《列子集释》Vol. 5

The ruler of Zheng said, “Alas! Must the judicial officer dream again and divide the deer among others?” He then asked the chief minister. The minister said, “I cannot tell apart what happens in dreams and what happens while awake. To distinguish dream from waking, perhaps only sages such as the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) and Confucius (Kong Qiu) could do it. Sages could tell dream from waking because they knew the two had no essential difference. Now that Huangdi and Confucius are gone, who can still make that distinction? For the moment, let us take the judicial officer’s word.”

Tradition says the Yellow Emperor once grasped omens of talent from a dream: he dreamed that a great wind blew away the dust of the world, and that someone drew a thousand-jin crossbow and drove a flock of sheep; on waking he inferred that these signified Feng Hou and Li Mu respectively, sought them out, and appointed one as minister and one as general. Older accounts also say Huangdi wrote the Classic of Dream Divination. Confucius’s dream of sitting between two pillars is also recorded in the Book of Rites, “Tang Gong.” Hence Huangdi and Confucius are here called those who could distinguish dreams.

The judicial officer was drawn into a dispute because of a deer: someone dreamed he had shot a deer, and after waking went to the place from the dream and actually found the deer, but hid it; another man heard of this and also took it as news heard in a dream, followed the clue to take the deer, and the two quarreled—the case went to the judicial officer. According to the commentary, treating a dream as reality is unclear mind; going to take the deer on hearsay is likewise failure to see things clearly. Later the man who got the deer went again in pursuit of the deer—again acting in confusion. People’s fixations were alike, so they could not stop quarreling. Perhaps only a sage could see through such delusion; without a sage, the matter could hardly be judged with certainty. The judicial officer used vague judgment on a vague dispute and might remain caught in delusion himself.

In the state of Song, a man of Yangli named Hua Zi developed a disorder of forgetfulness in middle age: what he picked up in the morning he forgot by evening; what was handed to him in the evening he forgot by the next morning. When he walked on the road, he forgot that he was walking; when he sat in his room, he forgot that he was sitting. He could not recall what had happened before, nor grasp what was happening at the moment.

The whole household was deeply troubled. They had a diviner cast the oracle, but it gave no clear answer; they had a ritual specialist offer prayers, but that brought no relief; they called in physicians, yet the illness did not improve.

In the state of Lu there was a Confucian scholar who claimed he could cure this disease. Hua Zi’s wife and children were willing to give half of the family’s savings if he would prescribe a cure. The scholar said: “This illness was never something that the hexagrams and tortoise shell could verify, nor something that prayer alone could remove. In the way the world works, some patterns do show up in the oracle, so one can infer fortune or misfortune from them; hidden feelings in a person can sometimes also be glimpsed through divination and number. But the mind of one who forgets is as still as extinguished ash and as empty as a house with no one in it—even a sage has no way to see into it, so how could the oracle tell?

“Prayer can bring blessings when the heart is upright and sincere enough to dispel what is crooked and false—that is the natural order of things.”

Therefore, those who fall into hardship because they feel ashamed before the spirits or because they have violated what is fitting in human affairs often end up in real distress and obstruction. As for people whose inner mind is not caught in obsession and whose conduct is not wild or perverse, they are not the sort whom prayer can save, nor are they illnesses that drugs and needle-stone therapy can treat.

The commentary says that when inner worry and stagnation lodge in the zang and fu organs and the illness spreads outward to the skin, one must examine the body’s excess and deficiency through pulse diagnosis and then treat the pain with medicinals or needle and stone. If the heart has not been disturbed by craving and indulgence, and the body has not been harmed by cold and heat, then the physician naturally has nothing to treat.

“I will try changing his mind and thoughts—perhaps that will make his illness better!”

The commentary holds that one who has truly reached “great forgetting” (dawang)—utterly clearing away mental preoccupation—no longer has thoughts and ideas that can be changed. This sentence probably means that by making him generate thoughts again, one actually gives him thoughts where before there were none.

Thereupon Qi Bo tried giving him some stimulation: when his clothes were taken away, he would ask for clothes; when he was made to go hungry, he would ask for food; when he was shut in a dark place, he would want light. Qi Bo first removed the things that could satisfy his needs, in order to test him. The scholar was pleased and told his son, “This illness can be cured. However, my method of treatment is secret and must not be passed on to others.” He had the bystanders withdraw and kept only his son, saying, “This illness can be cured.”

After Huazi came to his awakening, he flew into a rage: he drove away his wife, punished his son, and took up a ge—an ancient pole weapon—to chase the Ru scholar. Bo Jun notes: The Zuozhuan, Duke Xi, year 23, records that the elder Jiang urged Prince Chong’er to leave, saying, “Go! Clinging to ease truly spoils one’s name. My lord must not be like this.” After Jiang and Zifu agreed, they got Chong’er drunk and sent him off. When Chong’er woke, he took a ge and pursued Zifu. In antiquity people often carried the ge as a personal weapon, which is why the classics speak of cao ge—“taking up the ge.” The Shiwen glosses cao with the reading qi dao qie.

A man of Song held Huazi back and asked why he was angry. Huazi said, “Before, I had forgotten everything: my mind was empty and wide, and I had no sense at all of whether heaven and earth existed or not. Now, in an instant, I remember the past—decades of thoughts about life and death, gain and loss, grief and joy, likes and dislikes surge up in my heart. I fear that hereafter life and death, gain and loss, grief and joy, likes and dislikes will disturb my mind in just this way. Can a moment’s oblivion be regained?” The Shiwen gives shu the reading se zhu qie; le as luo; hao as hu bao qie; and e as wu lu qie.

Commentators observe that a condition brought on by illness could resemble the state of penetrating the ultimate principle to this degree—how much more so one who truly realizes and reaches the utmost? An explanatory note adds: Huazi wanted to return to original authenticity but saw no way to do it, so he turned his anger on wife and children and chased the Ru scholar. The Shiwen gives fu the reading fu you qie.

Zigong heard of this, found it strange, and reported it to Confucius. Confucius said, “Is this not a principle you cannot understand?” He then turned and had Yan Hui write it down. Commentators say the point should have been within Zigong’s grasp; Confucius spoke as if it were beyond him in order to entrust the subtle insight to the greater sage. The explanatory note: Zigong excelled at disputation and pressed forward diligently, so Confucius called it what he could not understand; Yan Hui loved learning, his virtue ranked next to the sage, and his benevolence was steadfast—therefore Confucius had Yan Hui record it, passing the teaching to the greater sage. Some editions write ji (to record) as ji (to note); both readings are acceptable.

In the state of Qin there lived a man surnamed Feng who had a son. The boy was bright as a youth, but after he grew up he developed a disorder of confused perception. When he heard singing, he took it for weeping; when he saw white, he took it for black; when he smelled fragrance, he took it for the stench of decay; when he tasted sweetness, he found it bitter; when he did something wrong, he believed he had done it right. Whatever came to his mind—heaven and earth, the four directions, water and fire, cold and heat—everything appeared to him inverted and disordered.

Commentators explain that cleverness itself is not the same as delusion, yet if one relies solely on petty cleverness, that failing may in the end lead a person into confusion. Those who cling to small cleverness are often regarded by others as intelligent, while those who grasp the Dao (the Way) and keep inner equilibrium may instead be thought dull or foolish.

Those who can harmonize diverse sounds and colors and do not dread the peril of water and fire are not people the world can understand, so ordinary folk take them for confused and muddled.

Yang’s daughter said to her father: “In Lu there are many learned and skilled gentlemen who may be able to cure his illness. Why do you not go and consult them?” The father set out for Lu; on the way he passed through Chen and met Laozi, and told him of his son’s condition.

Laozi said: “How do you know your son is confused? Nowadays people everywhere are lost in disputes over right and wrong and cannot see clearly through gain and loss. So many share the same affliction that almost no one notices it. One person’s confusion is not enough to unsettle a household; one household’s is not enough to unsettle a village; one village’s is not enough to unsettle a state; one state’s is not enough to unsettle the world. If everyone under heaven is confused, who could set them straight? If the minds of all under heaven were like your son’s, it would be you who were confused. Joy and grief, sounds and colors, odors, and judgments of right and wrong—who could sort them out and correct them?”

This note in the collation states that the character read as qing in the earlier passage is likely a scribal error for zheng (“to correct”); zheng fits the context.

What I just said may itself be words of delusion; how much more so the deeply deluded gentlemen of Lu—how could they unravel someone else’s confusion? You are carrying provisions for the road; better drop them and hurry back.

The commentary notes that “post” (you) and “especially” (you) were interchangeable in antiquity, here meaning heavily deluded. The gentlemen of Lu often discourse at length on benevolence and righteousness and on distinguishing right from wrong, and for that very reason are regarded as sunk in deeper delusion.

The explanation holds that vulgar people are many while those who truly grasp the Dao are few. When most are deluded, they often mock the few who are clear and treat the clear as the deluded—as Laozi says: “When the lowest grade of hearers hears the Dao, they laugh loudly; if it were not laughed at, it would not be adequate to be the Dao.” To expect those who love disputation to judge right and wrong for all under Heaven only drives one farther from the Dao. The Ru scholars of Lu especially fail to understand forgetting the bodily form and nurturing spirit—how could they unravel another’s delusion? You had better discard your road provisions and return as soon as you can.

In dialect usage, yin (to pole-carry or bear on the back) means to carry a load on a shoulder pole or bear something on the back. Accordingly, yingteng (bundles tied for carrying) can be understood as tying goods up and carrying them on the back. In the Liezi, rong may likewise be a loan character standing for yin (to carry).

