《列子集释》Vol. 3

In ancient times, both scholars and common people had north-facing windows in their homes; for details see Qun Jing Ping Yi (Collected Classics with Balanced Interpretations). Zihua once came to a household to borrow grain; his attendant carried a load on a shoulder pole and held a ben (a bamboo basket for earth or sundries). Shi Wen (Commentary) says “he” is read with the fanqie “hu ke qie,” and “ben” is read “ben,” meaning a bamboo basket or similar vessel. Two people were inside the house, and Qiucheng Kai listened to their conversation from outside the north window—a plausible arrangement.

Zihua’s disciples were all sons of prominent families: they wore white silk robes, rode in carriage with canopy, walked at an easy pace, and looked down on others with arrogant eyes. Seeing Qiucheng Kai old and frail, with a dark complexion and shabby dress, they all looked down on him. “Ning” is read with the fanqie “nu ge qie” and means to treat someone lightly, as if they were ignorant; Fangyan (Regional Speech) says that in the Yang and Yue regions people call such disdain “ning,” and it can also describe eyes and ears that refuse to trust what they see or hear.

After that, they drew close and teased and deceived him in a friendly way. “Yi” means to deceive or tell falsehoods; Yulan (Imperial Readings) writes the character as “dai.” In old books “yi” is the original form, later often replaced by “dai.”

“Dang” has variant readings: one appears in Shi Wen; Fangyan says people in Jiangdong also call pushing “dang.” Another reading is “huang,” meaning to strike or pound. “Ai” is read “wu dai.” “Zhen” is read with the fanqie “du gan qie.” The term glossed later with the fanqie “pu jie qie” is explained in Fangyan as shoving and wrestling each other.

“Fu” is read as bi, meaning to push or strike; “ai” is read as hai, meaning to push; “dan” is read as gan. According to the Fangyan (Regional Speech), it means to strike someone on the back. Another manuscript writes it as “kang,” meaning to go against or resist. In “there is nothing he would not do,” “wang” here is interchangeable with “wu” (not, none).

Shangqiu Kai never showed an angry expression. “Yun” means to be angry. The crowd exhausted every trick they had, tormenting him until they were utterly weary. “Dan” is read as dan, meaning completely or to the utmost.

[Commentary] Founong (provoking and toying with someone) means treating him with the utmost contempt; xiaowu means familiar, frivolous teasing and mockery; qiyi means deceiving him in an arrogant way. Dang is touching and prodding; ao is twisting and wrenching; ai is pushing and humiliating; dan is resisting and refusing. “Bei” means exhaustion.

Later, the crowd went up onto a high platform together with Shangqiu Kai. In front of everyone someone said offhandedly: “Whoever can jump down from the platform by himself will be rewarded with a hundred pieces of gold.” They all scrambled to agree. Here “cheng” means to ascend; “manyan” means to speak casually; in some versions “shang” (reward) is written as “chang” (compensation).

[Commentary] The crowd was fooling and bullying Shangqiu Kai, which is why they only pretended to scramble to agree.

Shang Qiu Kai took this to be real, so he jumped first; his body fell like a bird and drifted lightly to the ground. Lu Deming’s Jingdian shiwen (Classic Text Explanations) notes that one manuscript reads feiniao (“flying bird”) as feifu (“flying wild duck”), and that yang is to be read liang, in the sense of something carried and swaying as if on the wind.

The following stretch of the base text is heavily damaged, and the forms and pronunciations the commentary discusses can no longer be made out completely. What survives mainly examines the writing and reading of compounds such as weiqu (“bending and twisting”) and draws parallels from the Guangya, Shuowen, Shiji, Hanshu, and Wenxuan. In that discussion, wei is taken to mean “bent” or “curving”; as for which character stood in the broken places, the versions we have do not allow a firm decision.

The line associated with the Fan family treats Shang Qiu Kai’s experience as a mere accident and does not find it remarkable. The commentary adds that some texts write ju (“how could”) as ju (“great,” a different graph). Ren Dachun cites Hanshu, “Annals of Emperor Gaozu,” and Zhuangzi, “Discourse on Making Things Equal,” to show that the two writings could be used interchangeably, each supporting the other.

Shang Qiu Kai then pointed again to a deeply sunken bend in the Yellow River… The commentary reads fu as “again” and yin as “deep.”

“Wei” is read as wu hui qie and means a bend in a stream; another manuscript has yu (a corner). People there said: “There is a pearl in the water; if you dive in, you can get it.” The Shiwen gloss explains that yong is read as yong (same character used for recitation yong) and refers to moving underwater while submerged. Shangqiu Kai then dove in again. Commentators say that traveling beneath the surface is called yong. The Shiwen adds that a pearl lies on the bottom and can be obtained by diving. When Shangqiu Kai came up, he indeed had the pearl.

The crowd began to doubt. Fang means “at first” or “beginning.” The Shiwen gives its reading as fen liang qie; some editions write fang instead. Yu Yue argued that in old books fang could stand for fang in the sense of “just then, at the start”; examples from the Shangshu (“Yaodian”) and the Hanshu support this. The Guangya (Shigu) also glosses fang as “beginning.” So fang is a later popular form, while fang in the text is really fang in the meaning “beginning, at first.”

At first Zihua had Shangqiu Kai enjoy rich food from Yu and dress in silk. Before long a great fire broke out in the Fan household. Zihua said: “Whoever can enter the flames and bring out brocade will be rewarded according to how much he retrieves.” Shangqiu Kai went into the fire with a face that showed no distress. He went in and out of the blaze; no soot clung to him and he was not burned.

The Fan clan took him for someone who had attained the Dao and apologized together: “We did not know you had the Dao and deceived you; we did not know you were a numinous person and gave you offense. You must have taken us for fools, deaf men, and the blind. Please tell us: what path of cultivation have you actually attained?”

When Zihua’s disciples saw Qiu Kai of Shang leap from a high platform as lightly as if he were flying; dive for pearls in water as if he were walking on land; and enter fire without singeing a hair, they all took him for a man of spirit who had mastered Dao techniques. They tried to deceive and provoke him; when he never grew angry, they assumed he was deaf and blind—unable to hear or see—and so boldly asked what arts he actually possessed.

Qiu Kai replied: “I have no such arts. Though I myself do not know why it happens, there is one thing I can try to tell you.

“Long ago, when your two guests stayed in my home, I heard them praise the power of the Fan clan—how it could make the living die and the dead live again, and turn the rich poor and the poor rich. I believed them completely, so I came a thousand li to this place. Once here, I heard that everything you disciples said was true, and I only feared that my faith was not deep enough and my conduct not thorough enough—that my sincerity had not yet been fully reached and my actions could not keep pace. I had no room to care where my body might be or what gain or loss might follow; my mind held to a single intent. Therefore nothing outside could obstruct me—that was all.

“Now I know that you people were deceiving me. Suspicion had already taken root in my heart.”

Among the officials under King Xuan of Zhou was a man named Liang Yang, who was in charge of the royal pastures. Liang Yang was skilled at raising wild beasts and would put food in the park to feed them. Even fierce birds and beasts such as tigers, wolves, eagles, and ospreys could all be kept tame and obedient by him. Male and female animals bred in flocks before him, and many different kinds could live together without fighting or tearing at one another.

King Xuan of Zhou feared that Liang Yang’s art would be lost when he died, so he had Mao Qiuyuan study under him. Liang Yang said: “I am only a lowly servant—what skill could I have to teach you? I fear the king would think I was deliberately holding back, so I will tell you roughly how I keep tigers. In general, when you go along with them, tigers are pleased; when you go against them, tigers grow angry. That is the nature common to all creatures of blood and breath. Still, can joy and anger arise for no reason? They always come from being opposed or provoked. Those who feed tigers dare not give them live prey, for fear that in killing the prey the tiger will be stirred to rage by that act;

Do not hand it a whole animal intact—you fear it will fly into a rage from having to kill; neither dare you give it live prey, lest it grow angry while exerting itself to break the catch. Watch when it is hungry and when it is sated, learn what sets off its anger, and act in line with its nature.

Tiger and human are not the same kind, yet a tiger will approach and fawn on those who raise it, because they go with its nature; when it mauls people or kills prey, it is because something has gone against what it intends.

The sage harmonizes and nourishes all beings, enabling each thing to follow its own nature, just as a skilled keeper tends beasts so that they do not harm one another.

