《列子集释》Vol. 2

People living in the world are like travelers on a road. If one keeps walking forward without knowing where to return, one has forgotten one’s true home. When an individual forgets home, everyone will criticize him; when everyone under Heaven forgets home, no one thinks anything is wrong with that.

What is meant here is that the side with greater numbers and strength often overwhelms the side with fewer. The commentator holds that Yanzi took Confucian and Mohist teachings as the basis of his conduct and valued the body and life; he would not have said such things—this passage was probably passed down later under Yanzi’s name in pretense.

The Laozi says: “Returning to the root is called stillness; stillness is returning to one’s inherent nature; returning to inherent nature is called constancy (chang); recognizing constancy is called clarity. Not recognizing constancy yet acting recklessly invites misfortune.” The human spirit dwells within the physical form, and the form has its limit. If one loses the root and clings to form and life, one exhausts the spirit and wearies the mind until utterly drained. Only after death does one return to true inherent nature—like casting off shackles and laying down a heavy burden. Those who crave life and fear death cling only to present existence and do not know how to return to the root; many under Heaven lose their inherent nature in this way, yet no one thinks it wrong.

Yan Bojun notes: This layer of meaning is close to what Zhuangzi·Discourse on Equalizing Things says: “Toiling all one’s life yet seeing no achievement; laboring wearily yet not knowing where one is bound—is that not pitiable?”

Yan Bojun notes further: The present Yanzi Chunqiu·Inner Remonstrances, Upper records Yanzi as saying: “Formerly the Lord on High regarded human death as a good thing: the benevolent find rest, the unbenevolent receive punishment.” Liezi cites only these three sentences. The wording of the first line differs slightly, because when ancients quoted classics they did not necessarily copy the source verbatim. On close reading, Chudu’s note here seems to treat everything above “all under Heaven lose home, yet no one knows it is wrong” as Yanzi’s words, hence the comment that it is a later forgery; yet Yanzi did speak in this vein—Chudu probably had not seen the Yanzi Chunqiu.

Some people leave their homeland, abandon their kin, neglect their household affairs, and wander far without ever returning. Who are such people? The world is sure to take them for reckless and dissolute.

Others cherish life in the present, rely on their wit and skill, polish their name and chase reputation, show off before the world, yet fail to know themselves. Who are such people? The world is sure to take them for clever schemers.

In truth both kinds have lost themselves. The world approves one and rejects the other, but only the sage knows whom to approve and whom to set aside. Those who treat life and death as waking and sleeping may be kept as companions; those who sink in delusion and forget to return to the root should be left behind.

To cast off the root and run after the branches wearies spirit and mind. Whether one follows private inclination, chases desire, or races after gain, the outcome is the same—loss. What is there to favor or despise?

Some people ask: “Why does Liezi value emptiness (xu)?” Liezi replies: “Emptiness itself is nothing to prize.”

People often treat what society collectively approves as right; anyone who clings to a fixed bias, in turn, treats what the world accepts as wrong. Only one who understands the Dao knows what to set aside and what to adopt. Zhuangzi tells a story: Zang and Gu were herding sheep together, and both lost their sheep. One went off to play at gambling games, the other buried himself in books. Their conduct differed in better and worse, but the outcome—lost sheep—was the same. If one has lost the Dao, what difference is there between amusement and study?

“Bo-sai” was a kind of ancient gambling game. The collator Qin Enfu held that the extra character “wen” (ask) after “bo-sai” is spurious text. Yang Bojun explains that “yu” here means to adopt or accept; “qu” (take) and “yu” (give/adopt) share the same sense in this context.

Someone asks Liezi: “Why do you value emptiness?” Liezi says: “Emptiness is nothing worth valuing.” The “emptiness” spoken of here is the Daoist state of empty stillness and clear openness; Liezi uses this to show that if one treats “emptiness” itself as a precious label to pursue, one is already attached to names and forms.

Someone asked Liezi: “Why do you value emptiness and stillness?” Liezi replied: “Emptiness and stillness themselves are not really something to value.”

What people usually mean by “valuing” is to reject one side and choose the other, to take oneself as right and external things as wrong. If one can set aside both being and non-being and let the differences among the myriad things return to unity, that is called “emptiness” (xu). When emptiness reaches the point that even “emptiness” is not clung to, from where could labels of noble and base arise?

Liezi also said: “This is not pursuit of an empty name. Things originally have a real basis; they need not be proved by false labels. Nothing is better than quietness and emptiness. Quiet and empty, one rests in one’s own nature; craving, grasping, and giving and taking instead lose the place where one was originally settled.”

The “emptiness and stillness” spoken of here is not a state obtained only by leaving mind and body behind; it is the nature that everyone originally has. When the heart settles, the true and complete nature naturally appears. The myriad things can be preserved because of emptiness and stillness, so each finds its proper rest; they fall into ruin because of restless pursuit, and then lose where they can settle.

Therefore, my fondness for emptiness and stillness is not in order to win the reputation of “honoring emptiness.” When the heart is clear and empty, auspiciousness has somewhere to rest; only in stillness, only in emptiness, can one rest in one’s nature. If one craves, grasps, and calculates gain and loss, the spirit loses peace, and fame, profit, and disputes of right and wrong crowd in—how can one bear it? Thus it is not that I treat “emptiness” as some precious thing.

Once things have already gone bad, trying to patch them up with Ren (benevolence) and Yi (righteousness) can no longer bring them back to how they were. The ancients held that one should guard against trouble before it arises and put order in place before disorder sets in. When the root is already harmed and things are withered and ruined, and you then try to rouse people’s hearts with Ren and Yi in hope of restoring the root of one’s original nature (xing), you ultimately cannot succeed. The character read as hui here means “to ruin” or “destroy,” as in huihuai (to ruin and destroy).

The “xu” (emptiness) spoken of here means cultivating the heart-mind while the situation has not yet fallen into chaos. If human nature is already injured and the spirit-mind (shen) is already confused, using the language and teaching of Ren and Yi to change people’s hearts will only stir them up and make recovery harder, so the original state cannot be restored.

Tao Hongqing holds that Zhang Zhan’s reading of wu as “to inspire” or “uplift” Ren and Yi is not apt. Wu here should mean “to play with” or “manipulate”: after things are already ruined, one then uses Ren and Yi to mend them, but what was destroyed still cannot be made whole again. The Daodejing says, “When the great Dao is abandoned, there is Ren and Yi”; the “Horse’s Hooves” chapter of the Zhuangzi says that when the sage toils to push Ren and Yi, the world then begins to doubt—both passages point to the same idea.

Yu Xiong (traditionally regarded as King Wen of Zhou’s teacher and later enfeoffed in Chu) said: “The motion of everything under heaven and earth never stops; heaven and earth shift in ways too subtle to notice—who can truly see it?”

The commentary draws on the Zhuangzi image of a boat “hidden in a ravine” to show that things exist only as part of change and move on with change. Change never pauses, so how could anything stay forever as it was? Confucius said: “Without break by day or night, I keep moving forward.” The body shaped in the past is not the same body now; in the time it takes to bow or look up, much has already altered. When qi scatters, the form decays too—not in a single instant. The dull person clings to a body bound to change, lives within ceaseless turning, yet imagines they can dodge change—is that not lamentable?

So where something lessens, something else grows; where something forms, something else is depleted. The note illustrates this with rivers run dry and valleys emptied, hills worn down and depths filled—gain and loss, fullness and want, shift constantly, and with them birth and death.

Liang Zhangju argued that “Yuizi” passages quoted in the Liezi reflect Huang–Lao quietist teaching and do not match the Yuizi we have today; they may come from the twenty-two-fascicle Daoist Yuizi listed in the Bibliographic Treatise of the Han History. Yang Bojun argued that the one-fascicle Yuizi known since the Song is often treated as spurious; the Siku Quanshu General Catalog suggests it was likely put together after the Tang in imitation of lines Jia Yi cites—a view that is probably sound. In Yu Xiong’s name, the character read yu (as in “nourish”).

Things constantly change in mutual interaction, linking one to another without pause—who can detect the transformation within? What has already taken form takes itself to be fully formed, yet depletion has already begun; what is growing takes itself to be growing, yet in secret it is already moving toward death.

The myriad things arise from a single Qi (the primordial breath that constitutes things and drives change). That breath does not all at once make things increase, nor all at once make them decline. Increase and decline are imperceptible to people; they shift quietly in the dark—never something eyes and ears can clearly observe.

From birth to old age, a person’s face, complexion, intelligence, and expression change every day without exception; skin, nails, and hair likewise shed and renew with the years. From infancy onward this has never stopped. If even such obvious changes in body, face, skin, and hair are hard to notice, how much more so changes finer than these?

When things change, people often cannot perceive it; only after the change has already occurred do they know it once happened. The spirit-mind operates in the hidden, Yin-Yang qi turns without cease, so the human form alters and heaven and earth shift and transform without one’s noticing. The ten thousand things wax and wane, fill and empty—who can always be aware of these changes? Therefore, those who understand and value the Dao (the fundamental pattern by which all things run) know where the root lies and are not gripped by fear when things perish.