Yu Yue argued that Zhang Tan and Lu Chongxuan both took rong to mean “to discard,” but that reading lacks textual support. Rong is set against shi (substance, fruit), like flower to fruit. Antiquity often called what lacked real content hua (mere show). The gloss on the biography of Ma Rong in the Hou Han shu says huayu means false reputation. Thus rong can extend to empty display; rong ru zhi liang (“rong your grain”) means grain spent without practical benefit. The Hanshu, biography of Yang Xiong, has the Four Hoary Ones “cai rong at South Mountain”; Yan Shigu glosses rong as reputation or fame. Because rong opposes shi, in human affairs it can also mark fame versus fact, empty name versus reality.

Wu Kaisheng held that rong should match ying, and that qi (discard) might be a scribal error. Yang Bojun found Yu Yue’s reading strained and thought Mou’s was nearer.

The Shiwen notes: chuan is read shi yuan qie; zheng is read as zheng (to contend, dispute).

A man born in Yan grew up living in Chu. In old age he returned to his homeland, passing through Jin on the way. His traveling companions deceived him, pointing at a city and saying, “This is the city of Yan.” At that, his expression turned sorrowful at once. They pointed again at an altar and said, “This is the altar of your village.” He sighed; then they pointed at a house and said, “This is where your ancestors lived.” Tears fell; they pointed at a tomb and said, “This is your ancestors’ grave.” He could no longer hold back and wept aloud.

The companions laughed and said, “We have been deceiving you all along—this is actually Jin.” He felt deeply ashamed. When he reached Yan and saw the real city, altar, ancestral houses, and graves, the grief in his heart had already grown much lighter.

A note explains that human feeling can sometimes surge to an extreme; once sorrow or joy has passed, what first stirred the emotion no longer brings the same delight or pain.

The commentary holds that people’s native dispositions are originally close, but later differ because habits diverge, each person settling into what is familiar. This man was born in Yan yet did not recognize his homeland; he had long lived in Chu and had grown accustomed to it. Because he could not tell what his true homeland was, his companions could use similar sights to fool him until he believed them. When he learned those sights were not his homeland’s at all, he was ashamed of having been taken in. Even when he later saw the real homeland, his sorrow had already weakened. The commentary uses this to lament that if one clings to what is illusory and cannot discern what is real, outer things will pull one’s feelings this way and that; one should all the more grasp the root teaching of nurturing the spirit and returning to what is authentic.

Collected Explanations of Liezi, Volume Four, “Zhong Ni,” Section Four.

[Annotation] The four characters “those who are wise do not know—people obtain this” should be placed above “what they return to as root”; the character yan should follow shi (“know”). The Shiwen notes: wei means “few” or “slight”; zuo che is a mistaken writing.

[Annotation] Those who truly possess wisdom do not use knowledge to grasp all things; they are able to know themselves. When cleverness and artifice are forgotten, nothing remains that one must deliberately know; when cleverness and artifice are applied, one is instead hemmed in by one’s own capacity. The substance of wisdom moves by wondrous principle alone, is not dragged by emotion, and only accords with how things are—so in stillness one can reach depth and clear discernment.

[Exegesis] This chapter explains that only one who has realized the Way of wuwei (non-action) can be effective in every respect without forcing. Ordinary people see only the sage’s words and deeds and do not grasp the root the sage has realized; students of the Way know only that at the start one must sever desire, and do not see that in the end one must use the Way to benefit the ten thousand things. Both attitudes miss the middle course. The Shiwen writes wangqing (“forgetting emotion”) as quqing (“removing emotion”) and glosses qu with the fanqie of qiu and lü; another manuscript reads wang (“forget”).

Zhong Ni at Leisure (Confucius at Leisure).

The Shiwen states: Zhong Ni was a native of Qufu in the state of Lu. The Yan clan once prayed on Niqiu Mountain and afterward bore Confucius; hence he was named Qiu and styled Zhong Ni. Confucius was born in the twenty-first year of King Ling of Zhou, the year gengxu.

When Confucius was at leisure, Zigong came in to attend him. Seeing a troubled look on the Master’s face, Zigong did not dare to ask. Although he had never heard Confucius speak at length on human nature and the Way of Heaven, he already knew a great deal of the Master’s learning and instruction. Why the sage is free of worry is not something ordinary people can fathom—still less could Zigong. He did not question at once because he hoped to draw out something profound, stir the Master to respond, and so elicit words of the finest subtlety.

After Zigong left, he told Yan Hui what had happened. Yan Hui took up the zither, played, and sang. When Confucius heard it, he called Yan Hui in and asked, “Why are you alone so joyful?”

Yan Hui answered, “Why is the Master alone sorrowful?”

Yan Hui did not say outright that he wished to hear an explanation; he played and sang so that the Master would speak. Confucius said, “First tell me what is in your heart.”

Yan Hui said, “I once heard the Master say: ‘One who delights in aligning with Heaven’s principle and understands how fate is allotted will not be sorrowful.’ That is why I am joyful.”

Here “Heaven” means the boundaries and regular order of the natural world; “fate” means the settled course of whether life brings hardship or success. When Confucius heard this, his expression shifted slightly; only after a pause did he begin to speak.

“Is there such a saying?” This is deliberately showing puzzlement, to suggest that line has not yet hit the main point.

“Your understanding is narrow.” Some editions write one character as “shi” where others write “jia.” “Jia” is read as “xia” (narrow); here it means your grasp is cramped and not yet full. What was said before was only words that arise along with events; what is said now is the teaching pushed to its limit.

You only know that accepting Heaven’s mandate and settling into one’s lot brings freedom from worry, but you do not yet see that genuine “joy in Heaven and knowledge of fate” also includes deep concern; knowing all, rejoicing in all, yet also worrying in the right way—only then is it truly vast.

Now the real situation is told you: cultivate the person, face hardship or success with equanimity; understand that coming and going, gain and loss are not what you can master, and do not let change upset the mind’s deliberation—that is what you call “joy in Heaven and knowledge of fate without worry.”

This only means being able to tell inner from outer and to distinguish honor from disgrace—it hardly counts as adapting in every situation.

Someone who can rest in fate, understand destiny, and not worry follows the way of fitting the times and settling oneself; that is not the same as taking change and saving the world as one’s goal. Confucius said: “I used to say such things, but my mind is not what it was. Before, I studied the Odes and Documents and put rites and music in order because I wanted to use them to govern the realm and leave something for later ages—not merely to cultivate myself and govern Lu.”

The Odes, Documents, rites, and music are tools for ordering the world. The sage uses them to relieve the ills of the moment; if they are applied in a way that misses what is fitting, they no longer help the Way. The sage’s wisdom reaches through all things and assists the world through the Dao; merely settling oneself and saving one state is not enough to count as a sage.

Yet in Lu, ruler and ministers lost proper order day by day; benevolence and righteousness faded, and feeling and nature grew thin. If that way of governing could not work in Lu or in that time, how could it be expected to run the whole realm or pass to later ages?

Governing the world does need benevolence and righteousness. When the age is already settled, the methods used at first should be released; when the work is done and the phase is over, to hold to the old way and refuse change means fewer who truly share it and more who only want gain from it. Decline and thinning can begin there. From one state to the realm, from the present to later times, the harmful pattern is the same. Only someone thorough and unobstructed can shift with change and not cling to one side.

Zhongfu said that in the phrase about the realm and later ages, ru means “how,” with he (“what/how”) left out—an uncommon omission. Bojun, following Yu Shengwu’s new verification of the Book of Changes, takes yi here to be the same word as yi in the Odes line yu yi cai fan (“Gathering sedge” in the Shao Nan section).

Bo Jun notes: Yu Shengwu, in New Evidence on the Classic of Changes, holds that the particle rendered here as yi is the same yi as in the line yu yi cai fan from the Classic of Poetry, Odes of Shao, “Gathering Artemisia.” The Shiwen gives the reading zhi (zhili qie) for the character zhi in the phrase about governing disorder; the same applies to zhi in zhiluan below. She is read as she, and ai as ai.

I have come to see that the Classic of Poetry, the Documents, and ritual and music cannot rescue the age from disorder—yet I still do not know by what means this harm is to be removed. That is precisely what troubles those who are at ease with Heaven’s command and know their fate (letian zhiming).

Note: What is meant is that one should discard the abuses of ritual and music, not discard what ritual and music themselves are for. Ritual and music cannot in the end be cast aside; hence the line about not knowing how to remove the harm. The worry is raised here first so that what follows can build on it.

Explanation: It is not that the Poetry, the Documents, and ritual and music are unfit to serve as standards for ordering the world, but that people’s opinions and conduct cannot be set right by them alone. If those standards too are thrown away, nothing remains to stand as the root of ritual. That is what deeply concerns those who possess the Way.

Bo Jun notes: Imperial Overview, juan 468, adds the particle ye after the line about what those who letian zhiming worry about. The Shiwen gives wei as yu wei qie.

Even so, I have already understood. What is called “joy and thereby knowing” is not what the ancients meant by “le zhi” (joy in knowing). Note: The Zhuangzi says: “To take pleasure in penetrating all things is not to be a sage.” The ancients did not treat the absence of joy as joy, nor the absence of knowledge as knowledge. When one follows what one delights in, one sees that the Way has no such thing as joy; when one follows what one knows, one sees that the Way has no such thing as knowledge.

The two words suowei (“what is called”) appear reversed as weisuo in every edition; the text here follows the Jifu edition in correcting them.

