, Zhulishu declined to serve him, saying that he could survive famine by eating wild plants (such as water caltrop and water chestnut), and in winter could live on acorns and chestnuts.

Later, Zhulishu took leave of his friend and went to die for Lord Ao of Ju. His friend said: “You thought he did not understand you, so you left. Now you go to die for him—is this not confusing whether he understood you or not?”

Zhulishu replied: “It is not so. At first I believed he did not understand me, so I left. Now I go to die because he truly did not understand me. I will die for him so that future rulers who do not know how to read their ministers may take warning.”

Someone commented: To die for one who understands you, and not to die for one who does not—this is acting solely by one’s own judgment. Zhulishu may be said to have been so resentful that he disregarded his own life. [Commentary:] In the end he did not truly understand himself, yet used the sacrifice of his life to prove that the other did not understand him—how is this what a person of the Way would do? The entanglements of reputation often drive people into such folly; this is far removed from preserving life and honoring the great Dao.

Yang Zhu said: “When benefit arises here, does what is actually gained reach there? …”

Yang Zhu said: “The benefit you give to others in fact returns to yourself; resentment that you send outward also comes back as harm.” Benefit and resentment do not flow in only one direction—this is the way of nature.

The crux of how things arise from oneself and receive response in the outer world lies in qing—the sincere feelings and desires within the heart. Inner emotion, whether near or far, shallow or deep, can resonate and connect across distance. Therefore the wise person is careful about what they put forth in word and deed. When good acts accumulate, an auspicious response follows; when evil acts accumulate, disaster arrives. Fortune and misfortune come to one’s side like a shadow following a form, or an echo answering a sound.

Today some who admire the arts of the Way treat names and ritual lightly, indulge their desires, and call that understanding life; they take benevolence and righteousness for fetters and treat their dwelling as no more important than coat and trousers. They disregard cause and effect and neglect the affairs of daily human conduct. Hence people like Ji Kang wear themselves out fleeing the calamity of death, while people like Ruan Ji (style name Sizong) treat worldly filth with fierce hatred—yet neither group understands the true principle.

Yangzi’s neighbor lost a sheep. He gathered companions and also asked Yangzi’s servant to join the search. Yangzi said, “Alas—a single lost sheep; why send so many people after it?” The neighbor replied, “There are too many forked paths.”

When they returned, Yangzi asked, “Did you find the sheep?” The neighbor said, “It’s lost.” Yangzi asked again, “How could it be lost?” The neighbor said, “At every fork there were more forks; we did not know which way to go, so we came back.” In the Heguanzi version of this story, the line reads “so for that reason we came back.”

After hearing this, Yangzi looked sorrowful and his expression changed. He did not speak for a long time and did not smile all day. His disciples found this strange and asked him, “A sheep is only a humble beast, and it was not even yours—why should this keep you from speaking and smiling?” Yangzi did not answer, and his disciples could not grasp his meaning.

The disciple Meng Sunyang told the story to Xindu Zi. Later, Xindu Zi and Meng Sunyang went together to visit Yangzi and asked, “In former times there were three brothers who traveled for study in Qi and Lu and studied under the same teacher; after learning the Way of benevolence and righteousness they returned home. Their father asked them, ‘What exactly is the Way of benevolence and righteousness?’ The eldest said, ‘Benevolence and righteousness teach me to cherish my own body first, then care for my reputation.’ The commentary explains that this means one dare not harm even hair and skin—a idea drawn from the Classic of Filial Piety. The second son said, ‘Benevolence and righteousness teach me to give up my life to establish my reputation.’ The commentary cites the sense of the Analects: do not harm humaneness to preserve life; when necessary one may sacrifice oneself to complete humaneness.”

Uncle said: “Benevolence and righteousness can preserve my person and also preserve my good name.” The annotation quotes from the Book of Odes, “Great Odes, Sheng Min”: “Wise and discerning, to preserve one’s person.” Bo Jun comments: Uncle, Eldest, and Youngest each take opposite positions, yet all speak from the Confucian side. Who is right and who is wrong?

Yangzi answered: “There was a man who lived by a river, knew the water well, and was good at swimming. He made a living poling a ferry and earned enough to support his whole household. Later many people came with grain to learn swimming from him; quite a few finished their training, but nearly half drowned. They had come to learn swimming, not to learn drowning—yet the outcome in benefit and harm was like this. How then do you judge who is right and who is wrong?”