In the state of Qi there was a man who worried that heaven and earth would collapse and he would have nowhere to rest, so he was so anxious he could neither sleep nor eat.

The state of Qi (a feudal domain of the Zhou, roughly in what is now Qi County, Henan) had a man who feared the sky would fall and the earth give way, leaving him nowhere to live. He could neither sleep nor eat.

Another person was distressed by this too and went to reassure him. The commentary observes that what he feared was a misunderstanding in the first place, yet because people did not grasp that point they still fretted on his account. That did not ease his anxiety; it only deepened the confusion—so how could such “counsel” truly help?

The counselor said: “Heaven is simply gathered Qi (vital energy); there is nowhere that is not Qi. When you bend and stretch, breathe in and out, you spend the whole day moving within heaven—so why fear it will collapse?”

A note adds that in some old texts the word for “fall” appears as a variant graph with the same sense of plummeting, and that the line “the sky looks vast and blue; it is not a hard, ringing substance” means the heavens seem blue and empty, not a solid body that would clang if struck.

Someone said: “Heaven is nothing but accumulated qi; qi fills every place. Just as people bend and stretch their bodies and breathe in and out, they spend the whole day active within heaven—so why worry that heaven will collapse?”

The “heaven” spoken of here is not a distant solid vault of blue sky; from the ground upward, everywhere is heaven. Whether people bow or look up, breathe or pant, they never leave heaven.

The man asked again: “If heaven really is only accumulated qi, shouldn’t the sun, moon, and stars fall down too?”

The one instructing him said: “The sun, moon, and stars are also things that shine within qi. Qi can support all things; heaven and earth are so vast yet still rest at ease in the great void—how much more so when sun, moon, and stars support one another? Even if they did fall, they would cause no harm.”

The man asked again: “What if the earth collapses?”

The one instructing him said: “Earth is nothing but accumulated clods of soil, filling the four directions above and below—there is no empty gap anywhere.”

When Changluzi (a figure associated with Daoism in antiquity; tradition says such a person lived in the state of Chu) heard of this, he laughed.

He said: “Rainbows, clouds, mist, wind, and rain—if you look at them from a distance, their colors and shapes are distinct; up close they have no substance at all. Likewise, mountains and hills, rivers and seas, fire and metal, stone and soil—viewed from afar they seem solid; examined closely they are likewise empty. Heaven and earth are only the smallest of the myriad forms; why should they alone be regarded as the most solid? If someone is not yet clear about the vast and the minute, the near and the far, the large and the small, the many and the few, strong and weak, real and illusory—how can they know that heaven and earth are themselves illusory? That the sun, moon, and stars might fall is not worth worrying about; that heaven and earth might collapse is not worth fearing. A person who knows this can wander between heaven and earth without obstruction, and can roam through the six directions without hindrance.”

The annotation notes: Changluzi’s words are not meant to teach people to stop worrying about heaven and earth collapsing, but to show that worry and joy alike arise from not knowing their root. Once you know the root, you need neither worry nor rejoice—you simply accord with things as they are. That is the meaning of “wandering without obstruction” and “roaming without hindrance.”

The Huainanzi, “Shuolin xun” (Training in the Forest), says: “The potter uses a broken basin; the carpenter lives in a cramped hut.” Here lu is lu (hut). The Guoyu, “Jin yu” (Discourses of Jin), says “the dwarf supports the lu”; Wei Zhao glosses: “Lu is the shaft of a spear or halberd.” The Kaogong ji (Artificers’ Record) says “Qin has no lu”; the comment notes: “Lu is the shaft of spear or halberd, shaped from bamboo.” So lu and lu (hut) are the same graph.

The Wu Yue Chunqiu records “Wu Zi Ke Lu”; the Shiji writes “Wu Zi Ke Lu” (hut form). The Zuozhuan, Duke Huan year 13, commentary text says the lu of “Lu Rong” is read in its basic pronunciation—it is the shaft of spear or halberd; some editions write lu (alternate graph), same pronunciation. The Zuozhuan, Duke Cheng year 13, commentary also says “Bo Lu” is sometimes written “Bo Lu.” These examples show lu and lu (hut) are interchangeable. Where commentary writes a character as lu, that too mutual confirms this.

The Shiji, “Shen Dao liezhuan” (Biographies of Shen Dao), says “Chu had Shizi Chang Lu”; Suoyin holds the meaning of “Chang Lu” is unclear—likely they did not examine the Liezi passage here.

Rainbows are qi; clouds and mist are qi; wind, rain, and the four seasons are also qi—all qi gathered and formed in heaven. Mountains, seas, rivers, metal, stone, fire, and trees are form gathered and formed on earth. Once you know heaven is qi gathered and earth is form gathered, how can you say they cannot be destroyed?

[Note] Before the myriad things were differentiated from chaos, heaven and earth were only one mass of qi, and the myriad things only one kind of form. Later they split into heaven and earth and dispersed into the myriad things. This is the difference between gathering and scattering, and between the substantial and insubstantial in form and breath. Heaven and earth in the void are very small things, yet among what is “there” they are the largest class. That heaven and earth cannot be traced to an end or exhausted is originally so; that they cannot be measured or known is originally so. Worry that heaven and earth will be destroyed is really thinking too far ahead.

The Shiwen (Textual Notes) states that in “dayin” (great sound), “da” should be read as “tai” (supreme). Holding that heaven and earth will never be destroyed is likewise incorrect. Since heaven and earth must ultimately perish, their return to ruin is only a matter of time. When the day truly comes that heaven and earth are destroyed, how could one not worry?

〔Note〕 This is merely knowing that what has a beginning must have an end and what has form must decay, without understanding how safety and danger, worry and joy relate to the waxing and waning of Yin-Yang, or how form and heaven and earth appear and vanish.

〔Commentary〕 Qi (vital energy) gathers to become heaven; clods of earth gather to become earth. Where there is gathering and formation, how could there be no destruction? Only because heaven and earth are vast in scale, they seem hard to bring to an end, so their ruin cannot be measured. If one truly met the moment when heaven and earth were destroyed, worry would naturally be unavoidable. The note text originally read “bi bai” (must fail); following the canonical edition, this is changed to “bi huai” (must be destroyed). “Bu de bu you” (cannot but worry): the Sijie edition reads “he de bu you” (how could one not worry). “Bu ke ze jian” should be “bu ke ce jian” (cannot be fathomed or seen).

After hearing this, Liezi smiled and said: “To say heaven and earth will be destroyed is wrong; to say they will not be destroyed is equally wrong. Whether heaven and earth are destroyed or not, I cannot know. Even so, their being destroyed and not being destroyed are in fact the same thing.〔Note〕 ‘That one’ refers to heaven and earth not being destroyed; ‘this one’ refers to their being destroyed. If heaven and earth are not destroyed, a person is preserved together with heaven and earth; if heaven and earth are destroyed, a person also perishes together with them. Why then be glad or grieved about it? The Shiwen says: ‘xie’ is read as ‘jie’ (all alike). Therefore, while alive one does not know the state after death, and after death one does not know the state before life; when coming into the world one does not know departure, and when departing one does not know the coming. Whether heaven and earth are destroyed or not—why should I fix my mind on that?”

〔Note〕 The living do not know what follows death, just as the dead do not know what preceded life. Thus when heaven and earth were forming, no one knew they would be destroyed; when they are destroyed, how could anyone know they had once been formed? The experiences of coming and going and the clear evidence of formation and destruction all show this. When I regard them, I do not distinguish this from that; my mind does not lean to either side—what need is there to trouble myself over it?

〔Commentary〕 Heaven and earth are the greatest among the myriad things; the human body is among the smaller. The great is still only one thing, the small is still only one thing; whatever exists has a time of destruction—why argue the point? Moreover, while alive one does not know what follows death, and after death one does not know what preceded life; coming and going are not what one can foreknow, and formation and destruction cannot be fully understood.

The Dao is close to us; even the most subtle things are still existent beings. Whatever has form will ultimately decay—why argue about it? Moreover, while alive one does not know what follows death, and after death one does not know what preceded life; coming and going occur without one’s noticing, and formation and dissolution cannot be fully understood. Examining what is nearest—one’s own self—we still cannot know it completely; why then exhaust oneself probing heaven and earth or worrying and disputing over what lies outside oneself?

Shun asked Zheng (some editions read “Cheng,” meaning a assisting official): “Can the Dao be possessed by a person?” The commentary states that Shun raised this question to show that the myriad things connect with “non-being” (wu), so he first took the Dao as the starting point of the inquiry.