Living things differ in form, but in spirit and vital energy they are not essentially different. Zhuangzi therefore said: If you look only at differences, liver and gall are as far apart as Chu and Yue; if you look at what they share, the myriad things are one. The Perfect Person, through spiritual attunement, unites with the myriad things. Hence when he enters a flock of birds, they do not break formation; when he walks among beasts, they do not scatter in alarm. Because he accords with the nature of things and does not go against them, fierce beasts can be tamed and gulls can draw near.

Beasts retreat to deep mountains and hidden valleys to preserve themselves and avoid harm from humans. When such worry no longer exists, what difference is there between garden and forest?

Yan Hui asked Confucius: “Once, when I crossed the gorge of Sheng Shen, I saw a ferryman handle his boat as if aided by a spirit. I asked him, ‘Can boat-handling be learned?’ He said, ‘It can. Someone who can swim can be taught to handle a boat; someone who is good at swimming often picks up the knack on his own. As for those who can dive to the bottom—even if they have never seen a boat before—they can take the tiller as soon as they step aboard.’”

In this passage, jin ren (ferrymen) are those who ferry people across the water, and mo ren (“those who can dive”) are people skilled at diving underwater. Commentators explain that su means to rise or step aboard; the line means that a skilled diver, once on the boat, can handle it. Sui Wen’s commentary also discusses shu neng, taking it to mean having mastered the knack of boat-handling.

In the Chu region, sheng was also called su. Liezi had never seen a boat yet could steer one; su means “then” or “immediately.” The Shiwen says su is read suo liu qie, and in the Zhuangzi it is written as bian. Wu is read as mu and means duck; some editions write jin, which is a corrupt character.

I asked him, but he would not tell me. What does this mean?

[Commentary] Those skilled at steering learn the art through study; those skilled at swimming and floating become adept through repeated practice. As for divers, some have never seen a boat yet can steer one—that is grasping the skill through subtle insight and natural mastery, which others cannot fathom.

Confucius said: “Alas! You and I have long studied the words of these teachings, yet we have not grasped their practical meaning—how can we say we have attained the Dao?”

[Note] Seeing that steering can be learned is merely familiarity with the words of the teaching; failing to understand how divers can master the skill naturally means one has not yet reached real experience. Now I will tell you.

Tao Hongqing held that Zhang Zhan’s note, with its claim that “steering can be learned through study,” is quite unsatisfactory. In his view, Confucius meant: you and I have only studied the words of the teaching and have not tested them against facts, so we cannot say we truly understand the Dao. Below, Huzi says, “You and I have not yet thoroughly practiced these words or exhaustively investigated their reality—have we already attained the Dao?” The Zhuangzi commentary attributed to Xiangxiu—“reality is clarified through words, the Dao is manifest through things”—exactly bears this out. Tao Hongqing also suspected that qie here should originally have been de (obtain), perhaps because the lower part of an ancient character was damaged and later miswritten as qie. The Shiwen says yu is read yu, and wei is read yu wei qie.

Those who can swim are able to teach others to swim because they do not treat water as something to dread; those who are good at swimming have grasped the way of moving in water because they have forgotten that water is there. [Note] To forget water is to be free of both self-congratulation and fear.

As for those who dive and move underwater, even if they have never seen a boat before, they can handle one with ease: they look on a deep abyss as they would level ground, and on a capsized boat as they would a carriage rolling backward. When every sort of upset—capsizing, overturning, and the like—appears together before their eyes, it still cannot disturb the shen (spirit) and inner mind where they dwell. [Note] The place where shen and mind reside is therefore called the “dwelling” (she). Here “shenming” means a person’s spirit and inner heart.

People like this remain composed and at ease wherever they go. [Note] Whatever situation they meet, they can stay unhurried and tranquil.

[Textual note] On “fang chen hu qian” (“arrayed before one”): one reading takes fang as “side by side,” meaning all things are displayed together before the eyes; another takes fang as “principle” or “circumstance,” so “fu que wan fang” means there are many kinds of boat and carriage overturning. On the closing “e wang er bu xia,” e is read as wu (“where”), and xia means unhurried ease.

Once you start clinging to things, you begin to value what is external; whoever values external things finds their inner capacity growing clumsy. Only when you forget the distinction between inner and outer, and no longer take lightness, heaviness, gain, or loss to heart, is there no gap between skill and clumsiness.

[Note] Only when neither inner versus outer nor light versus heavy weighs on the mind can one speak of there being no skill versus clumsiness.

[Explanation] Some people see a boat-handler’s skill and assume such ability can be learned; they only see surface technique. One who truly grasps the principle treats water like level ground—even if the boat capsizes and they fall in, the mind is not thrown into turmoil, so whatever happens they remain at ease.

Someone throwing tiles cares only about hitting the target and does not fear losing the tile. Switch to throwing something with a hook attached, and they no longer focus purely on hitting—they worry about losing the hooked object. Use gold instead, and they dare not even hope to hit—they only fear losing the gold. At first, the point of focused skill lay in not taking external things to heart; later fear arose from being unable to let go of them. People know full well that clinging to externals brings these two faults, yet they still crave wealth and end up harming themselves.

Textual note: In the Northern Song edition the character read as zhuan (compose/draft); Wang’s edition follows that reading; other versions read gong (arch/bow). Lu Wenchao held the Cang edition’s zhuo (clumsy) correct, and the text now follows that. Zhuangzi also has zhuo. Gong and zhuo are graphically similar, hence the corruption. Shiwen writes gong and notes variants with zhuo.

Confucius once went to watch the waterfall at Lüliang. Scholars disagree on where Lüliang was.

One view places it in Xihe (the western Yellow River region). Sima Biao says Lüliang lay west of Lishi County. The Commentary on the Water Classic records that near the old city of Shanwu County the Yellow River received a tributary that flowed west past Mount Lüliang and formed the Lüliang Rapids—a narrow, violent stretch of water at Lüliang. Tradition held that before Mount Lüliang was opened, the Yellow River ran over Mount Mengmen; Yu the Great cut through the mountain and cleared the channel. The same text adds that tracing the river west from Lishi County along the mountains reveals no severe gorge until this great dangerous ford—this is Lüliang, a little over a hundred li east of Lishi. Bo Jun notes that the Water Classic originally read “a little over two hundred li to the east”; “a little over a hundred li” is likely a copyist’s error. Although Li Daoyuan rejected the account in the Treatise on Commanderies and Principalities, he too held that Lüliang was in Xihe.

The other view places Lüliang at Pengcheng. Yu Zhengxie argued that in the Liezi, “On Conforming to the Way,” Confucius returns from Wei to Lu and stops at the river bridge (or a high bank by the river) to watch— the same episode as here; the “river bridge” in the Zhuangzi, “The Full Realization of Life,” is the very spot where Confucius looked on. The Classic Commentary cites Sima Biao: a break in the river formed by rocks in the water; today west of Lishi in Xihe there is just such a perilous place, known locally as “Huangliang.” The Lüshi Chunqiu, “Love of Categories,” says “before Lüliang was opened,” and Gao You glosses it as Lü County in Pengcheng, where a great stone in the water was cut by Yu to open the channel. The Huainanzi, “The Basic Warp,” also says “before Lüliang was opened,” with the same Pengcheng gloss.

On this basis Yu Zhengxie concluded that the four texts refer to two different Lüliangs: the one in the Zhuangzi and Liezi should be at Pengcheng, while those in the Lüshi Chunqiu and Huainanzi truly mean the site at Lishi. Older commentaries had conflated the two.

In his commentary on the Si River in the Commentary on the Water Classic, and on the Yellow River section where he cites the account of Liangliang and Sima Qian’s view, the author really does make the related records cohere. A commentary on the Zhuangzi says: “Northerners call all water ‘he’ (river).” So the Si River could also be called a “he.”

The “Treatise on Ditches and Canals” in the Book of Han records that Yu the Great channeled the Yellow River and split it into two courses. In later ages, the Yellow River was diverted from Xingyang toward the southeast to form the Hong Gou (Grand Canal trench), which linked Song, Wei, Chen, Cai, Cao, and Zheng; the Hong Gou in turn met the Ji, Ru, Huai, and Si rivers in the Chu region. Seen this way, the “beam” (liang) on the Si—the stone structure spanning or blocking the flow—could indeed be called a “River Beam” (he liang). Liu Fengshi of the Song, when collating the Book of Han, held that this passage was mistaken; that judgment is open to question.