Bo Jun adds: In Zhuangzi, “The Great and Venerable Teacher,” it is said that when the sage employs arms, he may bring a state to ruin without losing the people’s hearts, and extend kindness through ten thousand generations without doing so from a deliberate intent to love others—therefore to delight in penetrating all things is not to be a sage. The note quotes this as “le qiongtong wu”; the character qiong is probably redundant.

Commentators explain that when the heart does not cling to joy or to knowledge, one can share the joy of all under heaven and penetrate the understanding of all under heaven, while oneself harbors no partial or selfish intent. Thus there is no joy that cannot be shared, no understanding that cannot be reached, and nothing that cannot be worried over or acted upon.

Commentators also say that one who can abide in the root and possess complete de (virtue/power) may follow things naturally without forced contrivance, yet leave nothing undone. What need is there to cast aside the classics, poetry, rites, and music? Why abolish them? This refutes the stance that would discard the classics and overturn methods of governance wholesale. When one accords with things without abandoning them, and acts without claiming the achievement for oneself, each thing can preserve itself.

The commentary holds that knowing that some things in fate are beyond help and therefore resting in one’s proper place without anxiety on that account is the ordinary disposition of the junzi (noble person). Yet the ancients who opened up undertakings, completed works, aided the people, and benefited custom did not merely rest content with the status quo. They did not hoard joy for themselves, nor arrange affairs by private cleverness alone; before the season arrived they did not go against nature, and once the season had come they followed the timeliness of heaven—this is true joy and true knowing. Such a person can taste every kind of joy, penetrate every kind of understanding, and also bring various affairs to completion along with the flow of things—where is the need for deliberate scheming or forced driving? So the classics, poetry, rites, and music can indeed serve as the foundation of auxiliary teaching; why abolish them?

Yan Hui (Confucius’s disciple), facing north with hands joined in salute, said, “I too have grasped it.” Commentators take this as Yan Hui’s attitude of “not going against the teacher, seeming dull-witted.” Bo Jun verified that the paired expression for “bowing with hands” does not fit the wording and thought the character for “bow” might be a graphic slip for the character for “hands joined”; “hands joined” means placing the two hands together in ritual greeting.

In the “Bu Gou” (Not Indulgent) chapter of Xunzi, it is said that the gentleman examines the way later rulers govern and uses that to judge affairs from a hundred generations earlier, as if straightening cap and robes and speaking with full respect. In his textual collation, Wang Niansun pointed out that the character read as “bai” (to bow) is a corrupted form of “zhi” (it)—a typical case of this kind of scribal error.

Yan Hui repeated to Zigong what he had heard. Zigong was at a loss, because he could not yet fully take in the essential point. He went home and brooded for seven days without sleeping or eating, until he was skin and bones—because he was wholly absorbed in thinking through the Way and had forgotten sleep and food. Yan Hui told him again; Zigong was still at a loss and went home to think in the same way for another seven days. Yan Hui went to guide him once more, and only then did he return to Confucius’s circle, playing the zither, singing, and reciting the classics without ever breaking off. The commentator explains that once he had grasped the root principle, he no longer let other concerns divide his mind.

The exegesis holds that Yan Hui’s attainment in the Way was close to that of a sage: when he heard the Way he could take it in and did not go against what he had heard. Zigong, by contrast, took wide reading of the Odes and Documents as his kind of wisdom, so when others spoke of the Way he lost hold of the root. When Yan Hui instructed him again, he came to see the benefit of learning; the exegesis adds that until then Zigong had not yet understood the way of “daily diminishment”—progressively stripping away fixations and preconceived views in the mind.

Collation note: In the Northern Song edition the word for “forget” (wang) appears in the form written as the homograph wang (often glossed “perish” or “lose”); Wang’s edition followed that spelling; the present text follows the Cang edition and the Shide Hall edition in reading “forget” (wang).

When a grand officer of Chen went on a mission to Lu, he paid a private visit to Shusun Shi (a noble of Lu). Shusun Shi said, “Our state of Lu has a sage.” The Chen officer asked, “Is it Kong Qiu (Confucius)?” Shusun Shi answered, “Exactly.” The Chen officer asked again, “How do you know he is a sage?”

Commentators praise this as a good question. The sage’s way surpasses ordinary understanding; nothing in the world can fully fathom or compare to it. People only see how the sage penetrates affairs and then call him sage—they cannot truly grasp why he became a sage.

Shusun Shi said, “I often hear Yan Hui speak of him.” Commentators praise this answer too: unless one has deeply experienced and possesses both kinds of capacity, how could one roughly describe the sage’s state and see the order of his conduct? With Yan Hui’s insight, he still could not adequately put Kong Qiu into words—how much less those of shallower understanding?

The Chen officer asked, “What did Yan Hui say?” Shusun Shi replied, “Kong Qiu can keep the mind from leading action and let the body respond directly to affairs.” Commentators say this is Yan Hui’s words. The sage originally has nothing to discard and nothing to deploy; “discarding the mind” and “using the body” are said only relative to particular situations. The sage bows and rises, meets every kind of affair and worldly matter— all merely outward traces; when far from the world and utterly still, he is quiet and detached.

The commentary explains that the sage accords with outer things as they appear, meets the needs of the age, guides the multitude, and teaches by example; he does not display his true nature, in order to transform ordinary people.

The Chen officer said, “Our state of Chen also has a sage—you do not know him?” Shusun Shi asked, “Who is this sage you speak of?” The Chen officer answered, “Among La Dan’s (Laozi’s) disciples there is one named Kang…” The note states that “Kang” is read with the “lang” cut in fanqie, or alternatively as “geng.”

Geng Sangchu (also known as Kang Sangzi, a figure in tradition said to have received the Way from Laozi) is recorded in the Shiwen as having the personal name Chu; the Shiji writes the name as “Kang Sangzi.” Jia Kui’s work on surnames states that Wu Commandery had the Gengsang clan, which belonged to the gentry. Duan Yucai holds that the title of Jia Kui’s book should be Yingshi Yingxian Pu (Register of Eminent Worthies by Surname), which can be found in the Suishu · Jingji zhi (Bibliographic Treatise of the Book of Sui).

Commentators say that Laozi himself did not claim to have attained the Way, so from what source could Kang Sangzi have attained it? Here the label “attaining the Way” is borrowed to show that the highest principle is never cut off from the transformations and movements of the myriad things. Tradition holds that he could hear without using his ears and see without using his eyes.

Commentators explain that the human body is the dwelling place of mind and heart, while the ears and eyes are the gates of seeing and hearing. When spirit (Shen) is fully penetrating, seeing and hearing are no longer bound by those two gates of ear and eye, as if one could see through walls and perceive what lies beyond them. Jiang Chaobo notes that the miscellaneous chapters of the Zhuangzi record: “Among Laozi’s disciples was one named Geng Sangchu, who had learned only a portion of Laozi’s Way and went north to live on Mount Weilie.”

When the Marquis of Lu heard of this, he was greatly astonished. Commentators say the marquis was not surprised that Confucius could deploy the body, but was surprised that ears and eyes could be turned from their ordinary uses. Geng Sangchu’s outward conduct was the same as other people’s, so onlookers felt no fear when they saw him. The marquis then sent a senior minister with lavish gifts to invite him.

Wang Chongmin points out that a quotation in the Yilin reads “invited him with the rites due a senior minister”; the Kang Sangzi · Quandao pian says the Marquis of Lu sent the Shusun clan on a return visit and received Kang Sangzi with the etiquette reserved for a senior minister. Bo Jun verified that the extant two-juan Kang Sangzi is a forgery by Wang Shiyuan, a recluse of Xiangyang, at the end of the Kaiyuan era of Tang; related accounts appear in the preface to the Meng Haoran ji and the Datang xinyu.

Kang Sangzi accepted the invitation and came to the state of Lu. Commentators say that one whose mind is open and unattached does not treat any place as alien to oneself. The Marquis of Lu respectfully asked him for instruction.

Kang Sangzi said: “Those who transmitted this story got it wrong. I can listen and see without relying on my ears and eyes, but I cannot alter the inherent functions of ears and eyes.” Commentators explain that “altering the functions of ears and eyes” does not mean that ears and eyes cease to function altogether.

The commentator says: “Chuan” is read as zhang zhuan qie. I can see and hear without relying on ears and eyes; yet I cannot alter the original function of ears and eyes.” [Note] What is meant by “not relying on the function of ears and eyes” is not that one uses them not at all. If one used them not at all, those supports would be abandoned. [Explanation] Ears and eyes are the organs used for seeing and hearing; only spirit (jingshen) can command them. When spirit is absent, a dead person has ears and eyes yet cannot see or hear. Kangcangzi understood where human capacity lies, so he did not let ears and eyes act as lords of seeing and hearing. Could it be that the ears see and the eyes hear? This is only because the transmitter did not understand the principle and added a mistaken explanation.

The Marquis of Lu said: “This is even more extraordinary. What exactly is that principle? I have always hoped to hear you explain it.” [Explanation] The Marquis of Lu still did not understand these words; instead he found the matter increasingly strange, and so pressed Kangcangzi to clarify the principle.

Kangcangzi said: “My bodily form and mind-intent are in accord, [Note] that is, body and mind-intent coordinate with each other and do not conflict. Mind-intent and qi are in accord, [Note] this goes further beyond the action of body and mind-intent, allowing calm, non-clinging qi to run naturally. Qi and spirit (shen) are in accord, [Note] at this point the inner mind is still and unmoving, and all mental activity is forgotten. When mind-intent is wholly released, wondrous functioning can operate on its own, responding to the myriad things—nothing cannot be penetrated. Spirit and Non-being (wu) are in accord. [Note] To be the same as Non-being is wondrous spirit; to be the same as spirit is Non-being. Where is there still bodily form in these two? Only one who has mind-intent must still draw near to Non-being, using it to make oneself penetrating; one who forgets mind-intent is already one with Non-being.”