Zheng replied: “Your body does not belong to you—how then could you possess the Dao?” The commentary explains that the human body is not something one can master or own; it simply exists by natural course. If even the tangible body is not one’s own, how much less the formless Dao? What are called “you” and “I” are merely designations based on outward form, not the spirit (shen) itself. Ordinary people take their body as “I” and call others “you,” but since the body cannot be possessed by oneself, how could one possess the Dao?

Shun asked again: “If my body does not belong to me, then to whom does it belong?” Zheng answered: “It is the form that heaven and earth have entrusted to you.” The commentary holds that the human form is shaped when the qi of heaven and earth gathers in a particular way.

Du Yu’s commentary explains that wei (to entrust, to confer) means to hand over or to belong by assignment. The form of heaven and earth is the form heaven and earth entrust to the myriad things; the several other occurrences of wei in the passage carry the same sense.

Life does not belong to you yourself; it is the yin-yang and qi that heaven and earth entrust to you. When many kinds of qi gather together, life takes shape. Temperament and lifespan are not under your control either; they are the patterns of compliance and resistance that heaven and earth entrust to you—when the compliant qi accumulates, there is life; when qi disperses, there is death.

Guo Xiang explains: if the body truly belonged to you, then beauty and ugliness, life and death, would be for you to decide. As it is, when qi gathers you are born and you cannot stop it; when qi scatters you die and you cannot hold it back. This shows the body is something qi naturally aggregates into—it is not something you own.

Children and descendants do not belong to you either; they are what heaven and earth endow and what nature sheds and transforms into being. When qi gathers of itself, form appears as if from a cicada’s slough. If children and descendants were yours, then the sex and number of your offspring would also be for you to decide.

Therefore when people walk, they do not know where they are going; when they stop, they do not know on what basis they rest; when they eat, they do not know the principle in what they eat. All of this happens naturally—it is not something done after deliberate thought. The force by which heaven and earth operate in vigor and constancy is qi; how could anyone treat that as private property?

Heaven and earth are the greatest existences formed by the gathering of all things. Our walking, dwelling, eating, and breathing today are merely the operation of vigorous, full yang energy—yet people do not know the root cause behind this. “Strong yang” refers to vigorous, full yang energy. If one does not return from the principle of vigorous fullness to the utmost of emptiness and stillness, there will be no form and no life, and birth and death cannot be spoken of at all. In that case, on what can nature and life rely to follow the natural course? On what can descendants rely for birth, nurture, and transformation? What do walking and stopping take as their home? What do eating and drinking depend on to be sustained?

Commentary: Since people do not understand that shenming (spirit and divine intelligence) is what governs the Dao, heaven and earth are invoked here to explain. Heaven governs wondrous function; earth bears the myriad formed things. People who dwell in the world of form—on what form do they rely? Those inwardly at peace—by what do they preserve the nature of life? Those who act in accord with things—by what do they follow the natural course? Those who bear offspring through affection—by what do they enable descendants to receive life and grow through change? You now walk, stop, eat, and breathe, knowing only that yang energy is at work, yet not knowing the shenming that truly governs all of this. How can such a person be counted among those who have attained the Dao?

Someone asked: “Yu Shun was a sage—how could he not understand the Dao?” The reply: “Using host-and-guest dialogue to clarify doubt—must one keep silent?” Zhuangzi said: “Bu Liangyi had a sage’s talent but not a sage’s Dao; I have a sage’s Dao but not a sage’s talent.” Clearly, those with talent for governing the world and who sit in the ruler’s place need not understand the Dao; those who hide in mountains and forests and seek only to perfect themselves need not know how to govern the people. Therefore, thirty years after Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) took the throne, he dreamed of the land of Huaxu; Yao (named Fangxun), after meeting the four recluses, gained insight on the north bank of the Fen River. If Shun had not yet awakened, what is strange about that?

Wang Chongmin argues that in the “Knowledge Wandered North” chapter of the Zhuangzi, the phrase for Heaven and Earth is followed by the particle zhi, and that particle must not be dropped. He suspects that older versions of the Liezi once had zhi as well, but that it fell out in the texts now in circulation. Guo Xiang glosses qiang yang as movement. In the “Allegories” chapter of the Zhuangzi we read that when the other arrives, one arrives with him; when he departs, one departs with him; when he moves, one moves with him. Guo Xiang explains this as meaning that one simply goes and comes in step with the other’s motion. So qiang yang carries the sense of movement, much like chang yang and xiang yang—terms linked by shared rhyme and used as paired expressions.

The point is that body, life, and offspring are not things people truly own; they are all products of Heaven and Earth coming together. People also fail to see that the turning of Heaven and Earth is nothing but the working of Qi. Once it is clear that cosmic motion is Qi in motion, nothing in the world between Heaven and Earth can be held as private property. The line about Heaven and Earth’s qiang yang should be read with a pause at that juncture; without zhi, the sense breaks down. Zhang Zhan’s note that qiang yang means something like “hard and solid” misses the mark.

The Shiwen gives the reading of fu (again, return) by the fanqie spelling fu you qie, which yields a pronunciation close to fu.

Guo of Qi was very wealthy, while Xiang of Song was extremely poor. Xiang came from Song to Qi and asked Guo how he had become rich. Guo told him: “I am skilled at being a thief. When I first took up thieving, within a year I had enough for daily needs; in two years I had surplus wealth; in three years I enjoyed a great harvest. After that, I even gave goods away to neighbors in my village and district.”

Xiang was delighted on hearing this. He grasped only Guo’s words about “being a thief” and did not understand the real meaning or the method behind them. So he climbed over walls, broke into houses, and whatever his hand reached or his eye fell upon, he took without exception.

The right moment had not yet arrived; one book cites the wording as “all at a sudden.”

“Being found guilty on account of property”: zang is read as cang; the sense is being convicted because of wealth and having one’s previously amassed property confiscated. Yu Yue held that ju means “to store up,” referring to goods accumulated earlier. The Analects, “Gongye Chang,” says “Zang Wenzhong stored up [ju] Cai”; Huang Kan likewise glosses ju as “to store up.” Wu Kaisheng argued that ju should be read as zhu, with the same meaning. Wang Chongmin noted that Taiping Yulan quotes the text with xian jun (“the former lord”) instead, which fits the context better. Bo Jun pointed to a passage in the Liezi, “King Mu of Zhou,” where someone “offered half of his stored-up family property to seek his arts”; there too ju in ju chan carries the sense of accumulation. Yu Yue’s and Wu Kaisheng’s readings can both stand; the Yulan’s change of the character to jun is a mistaken emendation and cannot be taken as evidence.

Shiwen gives the fanqie xi jian qie for the reading of xian.

The Xiang clan, resentful because the Guo clan had blamed them, went to confront him. Qian Yi glossed miu as “deceit.” Xiang went to reproach Guo; Guo asked, “How do you mean to act as a thief?” Xiang described the method he intended to use. Guo said, “Alas! You plainly do not understand what it means to be a thief. Let me tell you. I have heard that Heaven has the four seasons, and Earth has what it yields for use.” The comment explains that this refers to the seasons of spring, summer, autumn, and winter, and to what the land can grow and produce.

Guo went on: “I steal Heaven and Earth’s seasons and their productive power: I rely on cloud and rain to moisten the fields, and on what mountains and marshes bring forth, so that crops grow and multiply, and I use them to build walls and embankments…” Here pang is read with the fanqie pu lang qie, describing rain falling in abundance; zhi appears in some editions as zhi (fanqie shi zhi qie), meaning to plant or to breed; yuan is read yuan and means a wall; zhu is read zhu. A citation in Liutie writes he as he shu and jia as zhong lu—names for different kinds of grain.

Bo Jun holds that the pronunciation note for zhi (plant/cultivate) appears below the character yuan (wall), and he suspects the version Jingshun saw read: “Repair my courtyard wall, build my house, plant my grain seedlings, cultivate my crops.”

Catching birds and beasts on land and fish and turtles in water does not count as theft. Grain seedlings, crops, earth, wood, birds, beasts, fish, and turtles are all produced by Heaven and Earth—how could they be said to belong to me alone? The commentator explains: Heaven and Earth cannot even generate themselves in isolation; how could they alone generate the myriad things? Human beings cannot even possess themselves in isolation; how could they alone possess external things? This means that each thing generates and possesses itself. Heaven and Earth bestow upon the myriad things; I meet that with an ordinary heart—then whatever I do, whom could I blame? The Yinfu Jing shu (Commentary on the Scripture of the Hidden Talisman) quotes this as: “I take and use Heaven and Earth, yet suffer no calamity.” Shi is read shi zhi qie.

As for gold, jade, treasures, grain, cloth, and goods of every kind—they are what people gather together. Did Heaven and Earth bestow them upon people? The commentator explains: Heaven and Earth cannot even bestow these things upon people; how could people gather them by themselves? Again this means that things are what people obtain and accumulate on their own. Bo Jun holds that in the commentary “zi neng zi ju” (self-capable, self-gathering) should read “zi yu zi ju” (self-participating, self-gathering).