Some say Liangliang on the Si did not appear until the Tang; yet the Essentials of Historical Geography states that Liangliang already existed in the Jin and Song periods. Such claims are not careful enough. The Zhuangzi commentary places Liangliang in the Pengcheng commandery of that time. The Erya explains: “Where stone cuts off the water, it is called a ‘liang’ (beam).”

The Liangliang falls drop some thirty ren (the ren being an ancient unit of length); foam churns for thirty li, and turtles, alligators, fish, and soft-shelled turtles cannot swim through. Yet someone saw a man moving in the water and thought he was in distress and meant to drown himself, so he sent a disciple downstream along the current to rescue him. Here “bing” is read as “bang,” meaning to follow or keep to the flow; “cheng” is read as “zheng,” to lift a drowning person out of the water.

The man swam several hundred paces, climbed ashore, let his hair hang loose, sang as he went, and walked along the edge of the pool. The text’s “tang xing” is likely a corruption for “under the pond bank” (tang xia); the commentary also notes that “tang” is read as the pond character, and “xia” is the same in meaning here.

Confucius followed behind him and asked: “The waterfall at Lüliang is thirty ren high; the spray churns and carries thirty li. Even yuan (giant turtles), tuo (crocodilians), fish, and bie (soft-shelled turtles) cannot swim through it. Yet I just saw you move through the water. Someone in distress who meant to end his life had a disciple go downstream along the current to save you. When you came out, your hair was loose; you walked along singing. I thought you were a ghost until I looked closely and saw you were a man. What secret do you have for passing through the water?”

The man replied: “There is no secret. At first I went with the water’s force (shishi); little by little I accorded with the water’s nature (shuixing); in the end I let things be as they are (ziran, “naturalness”). I was drawn in with the eddy as it converged (ji)—that inward, swirling inflow—and came out with the surge as it gushed forth (mi)—the outward rush of water.” Here “ji” and “mi” both describe how the water moves: ji names the swirl that pulls inward and gathers; mi names the burst that pushes outward and spills free.

The Shuowen, Yupian, Guangyun, and Leipian each give different senses for hui (revolving, turning back) and hui (eddying, countercurrent). Xunzi, “Encouraging the Scholar,” says, “When the water is deep, it hui”; Yang Liang glosses this: “Hui means the water spins in a whirl. Where the water is deep and the current neither rushed nor dangerous, eddies easily form.” Huainanzi likewise speaks of “whirling currents and returning waves” to depict water in motion.

When water circles and turns, the usual word is hui; hui more often means going upstream against the current. In Wenxuan, “su hui along the flow” is explained with Li Shan citing Maozhuan: “Going upstream is called hui.” Shuijing Zhu divides stretches of water into “upstream hui” and “downstream hui,” again with the sense of moving against the current. Hou Hanshu, biography of Ren Yan, says a sluice gate was set every ten li so people could take turns “hui”; Li Xian’s note cites Erya: going upstream is called hui. Thus hui and hui are not identical in meaning. Still, the classics sometimes use them interchangeably: Erya Shiwen and Wenxuan commentaries note that hui can correspond to hui, which is why some Zhuangzi commentaries write hui where Liezi commentaries write hui.

“Acting in accord with the way water flows, without claiming it as one’s own—that is what I call the Dao (the Way).” Confucius asked: “What is meant by beginning from gu, developing through xing, and completing in ming?” The reply: “I was born among hills and mounds; I am used to them and at peace in them—this is gu (what has always been so, habit). I grew up beside water and am used to it and at peace in it—this is xing (nature, what is natural to me). Not knowing why it is so, yet being so of itself—this is ming (Heaven’s decree, spontaneous being).”

The commentary says gu is one’s ordinary, original condition; letting true nature unfold on its own, one can settle into whatever environment one meets. When one acts in line with nature, outer things do not clash with it.

Annotation: The principles of nature cannot be grasped by intellect alone. To see that some truths lie beyond what intelligence can ever fully exhaust—this is what is meant by ming (allotted endowment, or fate).

Explanation: Those born among hills settle into life in the hills; those born by water settle into life by water. Habit hardens into what feels natural, so it is said that at first one follows established ways, and in time that becomes one’s xing (innate disposition). Growing familiar with one’s setting and at home in one’s endowment, one gradually aligns with how things work, until each person’s distinctive bingming (inborn allotment) takes shape—and when that happens, people usually do not know it themselves. Hence the Yijing says: “Investigate things to the utmost, know nature thoroughly, and thereby attain ming.” Here ming means coming into accord with the wondrous Dao.

When Confucius traveled to the state of Chu and passed through a grove, he saw a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas. In the Shide Tang edition, the word for “hunchbacked” is written with the character usually read sou, meaning deferential or humble, whereas other versions have damaged or variant forms of the graph. Ren Dachun pointed out that in works such as the Shuowen, the character lǚ denotes a bent or curved back, while sou normally means cautious, respectful, or self-lowering and does not mean hunchback. The reading sou here is therefore a scribal error; the text should read lǚ (“hunchbacked”).

“Cheng chan” means catching cicadas. Commentators disagree on how to read cheng; some manuscripts write chan (cicada) for that word as well. Ren Dachun also drew on variant readings and pronunciations in the Guangyun, the Chuci, the Classic of Poetry, the Records of the Grand Historian, and the Book of Han to clarify how related terms should be read. On that basis, the name of the insect, chan, should be taken in its usual pronunciation; as for other variant graphs in the text that also refer to the cicada, a change of reading is not necessarily required.

The Zhuangzi tells the same story with the phrase “cheng chan”; this passage shows a different wording.

Collators, drawing on works such as the Xia Xiaozheng, identify the tiao (cicada) in “catching cicadas on a pole” (cheng tiao) as a kind of cicada also called yan or yan in variant writing. In the Shuowen, the character for yan is graphically and semantically related to cheng (to receive, to hold up); ancients thought such insects had pointed heads and swollen abdomens—a shape cicadas share—so there is no need to emend the text’s “yan tiao.” In the passage, duo means to pick up or take in the hand.

Confucius asked, “Your skill is truly remarkable! Do you have a method?” The cicada catcher replied, “I have my own way. When I have practiced until the fifth and sixth lunar months, I can stack two pellets on the tip of my pole without their falling; then missed catches are so few they can almost be ignored. With three stacked without falling, misses are roughly one in ten. With five still not falling, catching cicadas is as easy as reaching out to pick something up.”

Commentators explain that stacking pellets trains the hand’s steadiness and concentration; the more pellets stay balanced, the steadier the hand and the fewer failures when catching cicadas. “Fifth and sixth months” means the fifth and sixth months of the lunar calendar—the season when cicadas sing and are caught. Collators also note that after “where I take my stand” (wu chu ye) a character may be missing: shen (body), so it should read “where I place my body” (wu chu shen), parallel to “where I hold my arm” (wu zhi bi) below.

The commentators hold that “wu chu ye” should read “wu chu shen ye.” The “Dasheng” (Nurturing Life) chapter of the Zhuangzi likewise has the word for “body” (shen), which can serve as external evidence. The note states that “in one recension the word for ‘body’ is missing”; some versions instead say “in one recension ‘body’ and ‘also’ are missing”—the latter wording is adopted here.

“Jue zhu ju” (juezhuju) denotes the root of a withered tree. Cui Zhuan explains that juezhuju means the root of a tree that has been cut or split. Lu Deming’s Shiwen (Exegetical Notes) writes jue as jue (written with the “tree” radical plus “jue”), and states that the two forms jue and jue are interchangeable; the Shuowen jizi (Explaining Graphs and Analyzing Characters) writes jue and glosses it as the root of a tree. Li Yi likewise says jue is a tree root, and that zhu ju similarly means the root of a dead tree; ju is to be read as ju (homophonous with “together”). Cui Zhuan was a native of Qinghe who served as yilang (Consulting Gentleman) under the Jin and wrote a commentary on the twenty-seven inner and outer chapters of the Nanhua zhenjing (the Zhuangzi).

Ren Dachun argues that in surviving texts the form jue (tree + jue) is used, and that jue and jue may be used interchangeably. The “Dalue” (Great Summary) chapter of the Xunzi says that “He Shi’s jade was a jue beside a well”—in newly collated editions jue is read as jue, meaning that He Shi’s bi was once treated as worthless, like a tree root. This aligns with Lu Deming’s practice of writing jue as jue.