[Explanation] The bodily form has material obstruction; mind-intent easily becomes attached and grasping. That body and mind-intent are in accord does not mean staying within the body’s hindrances, but coordinating form and intent. Qi may be in motion yet without fixation; thus mind-intent and qi in accord means not clinging to mind-intent but following its operation. Qi and spirit in accord means no longer being bound to qi’s motion but reaching clear understanding. Spirit and Non-being in accord transcends all that has form; one no longer rests in clear knowing but is silently aligned with what is real.

Bo Jun notes: In the Zhuangzi, “Human Life in the World” chapter, it says: “Fix the mind in one place; do not listen with the ears, listen with the heart; do not listen with the heart, listen with qi. The ears stop at hearing sounds, the mind stops at distinguishing and grasping. Qi is empty, still, and formless, and can await what comes from outside. Only the Dao gathers in emptiness and stillness. What is called emptiness and stillness is xinzhai (heart-fasting).”

That is roughly the same idea as here. In this passage you (having/existence) is paired with yin (sound); Sun Yirang suspected that you should read xing (form). Lu Chongxuan’s commentary has “there is form and there is sound, neither far nor near,” so the text he used may also have read xing. The Kangcangzi, “Complete Dao” chapter, quotes this line with you as well.

Even if something lies in the wilds at the ends of the eight directions, or as close as the space between eyebrow and eyelashes, once it reaches the sage, the sage is sure to know it. The commentary says: only what is empty, open, and without form does not stir the sage’s thinking; whatever has form and definite limits falls within the illumination of the spirit (shenming), without difference between far and near.

Therefore the sage does not “know” in the sense of the seven openings and the four limbs, nor in the sense of heart, belly, and the six viscera; they simply understand in themselves. The commentary says: wherever the sage goes, the heart is already forgotten—how could there still be ordinary sensing and knowing?

Therefore, anything that has form and sound—no matter how far or near—once it comes before me, I can know it. This does not require moving hands or feet or using ears and eyes; it is like a bright mirror hung high, naturally and clearly reflecting the myriad things. How could that depend on ears and eyes to perceive? Duke Lu was very pleased. Later he told Zhongni (Confucius) about it; Zhongni only smiled and did not reply.

The commentary says: Shi Kangcangzi’s words had already said everything—what more could Zhongni say? He answered with silence, and so he smiled and let it go. The explanation adds that the smile meant there was no need to spell things out further in words.

The Grand Steward of the State of Song (Song guo, i.e. the state of Song) paid a visit to Confucius. When Fayuan zhulin (Pearl Grove of the Dharma Garden), juan 20, cites this episode, it names “Grand Steward Pi of Wu”; Guang hongming ji (Broad Collection for Illuminating the Way), juan 1 Guizheng lun and juan 11 Dui Fu Yi fei fo seng shi, Fanyi mingyi (Explanation of Translation Terms), juan 1, Shiwen leiju qianji (Classified Collection of Literary Matters, Former Section), juan 35, and Bihe shilei qianji (Combined Classified Matters, Former Section), juan 48, all give “Grand Steward Pi.” Those readings, however, probably cannot be taken as settled. Lu Wenchao noted that in some manuscript traditions the character written as “da” (great) stands for “tai” (grand); the same occurs in the passage below.

Yang Bojun argued that Hanfeizi, “Shuolin shang,” says: “Ziyu paid a visit to Confucius before the Grand Steward of the State of Song.” “Shuolin xia” says: “The Grand Steward of Song was highly placed and presided over decisions.” “Neichu shuo shang” again records: “Dai Huan was Grand Steward of Song,” and also: “The Grand Steward of the State of Song sent a young attendant to the market.” Gu Guangqi held that these passages refer to one and the same person; “Shang” (Merchant/Shang) is Song. On that view, the Grand Steward of Shang was Dai Huan, a prominent minister of Song.

Lunyu (Analects), “Zihan,” records: “The Grand Steward asked Zigong: ‘Is Master Kong a sage? Why is he so skilled in so many things?’ Zigong replied: ‘Heaven made him a sage, and on top of that he has many talents.’ When Confucius heard of this, he said: ‘Does the Grand Steward understand me? In youth I was in low station, so I learned many rough, practical skills. Must a junzi (noble person) possess so many abilities? In truth, he need not.’” The present chapter takes that incident from the Lunyu as its basis, imagines a dialogue between the Grand Steward and Confucius, and calls this official “Grand Steward of Shang” (Shang taizai).

The Shiwen (Textual Notes) writes “Grand Steward of Shang” with “da” for “tai,” and glosses: “da” is read as “tai.” “Shang” denotes Song. Song’s capital was Shangqiu, so the state was also called “Shang.” “Taizai” is an official title. Yang Bojun noted that Song was descended from the Shang dynasty, hence it was also called “Shang.” Zuozhuan, Duke Xi, year 22, records: “Chu attacked Song to relieve Zheng. Duke Xiang of Song prepared to give battle; Grand Marshal Gongsun Gu strongly remonstrated: ‘Heaven has long since abandoned the house of Shang; yet you would make it flourish again—that cannot be forgiven!’”

Someone cites the Zuo Commentary to the Spring and Autumn Annals, Duke Ai, year nine: after Shi Gui divined, he said this is “Shenyang”— troops can be raised; it is fitting to attack the state of the Jiang clan and unfavorable to attack the state of Shang. Campaigning against Qi is permissible; attacking Song is inauspicious. This is offered as corroborating evidence. Although the name of the state of Shang ultimately derives from a place name (see Wang Guowei, Guan Tang Ji Lin, “On Shang”), that explanation is less apt than what the Shi Wen says.

Someone asks: “Is Kong Qiu a sage?” Kongzi says: “If you call me a sage, how would I dare accept? What people call a sage is judged only from what they do—how could they know why someone becomes a sage or why someone fails to count as one? Still, I can claim to be broadly learned and well informed.” The commentary says Kongzi merely appeared broadly learned and well informed; in truth he had no learning or views to cling to. The Shi Wen writes “shi xian” (manifest appearance) as “shi jian” (show and see) and glosses “jian” with the fanqie “xian bian qie.”

The grand minister of the state of Shang asks: “Were the Three Kings—Xia, Shang, and Zhou—sages?” Kongzi says: “The Three Kings were good at employing men of strategy and courage; as to whether they were sages, I do not know.” Various editions originally read “bu zhi” (do not know); here, following the Daozang plain text and Lin Xiyi’s edition, this is changed to “fu zhi” (do not know).

The grand minister asks again: “Were the Five Emperors sages?” Kongzi answers: “The Five Emperors were good at employing men of benevolence and righteousness; as to whether they were sages, I do not know.”

The grand minister asks again: “Were the Three Sovereigns sages?” Kongzi answers: “The Three Sovereigns were good at adapting to the times; as to whether they were sages, I do not know.”

The commentary says: Kong Qiu’s erudition, the campaigns of Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou, the abdications of Yao and Shun, and the simplicity of the age of Fuxi and Shennong are all outward manifestations that sages display when they respond to their age and handle affairs—they are not the root of what makes a sage a sage. The sage’s true root cannot be fully expressed in words or deeds.

The exegesis holds that the point here is to show that the Great Dao cannot be measured by outward deeds. What people can discuss is only the sage’s external appearance; Kongzi therefore follows these familiar appearances to explain the matter.

Therefore, Confucius took ordinary things that people see every day and used them to show what a true sage really is. When the Grand Steward of Shang heard this, he was greatly surprised and asked, “Then who counts as a sage?”

Confucius looked serious, paused for a moment, and said, “In the West there is such a sage: he does not set out to govern, yet the world is not in disorder.” Here “the West” is only a distant place used as an example; it does not mean the sage lives in a fixed spot. “Does not govern yet is not in disorder” is how the commentators read the line. Yu Yue argued that the original should read “does not govern, yet order arises on its own,” with “disorder” (luan) standing for “order” (zhi)—that is, without deliberate rule, the world naturally comes to be well governed. He thought this matched the pattern in what follows: “without speaking, people trust him of themselves; without teaching, people follow of themselves.” The text the commentators used, however, already had “does not govern yet is not in disorder.”

A comment notes that zhi is read according to the fanqie spelling zhi-li qie, and the same applies in what follows.

The sage need not open his mouth, and the people naturally trust him; if trust depends on words, that shows the words themselves are not trustworthy. The sage need not deliberately teach, and the people will act of themselves; if everything must be pushed by human effort, that shows he has not yet truly transformed them. This level has reached the utmost of wuwei (non-action), so the people are broad and at ease, and can hardly find words to praise him.

He Yan, in his Treatise on the Nameless, says: when the people praise someone, that counts as having a name; when no one praises, that is being nameless. Yet the sage can “have a name yet not dwell in the name, have praise yet not dwell in the praise,” treating namelessness as accord with the Dao and lack of praise as vastness. Then namelessness can also be called having a name, and lack of praise can also be called having praise—but this is not the same in effect as things that can actually be praised and named.

The sage does not appear to do nothing at all; rather, within doing, he moves toward a state of non-attachment, unlike those who cling to reputation. Things of the same kind respond to each other even across great distance; things of different kinds may clash even when close at hand. Like yin containing yang and yang containing yin, each responds according to its kind: summer belongs to yang, yet distant night and winter belong to yin; winter belongs to yin, yet morning daylight and summer belong to yang. Near at hand they seem different; at a distance they share sameness. Only by understanding this sameness-in-difference can one grasp the meaning of “the nameless.”