If one steals property that belongs to someone else and is punished for it, whom could one blame? The commentator explains: the goods belong to another; I have violated another’s private possession, and therefore incur guilt.

The exegesis holds that Heaven and Earth show no partiality and treat the myriad things as caozhu jisi (straw dogs for sacrifice)—since Heaven and Earth have no mind intent on nurturing the myriad things, they also have no deliberate plan for who takes and who gives. The large swallows the small; the clever employ the dull. People follow the moment to seek profit and rely on strength to control others and satisfy private desire. Whatever is obtained or given through such action can be called dao (theft). But another person’s property is different: the owner guards goods for personal use; taking them incurs punishment—whom could one blame for that?

After the Xiang family acquired wealth, they were not like that: they kept the property at home for their own enjoyment, and if they were punished for it, whom could they blame? Xiang was greatly perplexed and thought the Guo family had deceived him with some powerful trick, so he went to Master Dongguo to ask for an explanation.

Master Dongguo said: “Is your body not also something obtained by ‘stealing’? It takes the harmonized Qi (vital energy) of heaven and earth’s Yin-Yang to form your life and shape your body. How much more so things outside the body—are they not also taken from heaven and earth?”

Here “stealing” means that life and the myriad things all draw on the transformations and resources of heaven and earth. The commentary says: If we say there is stealing, then my body is originally one thing within heaven and earth and cannot be privately owned; if we say there is no stealing, then what is inside the body and what is outside should not be treated differently. Indeed, heaven and earth and the myriad things cannot be separated from one another. To treat the myriad things as one’s own and grasp them as private property is delusion.

The commentary also says: “Heaven and earth” is the general name for the myriad things, and “myriad things” are the distinct names for the various entities within heaven and earth. Even if each person cherishes his own body, in principle they cannot be parted from one another; to regard them as private possessions is confusion of the mind. Therefore the human form is received from heaven and earth and is not truly one’s own; to adorn the appearance, dote on outward looks, or boast of one’s intelligence and ability is already to be deluded.

When things go to excess, people forcibly treat outward possessions as their own, parade their family names to set themselves apart, lean on kinship and clan power to shore themselves up, dress and adorn themselves to impress others, wield reputation and rank to command the crowd, amass wealth, and knit together factional ties. They spend their whole lives sunk in these pleasures and never wake up.

That is why Laozi said, “The great trouble for me is that I have a body.” Zhuangzi asked, “Of the hundred joints and the six viscera in this body, which part am I supposed to cling to?” Once you grasp that point, you see that the mind can be as empty and open as the Great Void (Tai xu), while the body simply exists among the ten thousand things like everything else.

Lu Wenchao noted that in some commentaries the character written as shi (to adorn) appears as another form meaning ornament, that an extra particle meaning “that which” appears after the phrase “the reason I have great suffering,” and that “Great Void” appears as “great emptiness” in some texts. Yang Bojun showed that the phrase “take and possess as if measuring” appears in commentaries as “recognize and possess as one’s own,” and that ren here means “to recognize.” The same alternation appears in the “Zhou Mu Wang” chapter, where a dream line speaks of “recognizing” a person as a deer; the pronunciation guide gives one manuscript reading as “recognize,” which supports the point. That guide also writes “great” for “supreme,” and gives the readings: ren as “endure,” cheng as in the standard fanqie spelling, fu again as in the usual second reading, wei in “what I take as mine” as “artificial/false,” cang as the standard cang reading, and “great” read as tai (supreme).

The Guo clan’s “stealing the world” followed the public Way (gong dao), so they did not meet with disaster; the Ruo clan’s “stealing the world” came from private intent, so they were punished. Commentators take “public” (gong) as a name paired with “private” (si): where there is no private interest, the label “public” has nothing to contrast with. To call what violates heavenly principle “public” and what violates human feeling “private” is, on the merits, not a fully convincing account. The explanation runs thus: Heaven and Earth are without private intent; when they take and use the ten thousand things, there is no opposing party, so there is no calamity. The human heart has private intent; when it takes things, it does so with partiality, and that is why it counts as theft. To seize what belongs to others out of private intent is already to set up an opposing side—private against other—so why should punishment be surprising? Law exists to restrain human private desire; without an opposing interest, there would be nothing for it to restrain.

Yang Bojun holds that the word rendered as qing in the phrase “taking with qing” should instead be dui—“the other party” or “counterpart.” Appropriation that still distinguishes public from private remains theft; only the party wronged differs—it is still theft. Appropriation that makes no public–private distinction is still theft as well.

The human body must always rest on something; goods inevitably gather. Yet if one also wants to cast all of that away, that shows one has not yet reached a taking-and-using in which the mind holds nothing. When the sage sets up standards and teaches people so that they do not harm others or seize what belongs to the many, that kind of taking is not theft. To keep to the standards is to walk the path of the public good; to break them is to walk the path of private interest. Even when public law is not violated, to treat things as one’s own is still theft—how much more when one holds them by breaking the law?

“Public within the public, private within the private” is the de (virtue/power) of Heaven and Earth: the life of every thing is the principle of Heaven and Earth, and the human body is likewise one thing amid Heaven and Earth. To cherish and stingily guard one’s own life and body is to show partiality toward what Heaven and Earth have generated. Affairs in themselves have no division of public and private; in principle one ought not to favor or hoard.

For those who understand the de of Heaven and Earth, who counts as a thief and who does not? What is that de? Nothing other than ziran—accord with what is so of itself. If that is so, why must we fix the labels “public” and “private”? Once those names are set aside, theft and non-theft make no difference at the level of principle.

To understand the de of Heaven and Earth is to know the difference between public and private yet not be bound by a private mind; to look on things together with the myriad beings and find nothing strange in them. When one is clear about Heaven and Earth’s de, taking things without a private mind is not deceiving Heaven and Earth; taking as the multitude does and not treating what one obtains as private property is therefore not theft.

If that is so, who counts as a thief and who does not? Only someone who penetrates wondrous principle and grasps the Dao can know.

Note: In the phrase cuo qi gong si zhi ming (setting aside the names of public and private), various editions read li instead of cuo; the text here follows the Daozang edition. Cuo is read like cuo (to place or lay aside).

In the Jie commentary, the ruo in ruo zhi tian di zhi de (if one knows the virtue of Heaven and Earth): the Qin manuscript has wan instead of ruo; corrected here per the Four Commentaries edition. Lu Wenchao notes that the Daozang edition lacks the four characters zi ran er yi (that is all through spontaneity) in the commentary.

Huangdi, Chapter Two

[Commentary] People receive their inborn endowment and call it xing (nature); bringing nature to its fullest is called he (harmony). Thus those who accord with circumstances and rest in ziran (naturalness) find passage wherever they go; those who indulge their dispositions and turn against the Dao are obstructed when they meet things.

[Exegesis] This chapter treats forgetting the bodily form, nourishing shen (spirit), and through mysterious, still cultivation bringing forth authentic wisdom. At the start of practice one must release the outer myriad things and clarify the inner mind; once wisdom emerges, one can reach all beings through transformation and respond to affairs in the external world. Thus the opening discusses fasting and quieting the heart, gathering in the bodily form, and not personally governing; by the end it praises Confucius and Mozi, taking assisting the world as the aim. That is the chapter’s overall meaning.

Fifteen years after the Yellow Emperor ascended the throne, he began to delight in being acclaimed and supported by all under heaven (this was merely taking pleasure in line with worldly fashion). He tried to nurture his life while gratifying the pleasures of eyes, ears, nose, and mouth; as a result his body grew haggard, dark spots appeared on his skin, his spirit and mind fell into confusion, and emotions such as joy, anger, sorrow, delight, love, and hatred lost their proper balance (overworking the mind and spirit is not enough to nurture life and nature—it only harms the body).

People in the world all take sound, color, and food and drink as the way to nourish the body; only those from wealthy households are regarded as rich and honored. The sage, however, understands that these practices are enough to harm life, and therefore feels anxious and cannot rejoice. The first section holds that spirit (Shen) is the master of life; the second section is to explain that one should nourish the body by following the Great Way (Dao), so it first points out what the multitude indulges in, then gradually unfolds the doctrine.

Bo Jun holds that ju dai means “the whole world” (jushi), and that below, dai zhi wei junzi likewise means shi zhi wei junzi—“what the world calls a gentleman.” Emperor Taizong of Tang was named Li Shimin; people of the Tang often used dai in place of shi.

Fifteen years later, the Yellow Emperor again worried that the realm could not be settled. He exhausted the acuity of eyes and ears, deployed wisdom and strength, and toiled at governing the people, until his face was gaunt, his skin sallow, his spirit unsettled, and his senses impaired. Commentators say that intelligence and cleverness alone are insufficient to settle the realm; on the contrary, they only disturb the spirit (Shen).

Commentators explain that those whom the world calls junzi—exemplary persons—are the ones who govern the people. They all wear out body and mind, treat themselves harshly, expend life on external things, and pursue fame and profit, yet do not know that thus enslaving the spirit (Shen) damages the root of life and distances them further and further from the Great Way (Dao).