Zidu said nothing, got up, and left.

Meng Sunyang reproached Zidu: “Why were your questions so roundabout, and the Master’s answers so oblique? I am only more puzzled than before.”

Zidu said: “The Great Way is like too many branch paths that make sheep lose their way; students who pursue too many methods may also lose their lives. What they study is not different at the root, and the root is not inconsistent—yet at the tips the divergence is this great. Only by returning to sameness and reverting to unity can one see gain and loss. You have long been at the Master’s gate learning his doctrine, yet you still do not grasp the point of what he says.”

The “principle of how life operates” (sheng zhi dao) was not grasped, and readers did not take in the Master’s analogy either. As for kuang here, some take it to mean “words” or “speech”; the Han shu commentator Yan Shigu glosses it as “likeness” or “analogy.” In this passage kuang should likewise mean “analogy”—only elsewhere it is used as a verb, here as a noun. The reading of kuang as “speech” rests on no clear textual basis.

How regrettable! The sheep stands for the human spirit (shen). To hold the spirit so it does not scatter is the Dao (the Way); once the spirit is lost, one is like someone chasing a runaway sheep, rushing among forked paths and never finding the way back. As long as one keeps the spirit, nothing is lost and one need not lean on external things. Those who cling to benevolence and righteousness at every turn are just the same.

Yang Zhu’s younger brother was named Bu. He went out wearing white clothes. In yi su, yi is read yi (meaning “to wear”); below, in yi zi yi, yi is also read yi. When rain fell from heaven, those who gloss su acted in the same way [i.e., read and explained the wording by the same method].

Yang Zhu’s younger brother Yang Bu went out wearing white clothes. When it rained, he took off the white garment and changed into black before going home. The family dog did not recognize him and rushed up barking at him. Yang Bu grew angry and was about to beat the dog.

Yang Zhu said: “Don’t hit it! Aren’t you just like the dog? If your dog had gone out white and come back black, wouldn’t you have found that strange too?”

This story shows that when someone’s outward appearance changes, it is only natural that others may not recognize them at first. In such a situation, to blame others without first examining oneself is like Yang Bu changing his clothes and then faulting the dog for barking at him.

The annotation and commentary further develop this through “keeping to authenticity and returning to oneness” (shou zhen gui yi—holding to one’s true nature and unifying with the Dao) and “losing the Way and altering what is constant” (shi dao bian chang—straying from the constant Way and changing normal conduct): when one preserves one’s true nature, external things are easier to settle; when conduct becomes abnormal, even the household dog will feel alarmed.

Yang Zhu said: “When you do good without aiming at reputation, reputation may come to you on its own; when you never expect to reap advantage from your name, advantage may still find its way back; when you never set out to fight over gain, quarrels may nevertheless come to your door. For that reason, when a person of virtue does good, he must be careful.”

The commentary takes the view that if you surpass others through cleverness, people will dispute with you; if you surpass others through force, people will struggle against you—such is the natural course of things. When you stand where fame and profit meet, misfortune is often hard to avoid. Hence the old saying: “In doing good, do not court fame.” That saying is indeed reliable.

The explanation goes further: if you do good in order to win a name, you are apt to draw others into fighting over profit, so “in doing good, do not court fame” means not contending with others for gain because of your good deeds. To be capable of what ordinary people cannot do, yet not boast about it—that is what it means to do good with caution.

Someone once said there was a person who knew the method of long life without death. The ruler of Yan sent an envoy to learn from him, but before the training was finished, the one who taught the method died. The ruler of Yan was furious and planned to put the envoy to death. A favorite minister of the Yan ruler advised him: “Among human concerns, nothing is more pressing than death; among what one values for oneself, nothing outweighs staying alive. A man who could not even preserve his own life—how could he make our lord never die?” The ruler of Yan therefore did not kill the envoy.

In Qi there was also someone who wanted to learn this method of long life. When he heard that the teacher had died, he beat his chest and sighed. When Fuzi heard this, he laughed at him and said: “What he wanted to learn was the method of long life without death, yet the one who taught that method is already dead—and he still sighs and resents that. Clearly he does not understand the principle of learning at all.”