Why is this so? Because the Dao itself is non-attached and cannot be fixed by any concrete thing. Since heaven, earth, and the myriad things took form, each has its shape and existence, yet they are still called the Dao because they can return to non-attachment. Therefore, though the sage dwells in a world of names and forms, he does not show attachment to names and appearances; as yang holds its distant yin counterpart, he forgets the category he belongs to and is not bound by it.

Xiahou Xuan said: “Heaven and earth follow what is natural; the sage acts in accord with what is natural.”

“Naturalness” (ziran) is the Dao. The Dao originally had no name, which is why Laozi said he was giving it a name only reluctantly. Confucius praised Yao’s virtue as vast and boundless, saying it could not be put into words; he also said Yao’s achievements were lofty—here he was using familiar worldly phrases to describe him as best he could. If there were a name that truly fit, how could anyone say it “cannot be put into words”?

Because the Dao has no fixed name, people may call it by many everyday names; yet are those labels the Dao itself? Such language is only borrowed to help understanding, and in the end it still falls short of real insight. To look only at Mount Tai’s height and then deny that primordial Qi (yuanqi, the original qi from which heaven, earth, and the myriad things arise) is vast and boundless is to miss the point.

Kong Qiu also said: “I suspect he is a sage, but I do not know whether he really is a sage or is not a sage.” Commentators explain that the way of the sage is deep and beyond speech, so one can only suspend judgment and cannot settle the matter in words. Liang Zhangju held that esteem for Buddhism largely begins from passages like this.

The Grand Steward of Shang reflected in silence for a while and said: “Kong Qiu is deceiving me!” Commentators explain that these teachings exceed ordinary understanding, which is why the Grand Steward took Confucius to be deceiving him.

〔Commentary〕 Those who spread teaching by holding up models and who promote instruction by displaying virtue are worthies and sages who appear to set the secular world right. Those who truly embody the Great Dao are like heaven and earth in covering and sustaining the ten thousand things, like the four seasons in their turning; they do not assume the world must be governed or fear disorder, and they do not depend on fixed doctrines to win trust. Their bounty is full and reaches all things; whatever lives grows and multiplies through it; the Dao is boundless and hard to state.

When sages must take a standpoint and use words to speak of the Dao, they still fear they have not reached the ultimate; so they use language that seems to affirm and deny at once to loosen attachment to words. The Grand Steward of Shang did not grasp this, and therefore thought Master Kong was deceiving him.

The commentary on the pronunciation states that “hei” should be read as “mo.”

Zixia asked Confucius: “What do you think of Yan Hui?” Confucius said: “Yan Hui’s ren (benevolence/humaneness) surpasses mine.” Bo Jun notes: In Shuoyuan, “Miscellaneous Sayings,” and Kongzi Jiayu, “The Six Foundations,” the word rendered here as ren appears as xin (trustworthiness).

Zixia asked again: “What do you think of Zigong?” Confucius said: “Zigong’s eloquence and discernment surpass mine.” Bo Jun notes: In those same texts, bian (discernment/argument) appears as min (quick-wittedness).

He then asked: “What do you think of Zilu?” Confucius said: “Zilu’s courage surpasses mine.”

He asked again: “What do you think of Zizhang?” Confucius said: “Zizhang’s dignity and solemn bearing surpass mine.” The commentary explains that zhuang here means restrained, dignified composure.

Zixia rose from his seat and asked: “If that is so, why do these four still follow the Master to study?” Confucius said: “Sit down; I will tell you.” The pronunciation note says that yu (to speak) here is read according to the fanqie yu ju qie.

Yan Hui could be deeply humane yet could not forbear or yield. The commentary explains that fan means to change or adapt; if one clings to a single way and does not know how to flex, and lacks the wisdom to weigh affairs and respond to things, one will be blocked when events arise. The exegesis holds that Yan Hui could walk the Way together with others but could not yet walk with them in timely adaptation (quan).

Yu Yue argued that fan does not work in this passage and may be a corrupted form of ren (forbearance). In popular character forms, ren (blade/edge) was easily mistaken for fan; ren also stood for ren (forbearance). The Classic of Poetry, “Jiang Zhongzi” and “Yi,” both note cases where the received “forbear” was originally written with the blade graph. Thus “able in ren but not in fan” should read “able in ren but not in ren (forbearance)”—humane, yet unable to endure and yield. That pattern matches what follows: Zigong could argue well but not hold his tongue, Zilu could be brave but not be cautious, Zizhang could be dignified but not be easygoing.

The Huainanzi, “Chapter on the Human World,” also records this matter. The original text says: “Confucius was benevolent and thick-hearted yet able to forbear, skilled at discrimination yet cautious in speech, brave yet also able to retreat.” The character ren (forbearance) is written correctly, which shows that what is meant here is ren, not fan (reverse/transform). Zhang Zhan’s commentary says “fan means transformation,” indicating that the version he relied on was already corrupt; Lu Chongxuan’s edition is the same. Yang Bojun holds that Yu Yue’s view is quite persuasive. On this understanding, ren should be read as in the Zuo Zhuan, Duke Wen, year 1, phrase ren ren (one who can forbear toward others)—that is, what today is called renxin (to harden one’s heart / be ruthless).

Zigong (a disciple of Confucius) could speak eloquently but could not be cautious in speech. [Commentary] He had the talent to press forward actively, but had not yet reached the realm of accord with the Dao. Yang Bojun’s note says that Shuoyuan, “Miscellaneous Sayings,” and Kongzi Jiayu, “Six Roots,” write ne (slow of speech) as qu (yield). The Shiwen glosses the pronunciation of ne as nu hu qie.

Ran You could press forward bravely but could not yield at the right time. [Commentary] He only knew how to display the strong side and did not understand how to hold to the soft side.

Zizhang was dignified and solemn in bearing but could not get along harmoniously with others. [Note] Being good at debate without cautious speech harms loyalty and trustworthiness; being brave without knowing when to retreat injures the way of benevolence and magnanimity; being solemn yet unable to unite with others goes against the principle of modesty and reserve. These are all cases of being fixated on one side. [Commentary] Insisting on solemnity alone and refusing to harmonize with others leads to loss of harmony. Xu Shidong points out that the Analects says “Zengzi said: How imposing is Zhang!”—this is precisely saying that Zizhang was imposing; and “hard to join him in practicing humaneness”—this is precisely saying that he was not good at harmonizing with others.

If one combined all four men’s strong points and wanted to exchange them for my Dao, I would not agree. [Note] Each of the four reached the extreme in one kind of conduct; even if all their strengths were combined and offered in exchange for my Dao, that is not something I would accept. Yang Bojun’s note holds that yi here should be explained as “exchange”; Zhang Zhan’s gloss as “change” is incorrect.

Lu Jie holds that “yi” here means to exchange or replace. Lu Deming’s Jingdian Shiwen notes that “xing” is read with the fanqie “xia-meng qie.”

“This is why he serves me without a divided heart.” The commentary says: when assembling the multitude and handling weighty affairs, one should entrust them to a sage—so even if one wished to dismiss him, one could not. Lu Jie explains: if he did not combine the four qualities—benevolence, eloquence, strict rectitude, and courage—I would still be unwilling to trade him away; how much less when he unites all four? Kongzi (Confucius) possessed what each of those four types lacked in the others; therefore in serving me he never wavered in loyalty.

This passage treats a major point in discourse on the Way and duty, with emphasis on how the sage chooses to enter service or withdraw according to the times. Lu Deming glosses “er” as doubt or a change of heart, and reads “yao” with the fanqie “yi-yao qie.”

After Liezi took Huqiu Zilin as his master, he also befriended Bo Hun Manren and later lived in the southern outskirts. Many people came to study with Liezi; they were counted day by day, yet the number could not be completed. Older commentaries hold that visitors came in an unbroken stream, so that even daily tallies could not account for them all. Others argue that ri (day) is a corrupted form of bai (hundred) and the phrase should read “numbering in the hundreds yet still not reaching an end”—meaning those who followed Liezi amounted to hundreds and still did not stop. This wording resembles the line in the Huangdi (Yellow Emperor) chapter about “a hundred osprey-birds arriving and still not ceasing.”

Liezi himself was not entirely clear on this either. Traditional notes explain that he too did not know how many followers he actually had. Some scholars also take wei here in the sense of obscure or hard to discern—that the matter was dim and not easy to make out.

Some read “Z Liezi was also very subtle” as “Z Liezi was also very obscure.” Zhang Zhan explains that Liezi himself did not know how many disciples he had. Tao Hongqing takes wei (subtlety) to mean subtle and profound. The “Yi Bing” chapter of the Xunzi says that among the feudal lords there were those who could handle affairs with subtle thoroughness; Yang Li glosses “subtle” as penetrating and complete. The point is that Liezi’s Daoist practice was subtle and profound, so even with many disciples he could debate and instruct with them every day and his reputation spread far.

Later in this chapter Longshu says to Wen Zhi: “Your medical art is exquisitely fine. I am ill—can you cure me?” The “Tang Wen” chapter also has Shi Xiang press his hand to his chest and rise on tiptoe in admiration: “Your qin playing is truly exquisite!” In all these cases wei means consummate skill, which supports the same reading here. Zhang Zhan’s “Liezi did not know how many disciples he had” and Yu Yue’s reading wei as mei (obscure) are unsatisfactory.