The Yellow Emperor then sighed: “My fault is too deep. Caring only to nourish myself, I meet with such calamity; governing the myriad things, there is such calamity as well.” Commentators explain that if one can follow what is natural—neither forcing nourishment nor loosely indulging while refraining from forced governance—then life and nature are naturally preserved and the realm is naturally settled.

“Yin” (debauchery or excess) means straying from the right path. Every living thing knows how to care for itself and seek its own advantage in order to stay alive, yet does not realize that though it has life, it must still come to death in the end. Those who practice benevolence and righteousness know how to chase reputation and gain and treat that as their skill, yet do not realize that this drains the spirit and harms life, and that they must still face death.

Looking only to oneself and one’s profit is usually called petty; helping the many without private ends is usually called noble. Judged by outward conduct, the two seem morally opposed; judged by inner motive, both are flawed when reputation is pursued at the cost of one’s true nature. To make the great Dao (the Way) clear, the text therefore rejects both approaches together.

Wang Lai held that the phrase about “not knowing how one lives” is missing a yi (“by,” “through”) in the received text, and that in “harming life yet knowing death,” the word read as “know” (zhi) should instead be the homophone zhi (“it,” “them”).

The ruler then set aside the various affairs of government, left the palace quarters, dismissed attendants from his side, removed the bell stands, reduced his meals, and withdrew to lodge in the hall of the great court. He gathered in mind and body, fasted and kept still, and for three months did not personally handle state business. Commentators explain: when the heart has no desires, the body naturally settles into peace.

The phrase “putting down myriad affairs” does not mean doing nothing at all. Rather, when tasks arise one responds and handles them in accord with circumstances, just as the four seasons follow one another in their course. Hence it is said: “What has Heaven said? The four seasons still turn, and the ten thousand things still grow.” There is no need to exhaust the mind chasing empty reputation, nor to rely on talent so that one’s name lasts a thousand years or one’s fine fame is inscribed in the historical records. It is enough to follow principle in what is subtle and hidden, and to act only when there is no alternative.

Do not elevate one’s status and fame, do not multiply preferences and desires, do not pursue rich flavors, and do not indulge oneself in licentious music. Keep the inner self purified and still, and keep the body withdrawn in quiet. Maintain this state for three months—that is, one seasonal cycle. Confucius said: “Yan Hui did not depart from humaneness for three months.” He meant precisely this. Select the able and virtuous, entrust affairs to them, and supervise their results with fair, impartial reward and punishment—this is not personally administering government.

During a daytime nap, the Yellow Emperor dreamed he arrived in the land of Huaxu. The dream is used here to show that ultimate principle cannot be grasped through subjective feeling; the sage originally has no dreams—here a dream is merely borrowed for expression. The land of Huaxu lay west of Yan Province and north of Tai Province. Commentators say there may never have been such a country; the point is only to show that ultimate principle must be like this. The Huainanzi states that due west is called Yan Province and the northwest is called Tai Province. “Yan” is read like “an.”

The Yellow Emperor did not know how many tens of millions of li this country was from the central region. “Si” here means “distance from,” and “Qi” means “center.” The encyclopedia Yiwen Leiju and the Tianzhong Ji quote the text with “si” written as “ju” (distance); commentators regard that as an arbitrary change of character. The distance spoken of here could not be covered by boat, carriage, or walking alone—it could only be reached by the spirit wandering there. Boats and carriages are merely what the physical body relies on for travel; the wondrous Way is subtle and indeterminate, and one may arrive without going by foot.

In that country there were no leaders or teachers. The Shide Tang edition writes “shi” (teacher) as “shuai” (commander). Yu Yue held that the Shiwen records a variant where “shuai” is also written as “shi,” and that “shuai” should be adopted.

In the Offices of Zhou (Zhouguan), the Grand Steward (Taizai) section states that the ruler connects with the people of the states through nine kinds of relations; the second is “winning the people’s attachment through the dignity of senior officials,” and the third is “winning the people’s attachment through the virtue of teachers.” Here the two characters shizhang (“teacher and official”) refer precisely to teachers and to officials. Saying that the state has no shizhang means that there is no distinction between noble and base, nor between the capable and the dull. If one writes shizhang as shuaizhang (“chief and leader”), it would only mean that there is no distinction of rank and status, and the sense would be incomplete. Lu Chongxuan’s edition reads shizhang. Wang Chongmin held that Yu Yue’s view was correct. The Northern Song edition and the citations in Taiping Yulan, juan 79 and juan 397, also read shi (“teacher”). The Shiwen (commentary) reads shuai, explaining: shuai is read with the pronunciation suolei qie; some editions write shi (“teacher”); zhang is read dingzhang qie. Shuaizhang means the head or the one in charge.

The people follow ziran (naturalness) and do not give rise to greedy desire. The gloss on ziran says that it means not relying on external things. The people do not know how to cling to life, nor do they know how to hate death; therefore there is no untimely death or early demise. They do not know how to be close to themselves, nor do they know how to keep distant from external things; therefore there is no love or hate. They do not know how to oppose and resist, nor do they know how to incline toward and follow; therefore they do not calculate benefit and harm.

The commentary says that the principle of the ten thousand things originally has no birth and death, so there is no “loving life” or “hating death”; originally there is no love or hate, so there is no “being close” or “keeping distant”; originally there is no going against or going with, so there is no benefit or harm. In the line “they cherish nothing at all” (du wu suo aixi), Wang Chongmin thought the character xi (“cherish”) was a corrupted form of zeng (“hate”), because the preceding text says there is no love or hate, and this line continues that thought; if it read xi, the meaning would not fit. The citation in Taiping Yulan, juan 79, also reads zeng (“hate”).

Wang Shumin notes that Fan Zhixu explained: “When the heart is wholly free of love and aversion, there is no discrimination or sensory clutter within it.” That shows that in the version he consulted, the word otherwise read as xi (cherish/regret) was also written with the graph for zeng (hatred/aversion).

Such a person has no dread or inhibition in the heart: entering water, they do not drown; entering fire, they do not feel scorched; even when cut by an axe or lashed with a whip, they are not wounded and feel no pain; even when someone scratches them with the fingers, they feel no soreness or itch. The commentary holds that when the inner mind reaches pure harmony, outer things cannot harm one. Burning, drowning, pain, and itch—in this line of teaching—all tie back to inward anxiety and fear.

Suan xiao (soreness and itch) denotes aching or prickling itch. Lu Deming’s Jingdian Shiwen glosses ti as “to scratch” (also read ti), xiao with its usual reading, and yang with the yu liang fanqie. He also cites the Zhouli, which records spring ailments such as head soreness and summer ailments such as itch and scabies. Zheng Xuan takes xiao as the sensation of soreness and sharp, cutting pain. Lu Wenchao argued that the yang in the binome xiao-yang is a spurious addition and that xiao in suan xiao should be the graph xue (cutting/sharp pain). Yang Bojun observes that Zheng Xuan’s remark appears in his note on Zhouli, Tian guan, “Ji yi”; in related glosses, Ren Dachun noted that Shuowen Jiezi has xiao glossed as headache but no separate entry for suan (sour/sore). The gloss “suan: pain,” which Jingshun attributes to Shuowen, actually comes from the Yupian, not Shuowen.

Such a person moves through the air as if stepping on firm ground and sleeps in empty space as if on a bed. Mist and cloud do not block their sight; thunder and lightning do not upset their hearing. The term for obstruction overlaps semantically with he (barrier/block). “Beauty and ugliness do not slip (or muddy) the heart” means that fair and foul cannot unsettle the inner mind. Wang Shumin adds that in Taiping yulan, juan 79, the graph hua (slip/smooth) appears instead as mi (confuse/muddy).

Note: I used pinyin for quoted phrases and technical terms as requested; if you want Wade-Giles or full English paraphrase for every binome, say so and I can adjust.

Do not try to seek the Dao through emotional intent, and you will be unable to express the Dao you have realized through that same intent either. Another twenty-eight years passed, and the realm was governed so well that it was almost like the country of Huaxushi. Later the Yellow Emperor passed away. The people wailed for him, and for more than two hundred years they did not stop.

Note: “Dengjia” is the ancient phrase for an emperor’s death, meaning something close to “ascending” in departure. “Hao” here means wailing and lamenting.

Interpretation: When a person wakes from sleep and realizes the great Dao, that realization is not obtained from external things; when one grows weary and falls asleep, the Shen grows quiet and aligns with principle, and one thereby moves away from craving and desire. The human discernment spirit (shishen) returns to original nature. This kind of realization cannot be sought through emotional intent, and it is hard to convey in words to others, because once the heart is clear and bright, there is no need to cling to speech.