Consider also “yi jue zhi ji” in the “Bensheng” (Root of Life) chapter of the Lüshi Chunqiu: the commentary explains jue ji as the position of the inner threshold, citing the Book of Odes line “not far from you, barely seeing me to the ji (border/outskirts)” in support. Thus the jue in “yi jue” also refers to something like a threshold; jue (tree root) and jue (tree + jue) are cognate, and likewise connect with jue (stumble/threshold sense).

The Zhuangzi, “Dasheng” chapter, writes zhu ju as zhu ju (zhuju). The Shiwen cites Li Yi: jue is a tree root, glossed “like zhuju.” The Yilin (Forest of Changes) has “meng sheng zhu qu, ji gua wo xu”—mentioning plants, trees, and brambles—so zhu ju, zhu ju, and zhu qu all point to tree-related things, with only a shift in pronunciation. The Classic of Mountains and Seas also records “below are nine ju”; the commentary says the roots there twist and interlace, citing the Huainanzi: “when the main root is [affected], the roots are torn up” (da ben ze gen zhuo) by way of explanation.

Characters such as ju, gou, qu, and ju (in the sense of gou) all convey the image of roots twisting and interlacing. “When I grasp my arm, it is like the branch of a withered tree.” The Classic of Mountains and Seas speaks of “nine ju below,” glossed as roots winding and crossing; the Huainanzi likewise says that a great tree’s roots stretch downward.

This passage says that at first, when learning to stack pellets, one could never keep them steady. After half a year of practice, one could stack two without their falling; with further training, one could finally stack five without their falling. Why? Because in standing, the body was like a dead tree and the arms like dead branches—the mind was single and free of stray thoughts. Heaven and earth are vast and the myriad things are many, yet the mind was fixed only on something as fine as a cicada’s wing and was not pulled by anything else—so what task could fail to succeed?

Confucius turned to his disciples and said: “When the mind is unified and undivided, one can reach a state close to the wondrous.” Here yi (doubt) appears in some versions as ning (focused fixation), meaning concentrated steadiness. Commentators cite the Guanzi, “Inner Cultivation”: reflect again and again until the mind’s sincerity and singleness are complete—even when understanding does not come at once, it will suddenly break through; this is not the work of ghosts or spirits, but the result of vital energy (jingqi) focused to the utmost.

Yu Yue held that the character here should be read as yi (doubt/wonder), not ning (congeal/focus): both the Daozang edition and Lu Chongxuan’s edition write ning, and Zhuangzi manuscripts do the same; but the word should actually be yi, meaning to be so astonished that one almost seems to see ghosts and spirits. Earlier Kongzi says, “At first I took you for a ghost; looking closely, I see you are a person.” That too shows the sense is startling wonder, as if something were numinous and beyond ordinary understanding.

The Guanzi, “Xingshi” chapter, has the line “those without breadth yi,” with the same character sometimes written as ning in some texts, as in Zhuangzi. Yu Yue argued it should be yi. The Guanzi, “Shenjie” chapter, says: “Use compass and square to fix round and square, and they can be made; use measure to gauge long and short, and they can be known; use law to govern the people, and they can be settled. Therefore, when action accords with principle and does not sprout side issues, the effect is like a divine feat.” That is exactly the idea of “when the mind is undivided and not scattered, one can reach a state as if numinously wondrous.” Related argument appears in Yu Yue’s Pingyi on Zhuangzi.

Tao Hongqing agreed with Yu Yue and added that Zhang Zhan’s commentary says, “When intention is single-minded, one resembles the numinous (shenming),” which shows the version Zhang Zhan saw read yi, not ning.

Wang Shumin noted that the third juan of Yungu Yaji and the fifty-seventh juan of Tianzhong Ji both quote this passage with yi as well. Yi can also be explained as ni (to compare or approximate). Zhuangzi, “Tiandi” chapter, says: “Are you not relying on broad learning to compare yourself to the sage?” Huainanzi, “Chuzhen” chapter, uses yi in a closely similar sense.

Bo Jun thought Tao Hongqing’s appeal to Zhang Zhan’s note filled a gap in Yu Yue’s argument; yet Yu Yue had already cited that point in his Pingyi on Zhuangzi. Moreover, the yi in Kongzi’s remark was originally a set phrase, so similar wording appears across the masters.

In ancient times, set phrases and idioms often rhymed; here “fen shen” ( dividing the spirit ) and “zhen wen” ( true writing ) rhyme with each other. “Zhen” and “wen” belonged to related rhyme categories in antiquity, so they could rhyme in the same line. Many similar cases could be cited; they need not all be listed here.

“Is this not what the hunchback old man (jūlóu zhàngrén) meant?” What he meant is that when the mind is single-minded and not scattered, spirit (shen) can gather and hold fast. Confucius, however, thought the old man was merely fixated on the cicada’s wings and had not forgotten them, so he called it “ning yu shen”—concentrating upon spirit; that does not mean he had already reached the point of meeting and merging with the subtle principle of the Way.

The old man also said, “You are a scholar in wide-sleeved Confucian robes.” Sun Yirang explained that “feng yi” is the loose, wide-sleeved garment mentioned in the ritual classics. Zheng Xuan’s commentary on the Zhouli records that a shi’s sleeves were two chi two cun wide; robes for grandees and above had even wider sleeves. “Feng” also means “large,” so “feng ye zhi yi” is clothing with broad sleeves.

The old man went on, “How would you know what to ask? First put in order what you rely upon, then bring it home to yourself.” Commentators explain that “xiu” means to govern and put in order; the point is to first put in order the arts of benevolence and righteousness that one employs, so that they return to the way of nature (ziran), and only then can one embody that teaching in one’s own person.

Commentary: The text says: The disciples under Confucius were scholars in wide-sleeved Confucian robes. They used benevolence and righteousness to transform the world, so people everywhere chased fame and profit, exhausting mind and wit, losing their true nature, and wearing out their spirit. How could they understand coming to ask about this Dao? Do you want to leave writings for later ages and also rely on eloquence and clever disputation to record my Dao in words?

Qin Enfu said that the final character “ran” in the commentary is probably a mistake for “yan.” Yu Yue said that Zhang Zhan’s gloss does not fit the sense of the main text. Taking the old master’s tone, he clearly looked down on Confucian learning—why would he still tell the other party to study Confucianism? Here “xiu” means to put in order and clean up. The Zhouli, Dianji, says “lead subordinates to xiu-zhi and sweep”; Zheng Xuan glosses “xiu-zhi” as clearing weeds and sweeping—that is the idea. In Zhouli, Sizunyi, “xiu-zhuo”: Zheng Si-nong explains it as washing the ladle with water before pouring wine. Washing the ladle with water is also called “xiu,” again with the sense of cleaning and putting in order. “Xiu ru suo yi” here means you should first put your own conduct in order, and only then can you speak my words again.

Wang Shumin said Yu Yue was right to take “xiu” as cleaning and ordering, but he still did not explain “zai.” “Zai” here equals “zai” (again): first put your conduct in order, then you can speak on the matter again. Lin Xiyi’s Kouyi glosses “zai yan” as “speak again,” which fits best. Zhuangzi, “Rangwang,” says “the Master was twice driven from Lu”; Taiping Yulan cites “zai” as written “zai,” showing “zai” and “zai” could interchange. Wu Kaisheng also said the line means first rectify your behavior, then seek the higher Dao; the old commentary was wrong.

By the sea there lived a man who loved seagulls. Every morning he went down to the shore and wandered among them. Hundreds of gulls came close and lingered at his side without flying away. When the mind is calm and one’s bearing is natural, the ten thousand things will not turn away in distaste.

His father heard that the seagulls were willing to keep him company and said, “I hear the gulls all play with you—bring a few back so I can enjoy them myself.” The next day, when the man went to the shore again, the gulls wheeled in the sky but would not alight. Once scheming enters the heart, outward behavior changes; even birds notice—how could anyone hide what is truly in the mind?

Hence the saying: the highest speech is speech that forgets speech; the highest conduct is Wuwei (non-action). Those who pride themselves on cleverness and deliberate calculation grasp only the shallowest part of the Way. Only when craft and calculation are wholly forgotten in the heart will the myriad things cease to doubt one’s intentions.