Liezi and his disciples debated and studied together daily, and people near and far heard of it. The commentary says master and disciples instructed one another and fame reached everywhere. The exegesis adds that so many came to study that Liezi could not count them; they talked daily about the sages’ deeds, so none near or far remained unaware.

Liezi lived next to Nan Guozi for twenty years without ever calling on him. The note says their Dao met in the same depth of mystery, so even in old age they did not visit each other. When they met on the road they acted as if they did not see each other. The gloss explains that when Dao dwells in the heart, outward looking no longer matters.

Disciples therefore suspected enmity between Liezi and Nan Guozi—“enemy” here meaning feud or grudge. The explanation says people saw no contact and assumed a quarrel. Bo Jun’s note mentions that below we read of Bofengzi among the disciples at Puze; there yi should mean “disciple,” not “servant” or “campaign.”

In Zhuangzi’s “Gengsang Chu” chapter we read: “Among Laozi’s followers was one named Gengsang Chu.” Sima Biao glosses yi as “disciple” or “follower,” which is why tu and yi appear together here as “disciples.”

A man from Chu asked Liezi: “Master, between you and Master Nan Guo Zi, who is the greater?” Liezi said: “Nan Guo Zi looks outwardly full, yet inwardly he is empty and still. He hears without being caught by sounds, sees without being held by things; he does not wrangle in words or deliberately use his mind; inside and outside are one, and his body does not shift.”

Tao Hongqing argues that ti in the line should be another graph meaning “change,” so xing wu [change] means the body does not alter. The text also says Nan Guo Zi’s “form without ti” and that “form and spirit do not pair”—which supports that reading. Later readers knew yi (change) well but seldom met the other character, and wrongly wrote ti (vigilance) instead.

Liezi went on: “Still, let us try going to see together.” They looked into it, and forty disciples went along. Commentators note that this trip was not to pick disciples, rank merit, or count who excelled; there simply happened to be forty people, and the account records that fact.

When people saw Master Nanguo, he looked like an earth figurine (a human image molded from clay)—someone with whom one could not interact or hold ordinary conversation.

Commentators do not agree on the term qipo (“deceiving the soul” / the clay figure used in ritual). Some identify it directly with the earth figurine; others hold that the characters are corrupt and refer instead to an extremely ugly human image. Another line of interpretation says that Master Nanguo’s spirit was so concentrated that his body seemed to have vanished, so outward things could not glimpse his true state.

Wang Chongmin argued that qipo and the ugly ritual image used to drive away plague demons are not the same thing: the former is the clay figure used in rain prayers, the latter the grotesque effigy used in rites to expel epidemic spirits. Saying Master Nanguo resembled a qipo here is meant to convey how deeply he had attained the Way— as if his body were withered and his mind like ashes after a fire. Guo Xiang’s commentary on the Zhuangzi has a parallel formulation: “The form like a withered tree, the mind like dead ashes”—the outer body seemingly lifeless wood, the inner heart utterly still and unmoved.

The Shuowen jiezi says: “ugly.” In the Guangyun this character is read with the fanqie “pi ge qie,” close in sound to po, and it is a loan character. Ren Daichun held that the qi in qi po should originally have been written with a different graph. The Shuowen explains: “[that graph], ugly; from the ‘head’ radical with qi as phonetic. In the rite of driving out plague demons today, there are people who wear [that] head.” The Yujian and Guangyun say the same. The character is also written qi or qi. The commentary on the Zhouli “Fangxiang shi” says: “the qi head of today.” The Xunzi “Feixiang” says: “Confucius’s face was like one wearing a mengqi mask.” Yang Liang glosses: “Mengqi is fangxiang.” Another form appears in the Yujian, said to be identical with that graph. All these graphs share the reading with qi, so the text here also writes qi.

Liezi’s disciples came to see him and found that his bodily form and spirit seemed unable to harmonize and that he could not get along with others. The note says: Spirit commands the body; if the mind has no deliberation, the outward appearance will not act—hence he looked as if form and spirit could not govern each other. How could he merge with things?

The commentator says: Yan Jian brought his disciples to call on Liezi and indeed saw him like a wooden puppet transformed from qi po, or like the mask worn in plague expulsion today—form and spirit seemed unable to connect. Here qi po means a dull, vacant look, as of someone without spirit.

After a while Nanguo Zi pointed at the disciple standing at the end of Liezi’s line and spoke with him. The note says: He merely happened to stand at the rear of the queue; there was no rank of high and low. Stirred by things outside, he responded; he did not deliberately fix his mind on externals.

When this man spoke, his expression was bright and his manner resolute, as if he single-mindedly held to his view and strove to surpass others. The note says: One who has reached the ultimate truth need not speak at all; once words appear, there is “you and me” and the distinction of right and wrong. The sage in meeting others, in bowing and rising, all accords naturally with things—so to onlookers he may seem to pursue correctness and value winning over others.

The commentary holds that the disciple at the rear had not yet forgotten the split between right and wrong; that bright, firm bearing was precisely the air of competing to win. Yu Yue noted that the Shiwen records a variant that writes cun for zai in “zai xiong zhe” (“those who are bold”); cun should be adopted. The Zhuangzi “Tianxia” also has the line “Shi Cunxiong er wu shu.”

There is also the expression “cun xiong” (preserving boldness), which can serve as supporting evidence. The Shiwen explains that “kan” means forgetting right and wrong, while “kan kan ran” denotes a contentious, competitive spirit. Yu Yue says that according to the Shiwen, one manuscript reads “cun” (preserve) instead of another character, and that reading should be adopted. The “Tianxia” chapter of Zhuangzi states: “Shi cun xiong er wu shu” (he stored up boldness but had no method). That too supports the reading “cun xiong.” The Shiwen notes that “kan” is read kou han qie, and that one manuscript has “cun xiong” for “zai xiong.”

Liezi’s disciples were therefore astonished. [Note] When they saw Liezi sitting still, he seemed to them like wood or clay; when they saw him engaging with things, he seemed to be distinguishing right from wrong—hence their surprise. The Shiwen writes “hai” as “hai” (a variant graph) and states that the two forms are equivalent. After they returned home, everyone wore a look of doubt on their faces. [Note] They wanted to hear Liezi explain. [Commentary] They suspected that Liezi had not yet forgotten the heart of contention.

Liezi said: “One who truly grasps the principle does not speak; one who exhausts cleverness also does not speak. [Note] For when one has pursued things to the limit and penetrated the utmost, both words and intent are forgotten together. The Shiwen says that “jin” should be read as “jin” (exhaust). To use ‘wordlessness’ to state one’s position is still a kind of speech; to take ‘non-knowing’ as wisdom is still a kind of knowing. [Note] Some people wish to abolish speech by wordlessness and dispel knowledge by non-knowing; yet those who make few words their aim ultimately still have not left speech and knowing behind.

To regard ‘wordlessness’ as ‘not speaking,’ and ‘non-knowing’ as ‘not knowing,’ is still to be speaking and knowing. [Note] Some wish to preserve innate nature and rest in a state of wordlessness and non-knowing; but this is in fact to go on dispelling until there is nothing left to dispel, and to go on knowing until there is nothing left to know. One who wants to dispel everything has still not escaped dispelling; one who claims to know nothing—has he truly forgotten knowing? This is ultimately not a natural forgetting of speech and knowing.

In the note, Wang’s edition reads “bu” (not) for “wei” (not yet) in “wei neng li qian”; here the text follows the Northern Song edition and the canonical library edition. Yu Yue says that “yu” here is equivalent to “wei” (as, to take as). The passage above says, “To use wordlessness as speech is still speech; to use non-knowing as knowing is still knowing”; hence the meaning here is: “To take wordlessness as not speaking and non-knowing as not knowing is still to be speaking and knowing.”

This passage continues the previous discussion and further explains the same point: the earlier text uses the word wei (as, for), while here it uses yu (with, and); though the wording differs, the meaning is the same. Classical texts often use language this way. In the “Admonitions” chapter of the Guanzi there is the line “regarding one’s own person as not worthy of others’ attention or handling,” and Yin Zhizhang’s commentary explains that wei here means yu. Thus yu can also carry the sense of wei. For fuller discussion see Wang Yinzh’s Glossary of Classical Words in the Classics. In Lu Deming’s Classic Collations, the note on li gives the fanqie reading li-zhi qie.

The perfected person (zhiren) both speaks of everything and knows everything; at the same time one may say he is without words and without knowledge. Commentators explain: wordlessness is the root of speech, and non-knowing is the root of knowing. The perfected person’s inner mind is open and empty; when things arise he responds and speaks, yet he does not cling to “this is what I said”; when he contacts things and knows them, he does not cling to “this is what I know.” Therefore he responds to things with speech all day long, yet has no label of deliberately keeping silence; he employs cognition all day long, yet has no label of straining the spirit. Hence it is said that he speaks of everything and knows everything. In Lu Deming’s Classic Collations, the note on cheng gives the fanqie reading chi-zheng qie.

That is how the principle runs. Why should you be startled without cause? Commentators say: those who do not grasp the utmost subtlety stay at the shallow level; those who do not grasp the highest realm fall to the low level. When they see the perfected person, in responding to things, display stillness and activity, bearing and conduct unlike ordinary people, they find it strange—and that very astonishment is groundless alarm.

So-called “ultimate knowing” and “intention” (yi) originally do not fix on verbal expression. If their heights were not equal, words would be needed to guide understanding. Yet when one employs wordless speech and unknowing knowing, how does that differ from ordinary speech and cognition? Even so, the person of the Way discerns the principle for himself: he is not always silent, nor always speaking; not always unknowing, nor always knowing. The principle is simply thus—why should you wonder at it without cause?