Those who govern the realm through elaborate laws and measures often leave behind only empty names. When laws and measures are excessive, abuses show themselves; what looks orderly may not truly be implemented. The upper levels demand hollow titles from below, and the lower levels respond with hollow titles in turn; above and below mutually deceive each other, piling up ornament as the way of governance—how could pristine genuineness be recovered?

The realm of the great Dao is spirit aligned with principle, facing the myriad things and following each situation as it truly is. One does not show favor for a tiny talent, nor burst into anger over a tiny fault. It is like spring sowing vitality so that the myriad things grow. Custom changes accordingly, and instruction naturally takes shape.

He did not know the root of the myriad transformations of things, nor did he perceive how things take form. Therefore the people yearned for him, yet did not know how deep that yearning ran.

Mount Lie Gushè stands on Haihe Zhou—the place where a river in the sea runs its course. Older commentaries cite the Classic of Mountains and Seas and explain that “Gushè” is read as “yè.” That classic records that the state of Gushè lies in the sea; mountains ring it to the southwest; from Gushè one travels south by water one hundred li to Mount Gushè, then southwest three hundred eighty li to Mount Lie Gushè. Guo Pu held that this refers to where river water passes through the sea—what one sees from afar as the Gushè peaks ranged between sea and river.

Older notes also rely on the Account of the Western Regions: the Yellow River flows east into Lake Puchang (an ancient lake, also called Salt Marsh), then sinks underground and emerges in the central plains. Qin Enfu pointed out that the Shan Hai Jing passages quoted in old commentaries differ from today’s received text. The current Shan Hai Jing mentions Mount Gushè in several places: the Classic of the Eastern Mountains places Mount Gushè three hundred eighty li south of Mount Luqi, with Northern Gushè and Southern Gushè farther south; the Classic of Regions Within the Seas: North says Western Gushè lies on Haihe Zhou. Guo Pu glossed Gushè as a mountain name, with a divine person on the peak; Haihe Zhou is in the sea where river water runs—the “Mount Miao Gushè” of the Zhuangzi. Scholars identify one Gushè in the Eastern Mountains account with Jiukong Mountain west of present-day Pingyang prefecture in Linfen county; as for the locations of Northern and Southern Gushè, the old citations may reflect a Tang-era circulation of the Shan Hai Jing text.

Toward the myriad things, one neither shows special closeness and favor nor deliberately keeps distance and disdain; blessings and grace show no partiality—just like the straw dog (chugou) used in sacrifice, treating all things alike. Here “wui” is read as “yin wui,” meaning something like seeing yet not seeing clearly; commentators also take it as borrowing “yi,” suggesting something faint and hard to make out plainly.

Immortals and sages—those who attain the Dao, live long, and govern the world—become his ministers in name; he does not rule by intimidation, nor does he fly into anger easily, and the honest and cautious serve him in deed. This is not saying there is a real relationship of ruler and subject or of one person coercing another; rather, high and low, elder and younger each keep their proper place, so such titles are borrowed only for the sake of description.

Without deliberate charity or favoritism, the myriad things are naturally sufficient; without hoarding or squeezing, one oneself is not in want. Yin and Yang stay in harmony, sun and moon stay bright, the four seasons run smoothly, and wind and rain stay moderate and even.

Xiang is read as xiang (echo). Ren Dachun notes that Xunzi, “Encouraging Learning,” has the line “The gentleman is like xiang,” and Yang Liang glosses xiang as the same as xiang (echo)—like answering a sound. So ling xiang means spiritual echo or numinous resonance.

Liezi took Old Master Shang as his teacher and befriended Bo Gaozi. He devoted himself to learning the Way from both masters and later returned riding the wind. Zhuangzi says Liezi drove the wind and traveled lightly and at ease, returning after fifteen days. Commentators say Liezi’s ability to ride the wind belongs to the legend of the divine man Lie Yukou.

Commentary: When spirit is bound by the physical body and worldly things, every part of the body is constrained. When spirit aligns with the true Dao, the senses—eye, ear, nose, tongue, and body—become unobstructed. With unobstructed senses, nothing distant lies beyond perception; with an unconstrained body, one can ride the wind. Going to and fro in feather robes, leaping with fish-scale or bird-feather forms, is simply the natural expression of that state. The text is not praising marvels for their own sake but using allegory to convey the principle. Here ling should be read as ling (zero/naught); some editions wrongly write leng (cold). Below xun wu ri (ten days and five—fifteen days) the original likely had you (“there was”), meaning “after fifteen days had passed.”

When Yin Sheng heard these things, he went to live with Liezi and did not leave for several months. When he had leisure he asked Liezi to teach him the methods; he asked ten times in succession, and ten times Liezi refused. Yin Sheng nursed resentment and asked to take his leave; Liezi did not detain him. After Yin Sheng had been away several months, he still could not let go and returned to follow Liezi again. Liezi asked, “Why do you come and go so often?” Yin Sheng replied, “Formerly Zhang Dai (Yin Sheng’s name) asked you…”

Yinsheng said: “When Zhang Dai [Yinsheng’s name] came to you for instruction before, you did not tell me what I wanted to know, and I long carried a grievance against you in my heart. That grievance has now cleared, so I have come again.”

Liezi said: “I once took you for someone who had truly got through to things; I did not expect you to be this shallow. Stay a moment—I will tell you what I learned from my master.

“From the time I began serving my master (Laoshang) and keeping company with Bo Gao, three years passed before I no longer dared in my heart to dwell on right and wrong or on my lips to talk of gain and loss—and only then did my master give me a sidelong glance. What ‘not daring to speak of gain and loss’ means here is that gain and loss were still in the mind and merely held back from speech; that kind of hiding resentment and covering the truth is why a single glance was all he gave.

“Five years more, and I no longer thought in my heart in terms of right and wrong or spoke on my lips of gain and loss—then my master began to unknit his brow and smile at me.”

Right and wrong, benefit and harm—these belong to the usual reasoning of the world. Whatever arises in the mind, let it follow its own course; whatever one is moved to say, let that follow its own course as well, with no stiffness or anxiety in the chest, so that inner life and outward expression are fully aligned. Is that not better than hiding what one truly thinks and refusing to show it? I delight in this inner–outer unity and, for the moment, use it to mock the world’s ordinary habits.

After three years of cultivation, one dwells in focused stillness and concentration; even turning the head to look about is enough. After five years, one has moved beyond that state of focused concentration, and a smile shows plainly on the face. In the Northern Song edition, one character was wrongly written for another in three places (“lin” for “min,” “xiong” for “chang,” “you” for “xun”); those errors are corrected here. The character for “conceal” (ni) appears as “ji” in the Shide Hall edition, which is also wrong. The Shiwen commentary notes that “conceal” (ni) appears in one manuscript as “si” (the sixth earthly branch).

After seven years, whatever arises in the mind follows its natural course, and one no longer discriminates right from wrong; whatever one says follows its natural course, and one no longer reckons benefit against harm. Only then did the Master draw me to sit beside him on the same mat.

What is the “mind”? It is quiet stillness without thoughts, free of cluttered ideas. What is the “mouth”? It is calmly carrying on breathing in and out on its own. When the mind has followed the natural course to its utmost, it no longer splits right from wrong; when the mouth follows the natural course, it no longer weighs benefit against harm. Teacher and companions are matched on the Way, and in rank and place they stand side by side as equals—so this seating is fitting. The Shiwen gives the reading of qi (to match, to agree) as ku ji qie.

After nine years, thoughts roam freely at will and speech roams freely at will. By then one no longer knows whether one’s own words and actions are right or wrong, beneficial or harmful, nor whether others’ words and actions are right or wrong, beneficial or harmful; likewise one no longer clings to the idea that the Master is my teacher and others are my friends. The gap between inner and outer dissolves still further.

When the mind is free of distracting thoughts and speech does not go against the Dao, one can let whatever arises in the heart be voiced and speak as the heart moves. To grasp the great Dao and probe its root is to become a jinliang for the world—a bridge by which others may reach the Dao. One may think all day long, yet it is not the clinging “I” that thinks; one may speak all day long, yet it is not the clinging “I” that speaks. To treat “no-thought” as one more thought, or “no-speech” as one more kind of speech, is still short of the highest attainment. This is precisely what is meant by “wuwei (non-action) yet nothing left undone.” When it is so, where is there any gap between this and that? What further use is there in the roles of teacher and disciple? In that sense, the distinction between inner and outer is utterly exhausted.

“Having no mind at all” means not first sorting out right and wrong, gain and loss, and only then deciding whether to speak. When the heart-mind opens and unfolds, words follow of themselves. To speak as the heart allows is to speak in accord with the great Dao. The commentary notes that the word here glossed as “zao” (to create or make) is read with the pronunciation qidao qie.

At this level, the eyes are as if they were ears, the ears as if they were the nose, the nose as if it were the mouth—there is no difference among them. Eye, ear, mouth, and nose no longer each cling to what they are “supposed” to do; each is simply left to its own nature, without a mind that divides, hence it is said they are not different.