If human understanding is confined to the limits of what one’s own wisdom can grasp, one will remain far from the Dao (the Way).

Some may wonder: an old man feigning the form of a wooden stake to catch cicadas, and a boy on the seashore who lets his mind follow its inclination so that gulls draw near— these two approaches seem to pull in opposite directions, yet both are taken to show how one does not clash with external things. The Shiwen (pronunciation gloss) notes that in “zhì yán qù yán” (ultimate speech dispenses with speech), qù is read with the fanqie “qiu lü qie”; and in “qí zhì zhī suǒ zhī” (align with what wisdom knows), qí is read “yi qie.”

The scripture says that when the ultimate principle is reached, one no longer clings to words; one acts yet holds no mind of deliberate acting. If knowing is boxed within what wisdom can comprehend, what is gained is still shallow. The commentary explains that once deliberate acting in the heart is fully set aside, external things no longer give rise to doubt.

The two stories stress different angles, but both point to not opposing external things. The old man, wholly absorbed in catching cicadas, keeps his mind unified, and so does not startle what is outside him. If one attains a state of natural spontaneity (ziran) in which spirit and mind are in accord with the Dao, the body seems as still as wood or stone and shows no stir— then one startles external things even less. The seaside boy Ren He (a personal name) had sincerity filling him within and an easy bearing showing without. He had not yet fully forgotten benefit and harm or wiped out suspicion, but because he did not treat birds and other unlike beings as threats, he also felt nothing strange or suspect in them.

These two comparisons use nearer cases to clarify a more distant truth, and surface situations to illuminate what is fundamental. The annotation adds that communion between humans and the myriad things lies in the meeting of spirit and intent; communion among people of the same kind lies in dissolving emotional barriers. Only through principle (li) can one commune with the ten thousand things—not through feeling and knowledge alone. If one fixates on one’s own mind and takes pride in it, one only drifts farther from the Dao.

Textual notes at the end of the passage: in “the old man feigns form” (zhàng rén jiǎ wéi xíng), “wéi” appears as “wěi” (feign) in Northern Song and Zang editions; the commentator prefers “wéi.” “Wǔ” (clash) is read “wù”; “hài” (startle) is read “xie kai qie.”

Zhao Xiangzi led a retinue of a hundred thousand on a hunt in Zhongshan (the Xianyu state of the Spring and Autumn period and the Zhongshan state of the Warring States period, roughly in the area of present-day Dingzhou, Hebei). They set fire to the forest; the blaze was fierce and lit the land for a hundred li. Then a man emerged from a cliff face and moved up and down with the smoke and embers. Everyone took him for a demon or ghost. After the fire died down, the man walked out calmly, as if he had never passed through cliff or flames at all.

Zhao Xiangzi was astonished and kept him to observe. On close inspection, the man’s form, features, and the openings of his senses were like any other person’s; his breathing and voice were human too. Zhao Xiangzi asked, “By what method do you dwell in stone and pass through fire?”

The man asked in return, “What is this ‘stone’ you speak of? What is this ‘fire’ you speak of?” Commentators suggest that this man seemed not to perceive stone or fire at all, so for him there was nothing to obstruct him.

Zhao Xiangzi said, “The place you just came out of was stone; the place you just went through was fire.” The man replied, “I do not know.”

Some people do not know how things can harm and obstruct them to the utmost degree, and for that very reason they can reach such a state. When Duke Wen of Wei heard of this, he asked Zixia: “What sort of person is that?” Zixia replied: “According to what I, Shang, have heard from the Master’s (Confucius’s) teaching, when the mind is in harmony with the ten thousand things and merges into one with them, nothing outside can harm or obstruct one; one can walk among metal and stone or tread through fire and water and still succeed.”

The duke asked: “Why do you not do that yourself?” Zixia answered: “One must hollow out the inner mind and discard cleverness—‘kū’ (to gouge out) is read as kū, ‘qù’ (to remove) as qiū-lǚ qiè—I, Shang, am not yet able to do that. Still, if it is only a matter of discussing the matter, I still have capacity to spare.”

Commentators explain: using the mind to clear the mind and using cleverness to cast off cleverness—even if the entanglements of the mind are truly removed, traces left by clearing the mind may still remain. The true utmost principle is not something one can grasp and then forget by deliberately exercising thought; to speak of this principle, however, one still has room to spare.

The exegesis holds that the previous chapter treats moving in water without obstruction, while this chapter treats not being harmed among fire and stone. Many are skilled in water; few can tread fire. To show how easily people fixate on external things, the text again uses fire as an example. When inwardly one forgets the bodily form and outwardly forgets the ten thousand things, one no longer treats stone as an obstacle or fire as injury. Duke Wen of Wei did not grasp the point and therefore asked; Zixia had long understood and answered aptly. The duke asked again: “Why do you not personally achieve this yourself?” Zixia said: “I only know and can explain it; to practice it and personally verify it, I am not yet able.” Qin Enfu thought the character for “know” in “what one has not yet been able to know” might be redundant. The textual notes record that another version writes a homophone for “xiá” (leisure/spare capacity) as “jiǎ,” with the same pronunciation.

The duke asked again: “Why did the Master not do it?” Zixia replied: “The Master (Confucius) was able to do it, yet could choose not to.” The duke was very pleased on hearing this. Commentators say: some in the world have the power to do something yet can refrain from doing it; others have the power yet cannot help but do it.

Some matters in the world are such that one has the ability to act yet is unwilling to; others one has the ability to act yet cannot help but act; some things one could never accomplish in the first place, yet one forces oneself to try; still others one never deliberately sets out to do, yet they come about of themselves. As for the sage, what must be done and what must not be done? What can be done and what cannot? In every posture they align with the world; in advance and retreat they follow outer things; strange achievements and deeds are never lightly displayed. The innermost subtle realm—even one part in ten thousand—they do not allow others to see.

From the opening of this scroll to here, the theme is accord with nature and destiny, non-attachment to joy, anger, and the rest, single-minded guarding of Qi until Qi grows soft and gentle, and those whose inner sincerity is unified: they can stand amid water and fire without being burned or drowned, pass through wood and stone without catching or hanging, meet blades without being cut, and walk dangerous ground without falling. The ten thousand things do not go against their intent; entering among beasts does not alarm them. Their spirit can roam alone; the body seems able to lift lightly; the ears hear to vast distance; the eyes see with penetrating clarity. Such claims sound at odds with ordinary reason and do startle common people—hence the attempt at explanation here.

Yin and Yang alternate and transform; Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, and Water—the Five Phases—each has its own bias. Metal and Earth generate one another in the mother–child pattern; Water and Fire restrain each other through dryness and moisture. Human temperament divides into stillness and agitation; rising and falling shift according to each person’s capacity. Thus some birds fly to the clouds, some fish swim the deep abyss, some rats live in fire, and some insects hide in wood. Why? Hard and soft, hot and cold each has its fitting place; to settle in one environment may mean being constrained in another.

As for the Perfected Person—one whose cultivation has reached the utmost—mind is deeply joined with primordial Qi (the original life-breath of Heaven and Earth), and body is secretly attuned to the changes of Yin and Yang. They do not cling to any fixed form, nor are they bound to one temperature or one kind of thing. With spirit settled and Qi harmonized, whatever place they occupy they adapt to it. Hence things of the Five Phases cannot oppose them, and cold and heat cannot injure them. This is called virtue (De) deep and harmony brought to the utmost, so that fatal situations are always avoided—not because they deliberately choose what to seek and what to shun in order to preserve themselves. Therefore passing through water and fire, riding clouds and mist, walking high and perilous ground, or entering among blades and weapons is nothing extraordinary.

The commentary explains that the Master (Confucius) could have lived like a forest recluse but chose not to, because he was using benevolence, righteousness, ritual propriety, and the norms of ruler and minister to repair a world in moral decline—not because he wished only to cultivate himself in isolation and keep company with birds and beasts.

Bo Jun notes: Zhang Hua’s Bowuzhi (Records of Broad Learning) records essentially the same episode as this passage. He also observes that in the commentary text, the Shide Tang edition reads shengren (sage) where other versions have zhiren (perfected person). In Lu Deming’s Shiwen (Explanatory Readings), the character rendered as ai in some forms stands for an older graph often written as ai in modern transcriptions; shuo is to be read as yue (“to delight”); qiang is read by the fanqie qi liang qie; zhuo is read zhi lue qie; gua is read like the word for “hexagram” (gua). The form ai originally corresponded to a distinct ancient character now usually represented as ai. Dian is read du nian qie and means “to fall” or “topple”; pian is read pian, as in the word pian (“side, partial”).