Huzi said: “What Fuzi said is not right. In the world there are people who possess a skill yet cannot put it into practice, and there are also people who can put a skill into practice but lack the corresponding method.”

In the state of Wei there was a man skilled in divination and calculation. On his deathbed he passed a whole set of methods to his son. The son remembered his father’s words but could not actually apply them. Later, when someone asked him, he simply relayed what his father had said. That person followed those instructions and practiced the method, with results no different from what the father had achieved. In that case, why could the dead man not explain clearly the method he had used while alive?

A note says: Among things, some can be talked about but not done; some can be done but not put into words—this is a difference of talent and native endowment.

The commentary holds that some people argue principles with empty talk yet cannot practice and verify them themselves, so others doubt that what they say is true. This chapter aims to show that in the world there are people who understand the Way, people who understand but cannot yet practice, and people who can practice but cannot explain the Way clearly. To understand without doing, to do without understanding, and neither to do nor to understand—though each may gain some insight, they are still not the same. Those who hear the Way and put it into practice, and thereby gain insight—are they not better than those who do not understand the matter at all?

Here the character for “acting” or “doing” (wei) is read in the sense of “feigned” or “spurious” (wei).

In Handan, someone presented turtledoves to Zhao Jianzi on the first day of the new year. Zhao Jianzi was greatly pleased and rewarded him generously. A guest asked why. Zhao Jianzi said, “Releasing living creatures on New Year’s Day shows that I am benevolent.”

The guest said, “When the people know you wish to release birds, they will compete to catch turtledoves, and many more birds will die in the process. If you truly want them to live, you would do better to forbid the people from catching them. To catch them first and then release them—whatever kindness you show cannot outweigh the harm you cause.” Zhao Jianzi said, “That makes sense.”

Commentary: What people ordinarily call a good deed is usually only the outer fringe of the matter. If one governs from the root, the effect far surpasses tinkering at the fringe—yet most people fail to see this. Petty acts of charity can undermine genuine, large-scale compassion. What ritual teaching and moral pedagogy (mingjiao) typically does is manage the fringes; the efficacy of the Dao (the Way) lies in governing the root. People see only the small surface and miss the larger principle, which is why the story of releasing turtledoves is used to make this point.

The Tian clan of Qi held an ancestral sacrifice in their courtyard, with a thousand retainers at table. During the feast, someone presented fish and wild geese…

In Qi there was a poor man who often went into the city to beg. The townspeople resented how often he showed up and would not give him anything. So he went to the Tian family’s stables and worked for the horse doctor in return for his meals.

Someone in the city mocked him: “You work for a horse doctor to get food—aren’t you ashamed?”

The beggar answered: “In the world, nothing is more shameful than begging. If you are not ashamed to beg, what disgrace is there in working for a horse doctor?”

The commentary takes this chapter to mean that when someone is driven to an extreme in a given situation, once rank and role have hardened, people stop caring about integrity and shame—and all the more so for those who can follow the natural course and treat gain and loss lightly.

The exegesis adds that some scholars, seeking office, will willingly break another’s arm or perform humiliating personal services; serving under a lowly physician is likewise a way to make a living. When the payoff is large, they call it honor; when it is small, they call it shame. Who in the world truly grasps what honor and disgrace really are?

The term rendered here as “breaking the arm” also appears as “breaking the branch.” In Mencius, the phrase “breaking the branch for an elder” was explained by Zhao Qi as massaging the elder and flexing the wrist and arm joints on their behalf.

In the State of Song, a man found on the road a wooden tally that someone had discarded—a piece of wood carved with marks, used to verify identity or serve as a credential. When he got home, he hid it away and carefully counted the notches. The notches resembled teeth, so they could be used to see whether tally pieces matched and to distinguish genuine from fake. He told his neighbor, “I’m about to get rich very soon.”

The commentary takes this to mean that seeking real profit under false labels is like picking up a discarded tally and counting its notches while waiting to grow wealthy. Many people are led astray by hollow reputation and lose what is truly real. It is like someone who feels no shame begging in the market yet is ashamed to work for wages, or like a runaway slave who leaves one master only to serve another: the work is the same, but he fancies himself free of constraint. Those who act on wandering thoughts and lose the real principle are mostly like this.