When spirit (shen) is concentrated and settled, the body seems to dissolve; flesh and bone feel as though they have melted. One no longer feels the body leaning on anything, nor the feet treading on anything. Borne by the wind east and west, one is like a withered leaf or an empty husk. In the end one cannot tell whether the wind carries oneself or oneself rides the wind.

The annotators say that eye, ear, nose, and mouth each have their own proper function.

When spirit is concentrated and the body seems to melt away so it no longer binds you, you need not depend on outward things: seeing and hearing do not rely on eyes and ears, and scent does not rely on nose or mouth. Then the six viscera and seven orifices, the four limbs and hundred joints, are like one still shell, fused into a single whole—what would the body still lean on? Where would the feet stand? I ride the wind, and the wind seems to ride me; who can tell us apart?

Commentary. What is meant by “spirit concentration” (shen ning) is that spirit does not stir; what is meant by “release of form” (xing shi) is that the bodily shape is no longer constrained; “bones and flesh all melt” means forgetting one’s own body. Forget where the body is, and spirit no longer fixes on any object—you can rise and fall with the wind.

Lu Wenchao argued that in the commentary phrase “ling shen ning xing fei,” the word read as ling should be jin (“now,” in the present sense).

Scripture. You have been with the Master only a short while, yet several times you have nursed resentment. As long as your body still carries any solid substance, qi cannot bear it; as long as any trace of bodily form remains, the great earth cannot support it. How then can you tread empty space and ride the wind?

Note. If you still cling to desire and still prize your bodily form, flesh and bone will tug at each other, the whole body will have nowhere to rest, and how could heaven and earth support it? Jiang here means “about to” or “on the point of.”

Yin Sheng was deeply ashamed; he held his breath and stayed silent a long time and did not dare speak again.

Commentary. Liezi could ride the wind because he forgot himself. Laozi said: “The reason I have great trouble is that I have this body; when I no longer have a body, what trouble would remain?” If you cannot forget bodily form, then even a body with weight in a single spot the earth cannot support—much less riding the wind and soaring through the air.

Liezi asked Guan Yin (Guan Ling Yin Xi, courtesy name Gongdu) about the Dao. The commentary and textual notes state that the received Guan Yin Zi has nine chapters; Chen Zhensun of the Southern Song suspected it was written under a false attribution to Sun Ding, while the General Catalogue of the Siku Quan Library judged it might come from Daoist adepts of the late Tang or Five Dynasties period.

In the phrase “zhi ren qian xing bu zhi” (“zhi ren” means a person whose cultivation has reached a profound level; “qian xing” is walking submerged in water, and “zhi” is suffocation or blocked breath), the text says that even when such a person goes underwater they do not suffocate, and in action they are not obstructed by external things. Guo Xiang explained that the zhi ren’s mind is empty and still, and therefore they can respond to all solid realities. The transmitted text has two readings, “kong” and “zhi”: Zhang Zhan’s original had “kong,” but on the basis of Zhuangzi, “Dasheng” chapter, and other versions, “zhi” is more appropriate; Shiwen also notes that one manuscript reading of “kong” is “zhi.” The notes cite passages from Zuozhuan and Han Feizi to show that “qian xing” in ancient books can indeed mean moving under water.

Qin Enfu said: Regarding the Yijing line “silent—there is no one there,” Lu Deming’s Classic Texts with Phonetic and Semantic Glosses records that some manuscripts write “silent” (qù) as “stifled” (zhì). Yu Fan glosses “empty” in that sense: interpreting “empty” as “stifled” is like reading “disorder” as “order.”

Someone asked: “How can one tread through fire without feeling heat, or walk above the myriad things without fear?”

Xiang Xiu explained: “When everyone in the world delights in exalting him, he is not inflated by it; this is not because he deliberately elevates himself, so he has nothing to fear.”

Guan Yin replied: “This comes from guarding the pure qi—it is not something cleverness, craft, decisiveness, or courage can achieve. A state of pure genuineness belongs to one’s inborn nature; without seeking it outside, if one holds it carefully and does not lose it, nothing external can harm one. How could mere scheming or bravery alone suffice to risk crossing perilous ground?”

The commentary holds that utmost purity and truth arise from human nature itself and are not fetched from outside. The explanation adds that the perfected person (zhìrén) quietly cultivates de, keeps spirit united with the Dao, and therefore can tread fire without heat and climb high without fear—this is not reachable through cleverness, craft, or bold courage.

“Ji, let me tell you…” Here “Ji” is read jū; “fish” (yú) should be taken as “I” (wú), and “nǚ” (nǚ) is the same as “you” (rǔ). Wu Kaisheng notes that in ancient bell and vessel inscriptions, “fish” was often used to write “I” (wú).

Guan Yin continued: “Whatever has appearance, bodily form, sound, and color is an external thing.” The gloss says that from the sage down to insects, all belong to what has form and sound; if one looks only at appearance and sound, they differ in no fundamental way.

“Among external things, on what basis do we say one is vastly different from another?” Xiang Xiu explains that only one who is free of partiality in the mind appears uniquely transcendent. Someone else asked: “What makes these things deserve to come first? They are merely formed and colored.” Xiang Xiu explains that all alike are things with form and color, so originally none takes priority; only the Dao of nature can put things before or behind one another.

The commentary says that whatever has bodily form counts as a thing; since all are alike in having form and color, how could one rank some behind and others ahead? To deem oneself noble and look down on other things is the result of deep confusion in one’s feelings and intent.

Those who grasp how to forget the body, guard the spirit, and cultivate quiet until wisdom arises can commune with the divine.

All things are only form and appearance—how can one distinguish what comes first or last? Yet people insist on treating themselves as noble and other things as base; this is emotional confusion run deep.

All things arise from within the formless and ultimately cease in unchanging stillness. The commentary says: Since "being" has no beginning, the origin that generates the ten thousand things is formless; since form has no end, the destination of the ten thousand things is to cease changing. If one tries to pursue the ultimate beginning and end of form and sound, how could one ever truly reach the limit?

The explication holds: Forgetting the body and guarding the spirit is to reach the formless realm; cherishing one's true nature and aligning with the Dao is to rest in unchanging stillness. If one can grasp this principle and exhaust principle and fully illuminate one's nature, one can become a person who accords with the Way.

Some people hold to a measure that never crosses into excess: they only follow outward appearances and do not probe how things begin or end, and so they never stray from the constant way of nature. In this passage, shen should be read as yin (going too far); older manuscripts also give a reading with zhi (“and then stop”), while wei is a copyist’s mistake in the transmitted text.

Others settle themselves within principles that have no outer limit. What need has true principle to be hidden on purpose? They simply go along with things without fixating on them, so they leave no trace and no edge can be seen. They roam through the changes of the myriad things from start to finish. Whoever follows the Way without partiality always moves with the myriad things and naturally shares their beginnings and endings.

The “zhiren” (perfected person) is one whose virtue never falls short: in conduct they do not overstep what is fitting, so they do not slide into excess; in action they do not cling in a way that leaves a mark, so they can rest at ease in the boundless; by constantly returning to the root, they can roam through the beginning and end of the myriad things. They single-mindedly guard their inborn nature, nurture qi and preserve de, and always turn back to the root. An alternate reading here has yang qi (nurture the qi) instead of zhen qi (refine or authenticate the qi).

When inner De is stored and kept pure and unified, one can penetrate the generation and transformation of the ten thousand things. Commentators say: someone whose breath is unified and whose De is pure—does such a person merely understand for himself? Wherever the ten thousand things reach, he can keep them from being obstructed, and further help living beings each attain their proper place. Here “zào” is read as “cāo,” meaning the state or outcome that the ten thousand things reach or generate.

Such a person’s innate nature is pure, without admixture; only the true nature aligns with Heaven and Earth, and therefore he can penetrate the nature-and-life (xingming) of the ten thousand things. His innate nature is kept whole, and his spirit has no gaps—how could external things enter and disturb him? Commentators hold that when what is naturally endowed is not depleted, form and spirit stay intact, and worry has no way to intrude. To treasure the Dao and shed desire is to leave no gap, sign, or trace, so external things naturally find no opening to slip in.

Compare the drunk who falls from a carriage: even if the fall is severe, he may not die. His bones and joints are the same as others’, and the blow he receives may be no different—yet his outcome can differ from ordinary people’s because his spirit is whole and unharmed by fright.

When he was lifted onto the cart, he did not know it; when he fell from the cart, he did not know that either. (Note: A plain example is used here to show that the highest principle has its own necessity.)

Death, life, and sudden fright could not enter his mind, so even when something unexpected happened, he was not alarmed or afraid. (Note: Xiang Xiu said this means meeting events without fear. The term read as wu, meaning “to encounter.” Some versions write a different graph with the same sense; some take the original word to mean what the heart does not wish to see yet meets anyway. Here she means to be afraid or overawed.)