Liezi studied the art of riding the wind under Master Laoshang. After three years, he no longer dared to think in terms of right and wrong in his mind, nor to speak of benefit and harm with his mouth; only then did the master glance at him sidelong. After five years, Liezi again began to think of right and wrong in his mind and to speak of benefit and harm with his mouth; only then did the master relax his brow and smile at him. After seven years, whatever arose in Liezi’s mind he thought without again distinguishing right from wrong; whatever he said he spoke without again weighing benefit and harm. Only then did the master draw him close and sit beside him on the same mat.

Commentators note that the sidelong glance, the smile, and sharing a mat seem to show the teacher’s assessment of the disciple rising step by step. Yet the sage’s heart responds as things arise and judges according to how outward circumstances differ—how could it be fixed in one attitude?

After nine years, whatever Liezi thought or said was left entirely to its own course. He no longer distinguished his own right, wrong, benefit, or harm, nor others’ right, wrong, benefit, or harm; the divide between inner and outer was wholly gone. From then on, his eyes were like ears, his ears like his nose, his nose like his mouth—the senses no longer shut one another off.

His spirit and mind settled; his form seemed to dissolve, flesh and bone as if melted. He no longer noticed what his body leaned on or what his feet stood on, nor what his mind held or what his words concealed. Reaching this state, nothing in affairs could stay hidden.

Commentary also says that the Huangdi (Yellow Emperor) chapter records this same passage. Repeating it here first shows that when human nature is cultivated to the utmost, one can follow change without limit; then it shows that when one follows the natural principle within, there is no hidden or subtle place one cannot see through. The two chapters each have their emphasis; their purport differs.

Exegesis holds that Laozi said: “Great wisdom seems dull; great eloquence seems tongue-tied.” People only know that skill in speech and showing cleverness is a special talent; they do not know that not speaking and not showing cleverness can also reach the same realm. The Huangdi chapter speaks of helping the world with wordless words; this chapter again treats speech, showing that using words can also connect with the wordless realm.

In former times, Liezi was fond of traveling. Master Huzi asked, “Yu Kou [Liezi’s personal name] enjoys going on journeys—what pleasure is there in traveling?” Liezi replied, “The pleasure of traveling lies in the fact that whatever one sees is always fresh and new.” [The annotation explains: wherever one goes, there is usually something new and different.]

Master Huzi asked again, and Liezi gave the same answer. Then he added, “When ordinary people travel, they look only at the scenes right before their eyes; when I travel, I observe how things change and transform.”

By “ordinary people” here is meant those who see only the surface of things. When they witness a landscape flourishing or declining, they rejoice or grieve accordingly, yet they do not notice that the myriad things are all in flux and transformation, and that nothing stays fixed forever. The joy Liezi found in traveling lay in watching this very process of change.

“To travel, to travel—no one can truly discern the real pleasure of traveling!” Master Huzi and Liezi traveled together, yet what each cared about was different; hence Liezi lamented that very few could understand the kind of pleasure he meant by traveling.

Master Huqiu said: “As for Lie Yukou’s journey abroad, was it at bottom the same as everyone else’s, or was it from the start not the same? Whatever one sees is also always in flux.” The commentary takes the view that if nothing stays fixed, then what meets the eye is always unlike what one saw before. The act of observing changes, and what is observed changes too—so in essence the two are not really different. People only savor how outer things never stay the same, yet do not realize that they themselves are just as impermanent; self and world alike slip away with every change. Those who travel only outward never learn to turn and look within.

Bojun’s note adds that, since “traveling outward” (wai you) is set against “looking within” (nei guan), guan here also means touring and taking in sights. Passages in Mencius and the Lüshi Chunqiu show that in early texts guan can mean “to roam” or “to visit.”

The commentary further says: Outward travel tries to find wholeness in things outside; inner observation finds fulfillment in oneself. Fulfillment from within is the highest point travel can reach; hunting for wholeness outside is travel that has not yet arrived. Though a person is only seven chi tall, within that frame the logic of Heaven and Earth is already there: a round head and square feet, patterned on Heaven and Earth; a raised nose bridge and a mouth like a hollow—like valleys; flesh tied to earth, vessels like rivers; bodily heat like fire, breath like wind and clouds. Look inward at the body’s forms and nothing is missing—why must one gaze up and down and cross court and wilds, hills and streams, before one can call the view complete?

You always feel that you are different from others, yet when others look at you, they never see anything special about you. Why? You only know how to observe external things and understand how phenomena change, but you do not know what you originally are. You travel only outward and do not turn inward to examine yourself; though you can respond to the outer world, you forget yourself—this is already taken as the utmost. Why must you insist on traveling outward and striving to cover everything?

After Liezi heard this, he never traveled abroad again for the rest of his life, thinking that he did not understand “traveling.” Hu Qiu said: “This is the highest realm of traveling! The highest traveling is not knowing where one is going; the highest observing is not knowing what one is looking at. When the heart is self-sufficient, there is no place one must go; when one turns back to look at oneself, there is nothing one must deliberately look at. Nothing fails to become a realm for traveling; nothing fails to become an object of contemplation. Only when one forgets traveling can one travel wherever one meets; only when one forgets observing can one observe wherever one meets. This is what I mean by traveling and observing. Traveling to the utmost is precisely having no fixed attachment in the heart, and thus passing through everything without obstruction or blockage.”

When the human form does not insist on going somewhere, and the eyes do not fix on one thing, then nothing is outside the field of vision and nothing is unavailable for traveling. Such traveling and observing is true ultimate traveling.

Long Shu said to Wen Zhi (a figure of the Warring States period who once treated King Wei of Qi):

Long Shu said to Wen Zhi, “Your medical skill is not yet refined enough. I have a certain ailment—can you cure it?”

Wen Zhi replied, “I am at your service. But first tell me what this ailment of yours is.”

Long Shu said, “When people in my hometown praise me, I feel no honor; when people in the realm slander me, I feel no shame. Gaining something does not make me glad; losing something does not make me anxious. I regard being alive as being dead, and wealth and rank as poverty. I look at others as one might look at pigs, and I see myself as an ordinary person. At home I feel as if I were staying in an inn; when I look at my native place, it seems as remote as the lands of the Rong barbarians. With all these symptoms, titles and rewards cannot encourage me, and punishments cannot intimidate me. Prosperity or decline, benefit or harm, cannot shift my mind; sorrow and joy cannot shake me. Therefore I truly cannot serve a lord, keep company with friends, draw close to wife and children, or manage servants.”

The “illness” spoken of here is the state of mind in which Long Shu felt out of step with the world. Wen Zhi ordinarily treated physical disorders, whereas Long Shu described a disposition that transcended worldly judgment and gain and loss. Commentators explain that he saw all things as one, no longer distinguishing noble from base or near from far, and thus was no longer ruled by external things.

Zhuangzi said: “Praising him cannot make him strive harder; slandering him cannot make him feel more dejected. He can draw the boundary between what is inner and what is outer, and can distinguish glory from disgrace.” When a person is in accord with spirit and forgets the body, then wealth and poverty, life and death, human and beast, self and other—all appear to him as passing guests; what difference is there among them? If the mind reaches this state, the usual norms between ruler and minister and between friends no longer hold, and feelings of love and hate, joy and anger, also vanish. What method could cure him?

Wen Zhi (a legendary physician) had Long Shu stand with his back to the light while he himself faced the light and observed him from behind. After a while Wen Zhi said: “Ah—I see your heart: empty and open, almost that of a sage! The heart has seven apertures; six are clear, and only one is blocked.” Old books say the sage’s heart has seven apertures. To treat keen intelligence as an illness may be for this very reason. This is not something my shallow medicine can cure.”

The commentary explains that having Long Shu stand with his back to the light was meant to bring him back to the kind of thinking ordinary people use in daily life.

Those who turn toward the light to look and lift their heads to observe the Dao are people who harbor the aspiration to seek the Great Way. When the mind and heart are empty and clear yet one remains fixated on books, one becomes bound by those books; to be proficient in only one opening (one channel of understanding) still falls short of perfect fulfillment. One whose seven openings—the two eyes, two ears, two nostrils, and mouth—are all tong (fully penetrated and connected) would never again regard the way of sagely wisdom as an illness, would they? This kind of ailment is not something Wen Zhi could cure or stop.

In textual notes, Qin Enfu suggests that “zhi shu” (fixating on books) might should read as “shi jin” (when momentum is exhausted). Yang Bojun proposes that “yang ce” (tilting the head to the side) should perhaps be “yang ce” in the sense of tilting the head upward to measure or survey.

What exists constantly without any reliance is the Dao. Note: Forget the heart of distinction; let things turn naturally. When the way is open, be open; when it is blocked, be blocked as well—then there is no realm of “walking toward death.” That is the Dao sages practice. Commentary: The ultimate Dao is always present and does not depend on outer things. Because it follows the natural course of life, even when the body ends, the Dao is not extinguished; only that counts as truly constant.

Note: Laozi says, “One who dies without perishing enjoys long life.” To understand and hold the principles of nurturing life, and not miss the root’s auspicious moment—even when the form dies, the way of life still abides constantly—is the level worthies can reach. They have not yet, like sages, forgotten distinction and silently accorded with nature so as to preserve their inborn nature. Commentary: The truly constant Dao fits affairs and events; it passes through birth and death with the body yet does not perish itself—that is the Dao’s normal state. The annotated text glosses the word for “distinction” (fen).