A shaman with extraordinary powers arrived from the state of Qi and took up residence in Zheng. The commentary explains that male shamans were called xi and female shamans wu; Yan Shigu held that wu and xi could also serve as a general term for shamans. His name was Ji Xian.

Commentators take ming here to mean “to name” or “to be called,” so ming yue Ji Xian means “named Ji Xian.” The Huainanzi mentions Wu Xian; Gao You’s note says Wu Xian understood the way of Heaven and could discern fortune and misfortune. The Liezi commentary (Shiwen) states that Ji Xian had the surname Ji and the given name Xian, and was a man of Zheng; this aligns with passages in the Zhuangzi and Huainanzi that treat him as a divine shaman of Zheng.

Ji Xian could foreknow a person’s life and death, survival and ruin, fortune and misfortune, and the span of life, and could say in which year, month, ten-day period, or day events would come to pass— with accuracy likened to a spirit’s. Texts cited in the Tianzhong ji and Jingchuan baibian insert an extra zhi after zhi ren (“knowing people”). Wang Xianqian held that Ji Xian could specify the year, month, and day when things would happen; Yang Boqun noted that xun and ri should not be read together as a single phrase xunri.

At each position corresponding to year, month, ten-day period (xun), and day, the man wrote one character and a comma, meaning to point to a particular year, month, ten-day period, or day. When the people of Zheng saw him, they all fled to avoid him. [Note] Xiuxiang said: People do not want to hear with their own ears on which day they will die. [Textual note] In one version, bi (“avoid”) is written as qi (“abandon”). Xi is read xuji qie.

Liezi saw the man but listened with rapt attention. When he returned, he told Huqiuzi (Liezi’s teacher) what had happened and said: “At first I thought my teacher’s Daoist arts had already reached the highest level, but I never imagined there could still be someone more accomplished than my teacher.” [Note] Guo Xiang said: Liezi thought Ji Xian’s skill surpassed Huqiuzi’s.

Huqiuzi said: “You and I have only grown familiar with the verbal formulae of the Daoist arts and have not yet truly grasped their substance—yet you already take yourself to have attained the Dao?”

[Collated note] The wording wu qi wen (“without its verbal formulae”) differs among editions and interpretations. Lu Wenchao thought wu might should read ji (“already”), and cited the corresponding passage in the Zhuangzi for comparison. Yu Yue thought the character should be read guan, meaning to be thoroughly versed in the verbal formulae. Lu Chongxuan’s edition reads ji qi wen, wei ji qi shi (“already in the verbal formulae, not yet in the substance”). Wang Shumin held that neither the ji nor the wu reading can be made to cohere easily.

“But you and I have studied these words for a long time, yet we have not grasped the real meaning they point to.” Guo Xiang’s commentary cites Xiang Xiu: real principle must show itself through language, and the Dao likewise needs concrete things in order to be made clear. To have the Dao alone without things is like having only the female bird and no male—how could there be an egg? Yan Hui and the man of Jin may have understood more shallowly or more deeply, but both still remained at the level of “actual principle” alone; without language to awaken and respond to each other, they had not yet fathomed the Dao’s true inner meaning. The point is that when a person of utmost attainment (zhiren) puts forth teaching, there must be someone who resonates; only then can there be a genuine response.

The Shiwen (commentary on readings) notes variant readings where one character is written as ji or wu in different manuscripts. Bo Jun holds that ji here is likely a scribal error for the word meaning “to study/play with” (wan), and that wu may have shifted in the course of transmission. The text continues: “If you use the Dao to contend with the world, you are bound to win people’s trust.” Xiang Xiu explains: if one acts from a one-sided grasp of principle and thereby gains the world’s trust, one will be exposed and subjected to scrutiny. The commentary adds that after Liezi met the shaman of Zheng, his mind was completely overturned, because the shaman could foreknow life and death, fortune and harm; Liezi then hoped to use this to exhaust principle completely.

Huqiu Zi said, “Let us for the moment set aside outward signs—we have both still not exhausted the true principle within. How can you claim you already understand my Dao? When the spirit is clear and thoughts are still, it is like the feminine aspect; once it is put into motion and achieves something, it is like the masculine. You now want affairs to stop and hope to meet them only with a quiet mind—how can you seek only the feminine and expect it to lay eggs? You would match the supreme Dao against a worldly diviner; that is why your deep trust was noticed by ghosts and spirits. Try bringing him here; I will let him see me.”

The next day Liezi brought the diviner to see Huqiu Zi. When the man came out, he said to Liezi, “Alas! Your master is about to die and cannot be saved—he will not live out ten days. I saw something strange, and I also saw an aura like damp ash.” Liezi went in weeping, his tears soaking his collar, and told Huqiu Zi what the diviner had said. Huqiu Zi said, “Just now what I showed him was ‘Diwen’ (Earth-pattern)—a qi manifestation as still and heavy as the great earth. I displayed a state that neither moves nor stops, silent as soil; that is why he judged as he did.”

Xiang Xiu said: The perfected person (zhiren, one who has reached the highest realm) is like grass and trees at the first moment of sprouting: neither showing motion nor stillness, nor deliberately holding still. He does not display glory and splendor, but seems like withered wood—silent and still, as if dead ashes. This is how the perfected person is when nothing from outside has stirred him.

When he is active, he follows tiandao (the Way of Heaven); when quiet, he is like the great earth. In movement he is like flowing water; in depth of repose he is like an abyss. Abyss-like stillness and water-like activity, the running of Heaven’s Way and the earth’s rest—though they look unlike one another, all come from wuwei (non-action), from yielding to what is natural.

When Jixian saw Huzi sitting upright like a corpse, having forgotten body and mind, he said he was near death; when he saw his spirit stir and accord with tiandao, he said life had returned. If the perfected person can meet outer stimulation without deliberate mind (wuxin), he will rise and fall with change and take the transformations of the ten thousand things as his measure. Only then can he be master of the ten thousand things and follow the times without end. How could someone skilled at reading faces detect any of this?

The notes compare variant readings: for “in stillness, like earth,” some texts have “in stillness, like soil”; here the Zang edition’s “earth” is followed. For “called having life,” some have “making there be life”; here too the Zang reading “called” is followed. As for mng ran bu dong (“sprouting yet unmoving”), commentators note that in some versions the character for “sprout” (mng) was wrongly written as the character for “crime” (zui). Mng carries the sense of budding forth; mng ran bu dong can be read as life stirring in the interval between not moving and not ceasing to move.

Here, “tian” (Heaven) and “diwen” (earth-patterns) are both ways of talking about form and appearance. Zhang Zhan glosses tianrang (Heaven and earth) as “Heaven and earth,” which is hard to make sense of in context. Wang Shumin argues that the phrase in the commentary rendered as bidizhiwen (“compared to earth-patterns”) appears in the commentary on the “Yingdiwang” chapter as bizhi diwen (“compared to the earth-patterns”); the latter reading should be adopted, and the two characters zhidi here are transposed.

The Shiwen notes that jian (to see) is read xian bian qie. In the commentary, Xiang Xiu explains “ming shi bu ru” (name and reality do not enter): when one lets the natural course run its course and covers the myriad things like Heaven, ornaments of fame and profit become things one may cast aside. In the Northern Song edition, “mingli zhi shi” (ornaments of fame and profit) is written “mingli zhi zuo” (works of fame and profit).

On “er ji fa yu zhong” (yet the trigger arises at the heel), Guo Xiang explains that the activation of change often begins from the most exalted level. The Shiwen cites Xu Shen’s note on the Huainanzi: “ji fa bu xuan zhong”—once the trigger is released, what follows occurs in the turn of a heel—meaning that when transformation is set off, it happens in an instant. The point concerns Du Quan (blocking off artifice so the trigger has no room to fire). “Shi dai jian wu shanzhe ji ye” (this is probably because he has seen something of my good points) is explained by Xiang Xiu as: only if the Master had something superior would the other be able to see it; thus what Jibian could see was merely the surface. The note also says: to possess expedients yet not deploy them is called “Du” (blocking). The Master was like Heaven covering the myriad things without displaying merit, as if rising from the lower realm; because neither name nor reality could enter his heart, the text speaks of “you sheng” (having life/vitality).