That man preserved himself by being drunk and could still do this; how much more one who truly accords with innate nature and preserves the Heavenly Dao! (Note: Xiang Xiu said a drunk person is only unconscious for a time because of wine, not naturally without mind. One who preserves the self by according with the Heavenly Dao is naturally without contrivance and follows what things are in themselves. The sage settles himself within the Heavenly Dao, so outer things cannot harm him. Guo Xiang explained that the sage does not pry into what lies outside the scope of nature, hence the phrase “hidden in Heaven.”)

(Commentary: A drunk person is not truly united with the Dao; wine merely keeps worry and fear from entering the inner heart and keeps the changes of death and life from injuring body and spirit. If one accords with the Heavenly Dao from the level of spirit and innate nature, outer things cannot harm one.)

Lie Yukou (Liezi) performed archery for Bohun Wuren. He drew the bow to the full—arrowhead already touching the string, the bow at its limit. Bohun Wuren set a cup of water on his elbow; Liezi held his arm so steady that not a drop spilled.

When he released, arrowhead and shaft flew out one after another in quick succession. He then nocked another arrow while the first was still in flight, as though the second were resting on the string, waiting to go. The passage describes motion that is swift and seamless, with one shot following another without pause. The commentary also cites the “Zhongni” chapter: a master archer can send the arrowhead of the following shot into the tail of the one before, so the arrows seem chained tip to tail.

The previous arrow had already struck the center of the target and had not yet fallen when the tail of the next arrow seemed to follow it from the bowstring in immediate succession; viewed from the side, it looked as if two arrows had merged into one. This can explain the situation here. The character "yu" is read as "yu" (encounter). The character "jie" is read as "ji ye cut" (swift). At that time, Lie Yukou (Liezi) appeared like a wooden puppet. The phrase "drawing full" means pulling the bow to its limit; he placed a cup of water on his elbow, shot one arrow and immediately followed with the next, the entire process as steady as a clay or wooden figure. This is because his mind was focused and his spirit settled, and his body remained motionless. A wooden puppet is called an "image man" (xiang ren).

Bo Hun Wuren (Bo Hun Wuren) said: "This is still archery with intent." That is, although he had mastered the essentials of archery, he could not avoid pride in his own ability; this is not yet the "archery of non-action" (bu she zhi she). So-called "archery of non-action" means forgetting whether one can shoot; even without deliberately engaging in archery, one can be in the same state as when shooting.

Bo Hun Wuren said again: "I will take you up a high mountain, walk onto dangerous rocks, and stand at the edge of a hundred-fathom abyss—can you still shoot?" The word "tang" here means "if". The interpreter holds that once fear arises in the mind, one loses the stability of archery. Lie Yukou relies on his own ability to stand steadily and shoot accurately; but this is not yet the realm of forgetting the bodily form and letting the spirit run naturally.

Thereupon, Bo Hun Wuren ascended the high mountain, walked onto the dangerous rocks, and stood at the edge of the hundred-fathom abyss. With his back to the abyss, he slowly retreated until two-thirds of his feet were on the stone and one-third hung over the edge, then bowed to Lie Yukou, inviting him to come forward. Lie Yukou crawled to the ground, and sweat flowed to his heels.

The interpreter says: Such fear when facing heights and danger is because Lie Yukou worried about his body and treasured his life. He did not know that being overly attached to one's bodily form actually harms life; forgetting the bodily form helps preserve life.

Although Lie Yukou was skilled at archery, that still did not count as being in accord with the Dao. Only someone who can forget the bodily form and keep the spirit whole, free from entanglement by the outer world, reaches what is called “shooting without shooting”—the state in which one need not deliberately shoot yet still accords with the way of archery.

Bo Hun Wuren said: “One who truly reaches the realm of the ‘Perfect Person’ can look up and survey the blue sky, look down and penetrate the Yellow Springs; spirit and vital force extend through the eight directions of heaven and earth, while spirit and energy remain unchanged. When inner virtue is full, spirit naturally shows forth in abundance; whether near or far, in the deepest gloom, he sees clearly, and so can discern omens of safety and danger, with a mind settled and at ease. Yet you are still fearful and uneasy, and your eyes still show tension—thus your heart-and-mind is easily affected!”

Guo Xiang’s commentary says that failing to understand the state one is in gives rise to fear and thus to much loss—not only in archery. The annotation holds that one who truly knows the Great Dao rests at ease between heaven and earth, with spirit under its own mastery, so that sorrow and joy cannot disturb him. That you are still so afraid shows you are not yet close to the Dao; you remain at the beginner’s stage and have not yet grasped its subtlety.

Wang Shumin notes that when Zhang Zhan’s commentary cites Guo Xiang, the version in the commentary on the “Tian Zifang” chapter of the Zhuangzi includes the two characters you ju (“there is fear”); that reading should be followed. The present passage omits you ju, so the sense is incomplete. The Shiwen records that zhong is read with the fanqie ding zhong qie; one manuscript reads shi yi fu (“it has begun—alas!”) where another has dai yi fu (“perilous—alas!”).

A man of the Fan clan had a son named Zihua who was skilled at winning over youxia (knights-errant who traded on martial reputation and attached themselves to powerful patrons) and keeping them as retainers. Lu Ji’s commentary on the “Imitations of Old Poems” places the character Jin (Jin state) before “Fan clan,” giving “Jin Fan clan.” Xu Weiyu thought ming (“name/fame”) was probably a corruption of ke (“guest/retainer”). The commentary speaks of “followers of youxia,” which shows the original should read ke; the next line, “Zihua had his knights-errant…,” continues directly from this.

People throughout the realm submitted to Zihua. Favored by the lord of Jin though he held no office, his standing ranked above the Three Ministers (the three highest qing grandees of Jin). Whomever he took against, Jin would demote; whomever he declared he disliked, Jin would dismiss.

Commentators disagree on the wording and meaning of pian fei. The Shiwen gives the pronunciation of fei as pi mei qie. Lu Wenchao held that yin bi bo (“pronunciation: contemptuous and slighting”) in the note was originally one phrase and that fei might be an extra character. Duan Yucai argued that in ancient books fei could stand for fei (“not/non-”), so kou suo pian fei meant someone the mouth singled out as wrong or rejected. Hong Yi cited the gloss on fei in the Hanshu “Preface by Tradition” and took it in the sense of “avoid”; kou suo pian bi would then mean someone excluded and not taken seriously. He also noted fei might interchange with fei (calf/shin), as in xiao ren suo fei in the Shijing “Cai Wei,” where the Mao commentary glosses fei as “avoid.” Other commentators traced fei through paleography and usage and linked the character here with hui (slander, reject), meaning to cast aside or ostracize.

Zhang Zhan’s commentary states that the character is read like bi (as in “to scorn” or “to treat lightly”), and that fei here means “thin” or “slight.” The passage was probably originally punctuated as: “Fei is read like bi, meaning ‘to treat lightly.’” That is, the pronunciation matches bi in the compound bíbó (“to scorn and slight”). Sun Mian glosses the pronunciation as fu bi qie, which agrees with Zhang Zhan. The character was abbreviated in writing until it appeared as fei, which is why the Shiwen treats it as a shortened form of the original graph. When Qin Enfu collated and printed Lu Chongxuan’s edition, he took it as a corruption of another character—but that reading cannot yield the sense “slander,” so the meaning does not hold. The mistake likely arose from misreading Zhang Zhan’s note as “fei bó ye” (“fei means thin/slight”) and building an explanation on that. Restoring the original character and glossing it as “slander,” with pronunciation bi, makes text, sound, and sense align. Qin’s view is incorrect.

“Those who stroll in his courtyard are as numerous as at court”: people coming and going in his courtyard are as many as in the royal court. The Shiwen says mou is read mou and means “equal”; chao (court) is read chao (as in “tide”).

Zihu had his retainers attack one another with words and let the strong bully the weak. The Shiwen records an alternate reading xiang ji (“strike one another”) for xiang ling (“bully one another”). Even when they were hurt or insulted to their faces, they need not take it to heart. The Shiwen says jie is read jie and has the sense of “quite” or “fittingly.” Day and night they treated this as sport and amusement, until it nearly became the custom of the whole state.

Commentary: Pian shi (“partial looking”) means to gaze at someone fixedly or appraisingly; pian fei means heaping slander upon them. Scholars took talk of such things as a matter of personal honor and shame, so those who entered and left Zihu’s gate were as numerous as the court of Jin. Zihu again had his retainers give full rein to verbal disputation without restraint; they slandered and humiliated one another until it was almost a prevailing fashion.

Hesheng and Zibo were leading retainers of the Fan clan. On a journey they passed beyond the outer suburbs (jiong denotes land outside the suburbs; the Shiwen gives jiong as gu ying qie). At night they lodged with Shangqiu Kai, who kept watch over the fields (geng should be the character sou, “old man”; the Shiwen has sou, read xi kou qie). Qin Enfu says: “The Three Elders and the Five Geng…”