Someone had a dead parasol tree at home. An old neighbor told him that a dead parasol tree was inauspicious, so he cut it down at once. The old neighbor’s father then asked to take the tree for firewood.

The man took offense and said: “The old man next door only wanted this tree for firewood—that’s why he talked me into cutting it down. You live beside me as neighbors, yet you harbor such ill intent. How can anyone trust you?”

The commentary in the Liezi holds that advising someone to fell the tree was a matter of public concern, and asking to use it as firewood was reasonable enough; yet when the advice to cut came first and the request for the wood followed, suspicion was bound to arise. What people dread cannot be dismissed lightly. Do not assume that because something seems harmless, no harm will come—trouble may grow from just such beginnings.

Someone lost an axe and suspected that the neighbor’s child had stolen it. The way the child walked seemed like that of a thief; so did his expression; his speech sounded like it; whatever the man noticed in the child’s bearing or manner seemed to fit someone who had stolen an axe.

Before long he dug in a valley and found his own axe. Some days later, when he saw the neighbor’s child again, nothing in the child’s bearing or manner seemed like that of someone who had stolen an axe.

Once doubt clouds the mind, what one sees and thinks shifts with one’s thoughts. In extreme cases people even take white for black and square for round. It is not that things outside have changed, but that the mind has skewed judgment. An old saying runs: “The myriad affairs of the world are tangled and confused; all arise from the mind.”

Commentary: Much harm comes from suspicion that mistakes appearance for fact. Even events as ordinary as a kite falling or a rat appearing can lead to trouble when suspicion is involved. Only those who build up virtue, keep to what is right, harbor no private agenda, and do not lightly suspect others can escape such harm. Suspecting the neighbor’s child as soon as an axe is lost illustrates exactly this point.

Bai Gong Sheng was plotting a rebellion. After leaving court he stood there with his horse whip turned upside down; the metal tip at the end pierced his chin, yet he noticed nothing at all, and blood ran onto the ground without his knowing it. The metal tip at the end of a horse whip is meant for pricking and urging a horse on.

When the people of Zheng heard this, they said: “If he can forget even a wounded chin, what is there he would not forget?”

When a person’s mind is wholly absorbed in one thing, he may walk along and trip on a tree root or a hole in the ground, or even strike his head against a tree, and still be entirely unaware of it.

In ancient times, a man in the state of Qi wanted to obtain gold. One morning, dressed neatly, he went to the market, walked up to where gold was sold, grabbed some gold, and ran. Officials seized him and asked: “With so many people around at the time, why did you still snatch someone else’s gold?”

The man replied: “When I took the gold, I did not see people—I only saw gold.”

[Note] Strong desire (shiyu) can disturb the mind so severely that it reaches this extreme. That is why the ancients said: someone who can fix attention on the tip of an autumn hair (the fine new fur animals grow in autumn) may fail to see Mount Tai; someone who listens intently for the harmony of the five tones (the classical pentatonic scale) may fail to hear thunder. Once the mind is caught by one thing and clings to external objects, even a large form before the eyes or a loud sound at the ear may go unnoticed. How much more so when the mind follows reason, restrains emotion, gathers thought, and rests in stillness—how could it then be thrown off by the changes of the myriad things?

[Explanation] Zhang Zhan says: Strong desire disturbing the mind can indeed reach this degree. When the mind is absorbed in one thing, it forgets others; cases of this kind are all alike. This chapter teaches that one must not indulge desire, or one will harm body and nature. The man of Qi hoped gold would make his life better, yet gold ruined him instead. What is meant by “having no body” (wushen) is not destroying the physical body, but not treating the self as overly important.

The notes also discuss variant readings in different editions: in some texts “de zhi” (obtained it) appears as “chang zhi”; after “he” in the question some add “gu.” “Bo” describes quiet calm; “zhuo” carries the sense of attachment and infatuation. Under “qi” in Zhang Zhan’s commentary, some editions add an extra “yin”; Lu Wenchao suspected the character “wu” (things) is redundant; Yang Bojun suspected “wanwu dong zhi” should read “wanwu zhi dong,” thinking the two characters “dong zhi” are transposed.