A day later, Liezi again brought Jibian to see the Master. When Jibian came out, he said to Liezi: “Your master sits with qi (breath/vital energy) level and even, without the slightest bias. I look through a tube at the sky and cannot see its outer limit; therefore he presents this state of qi wu bie (oneness without distinction). On that basis I cannot discern his form and qi. Wait until he has zhai (fasting/purification)—also written qi (alignment)—then I will come again to xiang (physiognomize) him.”

Liezi went in and reported this to the Master. “Zhai” (fasting) is also written “qi” (alignment), meaning bringing body and mind to a state of purity and order. What Jibian meant by “xiang” was judging a person’s condition by observing form and qi.

Huzi said: “What I just showed him was taichong (the utmost of empty stillness and harmonious equanimity)—a state in which nothing shows itself as a sign. Xiang Xiu explained: When one stands at the extreme of taichong, the heart-mind is vast and empty and merges with the ten thousand things as one, so no trace can be seen. He probably caught a glimpse of the edge of my qi of peace and harmony.

When a great fish wheels in an eddy, the water swirls and gathers and becomes a deep pool. The image is of water: the great fish circles in it, the current coils and collects, and little by little a deep, still hollow forms.”

In Guanzi, “Xiao Wen,” “Pan” is written as panhuan (lingering, turning). The whirlpool of still water is called a yuan (abyss); the whirlpool of running water is also called a yuan. Where water wells up, where springs pour down from height, where they issue from the side, where a river breaks its banks and the flow returns to the channel, and whirlpools formed by other water conditions—all are termed yuan. The eddy of “rich” water (water whose source differs from the rest) is likewise called yuan. Taken together, these are the “Nine Abysses.” “Pan” means a place where water circles; these names and usages appear in the Erya.

Water is always water, yet according to whether the ground is high or low, safe or dangerous, it shows as eddying, surging, flowing, or still. This resembles the heart-mind of the zhiren ( perfected person): as affairs abroad are easy or hard, it appears as action or rest, advance or retreat.

Xiang Xiu said: Whether water moves or stands still—like a ni (salamander) coiling or a dragon leaping—the zhiren stays deep and calm and never loses inner quiet. Guo Xiang said: When employed, the zhiren acts; when not employed, he stops. Though the age shifts like waves and order and disorder succeed one another, one who holds to the root principle can still be at ease in himself and quietly follow what is so.

〔Commentary〕 The human heart-mind runs within the tai chong qi (vigorous, harmonious, unobstructed primordial qi): silent and without trace, yet it can take form with things and change without fixed rule. As water gains different names through change yet never leaves the abyss-like clarity of its nature, it cannot be known by a fixed shape.

“Bo” is read as po (the vital spirit).

Yu Yue held that since the text had already said “this was probably because he had seen my du de ji state and came to see me again” and “this was probably because he had seen my shan zhe ji state and came to see me again,” the line “this was probably because he had seen my heng qi ji state” ought to be followed by “and so he came to see me again” to match the earlier pattern. The fifty-eight characters listing the nine abyss-names in between look redundant and are suspected to be a misplaced passage from elsewhere. Zhuangzi, “Yingdiwang” (The Normal Course for Rulers and Kings) gives only the opening three lines and then summarizes: “The abyss has nine names; here three of them are mentioned.” That may be because listing all nine abysses has little to do with the chapter’s theme, so they were omitted. Even so, it shows that the version of Zhuangzi available then already matched what we have today, which indicates that errors in ancient books go back a very long way.

The next day Liezi again went with the man from Zheng to see Huzi. Before Liezi had even stood firm, he panicked, lost his composure, and ran away. The Shiwen (commentary on pronunciation and meaning) explains this as “losing his spirit and fleeing.”

Huzi said, “Go after him!” Liezi gave chase but could not catch up. When he returned, he reported to Huzi: “He’s gone—vanished—I couldn’t catch him.”

Huzi said: “Just now what I showed him was what has never left my root.” Here zong means root or source. Xiang Xiu explained that although Huzi changed with outward circumstances, he always remained deeply rooted and settled in stillness. Bo Jun took “wei shi chu wu zong” (never having left my root) to be the same idea as Zhuangzi’s “not departing from its root,” and the same as “wei shi chu qi zong” in Huainanzi, “Lanming xun” (Surveying the Obscure).

Huzi added: “I was together with him in emptiness and stillness, moving along with change.” Xiang Xiu explained this as mindlessly following transformation. “Yiyi” is also written “yiyi” (leaning and shifting); Feng Dengfu regarded it as equivalent to “weiyi” (yielding and winding). The Shiwen says “yi” is read yu wei qie; “yiyi” also appears as “weiyi,” describing a compliant, gentle manner.

It is unclear who he actually is. Xiang Xiu said: “He places himself freely and is not tied to anything.” Thus he moves with the flow, like reed grass bending in the wind or waves following the water, without resisting external things. Here “mao ni” (bowing like grass in the wind) may originally have read “tui ni” (slumping and yielding with change); “bo liu” means changing along with the turning of affairs in the world.

Xiang Xiu explained: affairs in the world constantly change and flow without rest; one complies with them everywhere, so that it seems things are not governed by oneself; though one does not act with deliberate purpose, one still rises and falls with the crowd in response. The perfect person (zhi ren)—one who has reached the highest spiritual attainment—has a nature that is unified, yet also acts as the age changes; therefore those skilled at observing and judging cannot deploy their schemes, and instead lose themselves and flee in confusion. The phrase “cut off fixated thought and leave behind entangling ideas, and enter wuwei (non-action)” means severing clinging deliberation and entering the state of wuwei.

Reaching a state of extreme emptiness and stillness, there is no fixed form and no discernible appearance—like grass bending in the wind, like ripples on water, vast and unsettled. A state like this is not something a spirit-medium can recognize.

After that, Liezi felt as though he had never really learned anything at all, and went home. For three years he did not go out; he no longer fussed over daily affairs. He tended the fire and cooked for his wife and did not take that as shame. When he ate pork, he treated it like any other food, without dividing noble from base. In whatever he met, he did not favor one thing or reject another in a special way.

He stripped away outward ornament and returned to plain authenticity, standing alone in peace, unmoved by external things. The inner truth in him did not scatter but stayed one from start to finish. Holding to this to the end is attaining the Dao.

Commentary: Forget quarrels over right and wrong; see high and low as equal; dissolve the split between self and things; and let go of clinging to the outer world. Do not fix on the self; guard unity; persist to the end—and you merge with the real Dao.

Liezi was on his way to Qi when, halfway there, he turned back. Commentators explain that he was startled by how people honored and looked up to him, and for that reason did not dare go on.

He met Bo Hunmao. Bo Hunmao asked, “Why did you come back halfway?” Liezi said, “I was frightened.” Bo Hunmao asked, “What frightened you?” Liezi said, “I had eaten at the stalls of ten drink-sellers, and at five of them they brought my food before anyone else’s.”

Bo Hunmao said, “If that is so, why should you be surprised by it?” Liezi replied, “The sincerity in my heart had not yet fully pervaded, yet my outward bearing already looked bright and imposing. I was using that outer deportment to overawe people’s hearts, so that others looked down on what is truly valuable—those who are older and full of virtue.” Commentators explain that Liezi’s manner and bearing made people respect him, but his inner state was not yet truly settled, and so he felt uneasy about that respect.

The Shiwen (Exegetical Notes) says that chang is read with the fanqie spelling dingzhang qie (the usual gloss for “to grow” or “to attract”). To rely on a fine appearance to draw others is to invite the very troubles one dreads. Guo Xiang explains that using beauty to attract people also brings disorder in its train.

The vinegar-seller (maijiang) merely earns a living by selling broth and gruel; all he seeks is a modest surplus profit. Here shi (food) is read as si (to feed on, subsist). Some editions insert wu (not, without) before “surplus profit,” but Yu Yue and others argue that wu was a later interpolation and should be dropped; texts such as the “Lieyukou” chapter of the Zhuangzi also omit it. The seller’s margin is thin and his social standing slight, yet he still receives such deference.

Guo Xiang’s commentary adds: his station is light and his gains small—he need not ask favors of others yet is honored—so whether rank is high or low, status great or small, loss is possible. All the more for the ruler of a state of ten thousand chariots, who personally bears the realm’s burdens and pours his mind into governance… therefore he dares not go to Qi.

The commentary writes “zhi” (wisdom) as “zhi” (to know); here “zhi” is read as zhi (wisdom). The man said: “They hand affairs over to me and also test me by achievements, so I feel alarm and fear.” Commentators reason from this by analogy: the less one is given, the lower the expected return; the heavier the trust placed in one, the more achievement is demanded.

Boyin Kuai said: “You observe well! That you know why you are afraid shows you observe skillfully. If you can keep to your proper place, people will naturally protect and uphold you.” The commentators explain: so long as one does not hold silent self-enclosure or deliberately display oneself, whether one goes to Qi or stays here, there is no need to fear; if one goes against this principle, wherever one is, one may be controlled by others.

The exegesis holds that when a person displays majesty and bearing for others to see, others will lightly regard their own lives yet show deference. The sense here is: you worry the ruler will load you with heavy tasks; once entrusted with great responsibility and asked to establish merit, and because increased stipend brings further anxiety, you feel alarm and fear. Boyin’s meaning is: if you can withdraw into yourself, preserve your true nature, gather in your light and not show your tracks, people will protect and uphold you.

Why? Everyone has a mind that seeks the good, and all compete for places where benefit is rich. Ordinary human nature easily rises and easily falls. Knowing that fame and profit cannot be forced, one can still cultivate oneself through seeking the good. The learning of poetry, documents, rites, and music is not easy to complete; if one retires into quiet, stills the scheming mind, though one lacks occasions to parade the profit one has gained, one may obtain the reputation of a good person. Thus on the path of seeking the Dao, the good person and the bad may walk roads that look alike: the junzi (noble person) uses this to clarify the inner heart; the petty person uses it to admonish himself. Even if one has not yet truly awakened, one can still gain the benefit of doing good from it—hence “people will naturally protect and uphold you.”

Wang Lai holds that in the commentary “qing si” (to lightly regard death) should read as “qing xian” (to lightly regard precedence or what comes first).

Tao Hongqing says that bao here means to entrust someone with a task or to employ them. The line means that others will trust and put one to use—as in the Liezi: “He will entrust the matter to me so that I may prove myself by results.” Zhang Zhan’s gloss, taking it as “being in a position where others shelter and protect you,” misses the point.

Wang Chongmin argues that wei in gou wei ci yi should read da; the two graphs look alike and were confused in copying. The Zhuangzi, “Human Affairs” chapter, has “regulate their hunger and fullness, da their joy and anger”; the Huainanzi, “Arts of the Ruler” chapter, mistakenly writes wei for da—a parallel case.

Xi Tong explains chu as “to examine closely,” as discussed in Wang Yinzhi’s Elucidation of Classical Meaning; chu ji is thus “to examine oneself.” Lu Deming’s Classic Text Exegesis takes bao as “to attach oneself to” or “to rely on.” Before long, those who came to call were so many that shoes piled up outside the gate—the comment means that people who rallied to him were indeed numerous. The same exegesis also notes that ju (shoe) is read jiu yu qie; in the Guanzhong region people called footwear ju.

Bo Hun Mouren stood facing north, leaning on a staff with its head tucked under his chin. The gloss says dun means staff; the Classic Text Exegesis marks dun as dun, cu as zi liu qie, and yi (cheek/jaw) as yi. He stood a while, then left without a word. A retainer reported this to Liezi. The Classic Text Exegesis notes that bin (guest) appears in some versions as bin (usher)—one who guides visitors.

Liezi grabbed his shoes, ran out barefoot—the Classic Text Exegesis says some texts write ju for lu (shoe); ti is read ti, xian (barefoot) as xian dian qie. At the gate he asked: “Since you came, sir, did you leave no prescription?” One gloss takes fei as “to set aside”—the master offered nothing like healing words. Another holds fei is a corruption of fa (to speak): since you came, why not utter a few salutary phrases, like medicine, and instruct me briefly? Wang Shumin points out that the Zhuangzi, “Lie Yukou” chapter, also has the phrase fei hu in this sense.

Wang Shumin notes that the character written as fei (to discard) in the “Lie Yükou” chapter of the Zhuangzi should actually be fa (to extend/reveal). Fei and fa were interchangeable in early texts. The “Zhong Ni” chapter of the Zhuangzi says: “Fa wu zhi—how can there be genuine feeling? Fa bu neng—how can there be real doing?” The Shiwen cites another work that gives the parallel phrase as fei wu zhi, fei bu neng, which illustrates the interchange of the two graphs.

The Shiwen gives the reading dang in the Dinglang fanqie notation.

Confucius said: “Enough! I already told you that people would look after you, and now they have indeed looked after you. That is not because you can make others look after you.” The commentary explains: when one accords with circumstances and lives alongside things, things do not go out of their way to “protect” one; now you violate that order to stir things up, yet still want them not to protect you—that cannot be done. In the Qin-carved Lu Chongxuan edition, the graph ru (you) is absent after shi ren bao (make people protect); after guo bao ru yi (they have indeed protected you), the line fei ru neng shi ren bao ru and its note are repeated. Editors hold that omitting ru after shi ren bao is preferable. The Shiwen reads bei (to turn against) as pei (to wear/carry).

“Yet you cannot make others refrain from protecting you.” The note quotes Guo Xiang: if one follows nature and lets change run its course, there is neither responsiveness nor grasping; without responsiveness or grasping, self and things do not mutually “maintain” one another. The exegesis adds: you withdraw, keep your integrity, cut off learning, and discard cleverness—others protect you not because you summoned them. If you could hide your tracks, blend with genuine simplicity, and show neither sharpness nor dullness, others would not even know they should protect you. Seen this way, what you do is precisely what makes others protect you, while you still cannot stop them from doing so—so why use such means to move the world? The gloss asks: “By what method did you manage to stir things so deeply?” The Shiwen gives yan in the Yuqian fanqie reading.

On the phrase gan Yu chu yi (moving Yu and producing strangeness), Guo Xiang comments: “Bestowing favor on things beforehand—favor not given because they asked for it—therefore it appears extraordinary.” In the Qin text, gan Yu is written ying Yu. At the end of that note, where one manuscript has ye, the Northern Song edition has zhe; the present translation follows the Zang ben reading.

Those finely wrought, artfully embellished words can all do people harm. People neither notice nor wake up to this—so how can they truly help and bring one another to fulfillment?

By what means do you move them? Likely by using praise and flattery to bewilder them, then offering odd doctrines, wagging the tongue, and showing off before the crowd. Even if everyone goes along with you, what good does that do?

Those who keep company with you do not point out your faults; they only extol your strengths. That can only injure your character and swell your pride—how could it genuinely help you?

Yang Zhu traveled south to Pei. Gu Yanwu observed that the Liezi has “Yang Zhu going south to Pei,” while the Zhuangzi has “Yangzi ju going south to Pei”; the forms zi ju and Zhu are close in sound. The commentary adds that Yang Zhu is introduced again in the seventh chapter. The place name Pei is read like bei.

Laozi (La Dan) was heading west toward Qin when he intercepted Yang Zhu in the outskirts. The note on yao explains that it means to block or waylay someone on the road. Yang Zhu reached Liang and met Laozi. The commentary cites the Zhuangzi: the name Yangzi ju may be Yang Zhu’s courtesy name, but Yang Zhu and Laozi were not of the same era, so these episodes are parables rather than history.

As Laozi walked along the road, he looked up to the sky and sighed: “At first I thought you could be taught; now I see you cannot be taught.” The gloss takes this to mean that although Yang Zhu kept company with those who cultivate the Way, he had not shed a habit of pride and self-display, and so Laozi judged him beyond instruction.

Yang Zhu said nothing. When they reached his lodging, he first offered water for washing, then a towel and comb. At the threshold he removed his shoes, knelt, and moved forward in respect, saying: “Just now the Master looked up and sighed, saying, ‘At first I thought you could be taught; now I see you cannot be taught.’ Your disciple wanted to ask why, but there was no moment to speak on the road, so I did not dare. Now that you have a little leisure, please tell me where I went wrong.”

Laozi replied: “With that haughty, showy air and that way of looking at people as beneath you—who would want to stay near you?” The commentary glosses sui sui and xu xu as describing someone staring boldly and fixedly.