Because one relies on “staying alive” and yet moves toward extinction, that is misfortune. Note: Using cleverness to seek self-preservation, cherishing oneself and slighting outer things, shunning harm and chasing profit, always scheming inwardly and driving external things—even if one ends in death, it is death born of misfortune. Commentary: Clinging to bodily life while losing the Dao is misfortune. Some manuscripts read “seeking completeness” (qiu quan) as “binding the body” (shu shen).

To have something to rely on and yet constantly move toward death is also one of the Dao’s situations. Note: Acting by the rule that one must die, going where death must go—deed and outcome answering each other—is likewise the natural Dao. Commentary: The Dao of worldly ritual teaching often binds people until they die; relying on the principle of death, they walk toward death. Thus even before life reaches its term, the vital impulse has already cut itself off on its own—that too is normal. Note: When the body has not yet reached its natural end but the vital impulse is already spent, that also fits the usual pattern. Commentary: Cherishing a body fated to die, following teachings that speak only of life and death, without guarding and keeping the Dao—the world takes that as normal. Various editions lack the final “ye” (also) after “also constant”; the Jifu manuscript’s reading is adopted here.

To obtain survival out of death is sheer luck. Note: To go against principle and fail to accord with the way of following—when one ought to die yet temporarily does not die—that survival is wrongly gained.

Being able to adapt to the changes of life and to restrain one’s desires is also a kind of good fortune in understanding the way of life.

The line that reads, in effect, “to pass from death into life is misfortune” is, in context, probably meant to read with a negation before “life”: the character bu (“not”) should stand below sheng (“life/living”). Yin Jingshun and Ren Dachun both hold that this bu should be supplied. The section is built in pairs: if it is misfortune to follow the path of seeking life yet end in death, then it should likewise be misfortune to follow the path of seeking death yet obtain survival. Bo Jun thinks Yin and Ren still leave room for debate; what follows, citing Tao Hongqing’s reading, flows more smoothly.

To survive without deliberate striving is called the Dao; to follow the Dao through to the end of life is called the constant (chang). Here “Dao” means the way of the sage; acting in accord with the Dao, whether in life or in death, accords with the pattern of things.

To act with deliberate effort and move toward death can also be called “Dao”; to follow that road to the end of life can also be called “constant.” The commentators’ point is that going along with dangerous circumstances and harming oneself is likewise a kind of normality within the order of things.

Not relying on crafty intelligence to preserve oneself is “Dao”; following that way to life’s end is “constant.” Ordinary people deploy intelligence until their lives are used up, yet take this for a method of benefiting the world; to die by that method they also treat as nothing out of the ordinary.

What the multitude loves becomes the dao the multitude practices; what the multitude finds secure becomes the constant the multitude accepts. Thus the dao that withdraws from the world and the dao of the world, though both are called “dao,” do not mean the same thing.

Tao Hongqing holds the original should read: “what has a source and constantly ends in death is also dao.” Zhang Zhan glosses: acting according to the rationale of certain death, going toward places of certain death—conduct that matches its outcome is also a natural dao.

If that were so, it would be no different from what is called “dying because of death,” and it would also completely fail to accord with the passage above: “existing perpetually without relying on any cause—this is called Dao.” In the phrase “being born without anything relied upon, dying with something relied upon,” the word “relied upon” (yong) likewise denotes a basis or condition.

The four sentences from “being born without anything relied upon” onward do not differ in meaning from what precedes them; yet since the text says “following Dao to an end is called chang (constancy),” and also says “dying in accord with Dao is also called chang,” the senses of “end” and “death” are left undifferentiated. The writing of this book ought not to repeat itself in this way. This section is verbose and obscure in meaning; errors crept in during transmission, and later editors unfamiliar with the sense altered it, producing the mistakes in the received text. In light of the book’s main themes, I offer the following tentative emendation of the wording, to be held as provisional pending further inquiry:

“Existing perpetually without relying on any cause—this is Dao. Following the process of life to live, one therefore does not perish even at the end—this is called chang. Following the process of life to perish is misfortune. Existing in perpetual death without relying on any cause—this is Dao. Following the process of death to die, one therefore perishes of oneself even before reaching the end—this is also called chang. Following the process of death to live is good fortune. Being born with something relied upon is also called Dao; living in accord with Dao is also called chang. Dying with something relied upon is also called Dao; dying in accord with Dao is also called chang.”

“As for ‘existing perpetually without relying on any cause’ and ‘existing in perpetual death without relying on any cause,’” the “Heaven’s Gifts” (Tian Rui) chapter says: “What does not give birth can make the myriad things unceasingly be born; what does not change can make the myriad things change.” This refers to self-generation and self-transformation—the myriad things producing and changing by themselves. “Being born with something relied upon and dying with something relied upon”—the Tian Rui chapter says: “What is born cannot fail to be born; what changes cannot fail to change.” This refers to the cycling of Yin-Yang and the succession of the four seasons.

“Following the process of life to live” applies to the sage and worthy; “following the process of death to die” applies to Jie and Zhi. “Living in accord with Dao” and “dying in accord with Dao” refer to moving along with transformation and shift—what the text below calls “the death of a menial” (dying in submission to death like a bound servant).

“Being born and dying without relying on anything” and “being born and dying by relying on something” are both spoken from the perspective of the Dao (the Way, the natural order of how things run), so they are called “Dao.” “Following birth to be born and following death to die,” and “using the Dao to meet birth and death,” are both spoken from the perspective of human affairs; the former describes the normal course, the latter is the death of the common person (ordinary people’s birth and death).

After Ji Liang died, Yang Zhu looked toward his gate and sang. Commentators explain: Ji Liang followed the nature of life through his whole life until death, so there was no reason to grieve. Wang Chongmin notes that in the text cited in Taiping Yulan, juan 487, “sing” (ge) appears as “did not weep” (bu ku), and in the commentary “following life” (sheng shun) appears as “the nature of life” (sheng xing). Yang Bojun observes that Zhanguo Ce, Wei Ce mentions a Ji Liang: when the King of Wei wanted to attack Handan, Ji Liang heard of it, turned back halfway, and remonstrated with the king without pausing to straighten his hat and robes—but it is unclear whether this is the same Ji Liang meant here.

After Sui Wu died, Yang Zhu stroked his corpse and wept. Commentators explain: his life met misfortune and he died that way, so mourning was fitting.

In the birth and death of common people, the crowd sometimes sings and sometimes weeps. Here “li” (servant, commoner) means the multitude, one’s peers. Ordinary people neither understand why they are born nor why they die, so sorrow and joy often lose proper measure—some sing, some weep.

The commentary holds that those who can preserve the nature of life and follow it naturally to the end will not be mourned by sages; those who die by going against their nature and losing the principle of life will move the worthy to grief. As for the multitude’s birth, death, singing, and weeping, that is merely what commonly happens in the world—they do not know where life will ultimately go. In some editions of the annotated text, an extra “zhe” (one who) appears after the character “li.” The Shiwen records that the character “zhong” (middle, or “among”) was read with the fanqie spelling Ding Zhong qie (the Ding-Zhong initial-rhyme gloss for that reading).

Those whose eyes are about to grow dim may at first see extremely tiny things with unusual clarity. Those whose ears are about to fail may at first hear the faintest buzz of gnats or mosquitoes in flight. Those whose sense of taste is about to go wrong may still distinguish the flavors of the Zi and Sheng rivers. Those whose nose is about to lose its smell may still detect burnt, rotten odors. Those whose body is about to stiffen may at first break into urgent running as if to flee.

The passage describes odd signs that can appear just before the senses or bodily functions give way. The Zi and Sheng were two rivers in Qi; people in antiquity thought their waters tasted differently. Ruì denotes small flying insects such as mosquitoes. Commentators take shuǎng as error or abnormality, and jiāng as falling or collapse.

Just as Yan Yuan could tell in advance that the horses would bolt when Dongye Zi was driving, there is a similar logic in how we handle human affairs.

When the mind is about to go astray, one should first distinguish right from wrong. The six faculties—eyes, ears, mouth, nose, body, and mind—when they can stay in balanced harmony, will not drift or change. When anything reaches its fullest peak, decline follows; ruin often begins with fullness and then turns to loss. What has risen to the top turns back; after extreme flourishing comes decline—this is the natural order. Therefore the sage rests in the middle way of balance and peace, sees by what the eyes see, hears by what the ears hear, uses the body’s native capacities, and follows what the heart clearly understands, and so can comprehend the ten thousand things and preserve oneself through life.

When the mouth loses its sense of ordinary flavors, it seeks other tastes; when the nose loses its feel for familiar scents, it notices something else; when the body is about to collapse, it often shows first as abnormal running; when the heart loses the Dao, it falls into quarrels over right and wrong. The sharper right and wrong become, the easier the Dao is forgotten.

Things that have not reached an extreme will not turn and return. Commentators hold that one must go to the limit before turning back; thus over-reliance on cleverness and strong memory becomes a root of dimness, decay, and confusion. If one can release attachment that strays from the constant way, one can gradually draw near the Great Dao.

Therefore, fix on the tip of an autumn hair and Mount Tai disappears from view; strain to hear a gnat and thunder goes unheard. Zhuangzi said: if you blind Lizhu’s eyes, everyone under heaven can see clearly; if you break Gongshu’s (Lu Ban’s) fingers, everyone under heaven seems skilled.

In the early Tang, most scholars were conversant with the teachings of Confucianism, Buddhism, and Daoism alike. Against that background, the revival of Chongxuan (double mystery) thought drew particular attention. Cheng Xuanying’s Kaiti xujue yishu (Opening, Preface, and Expository Commentary on the Daodejing) and Li Rong’s Laozi yishu (Expository Commentary on Laozi) were especially influential. Liu Jin, Cheng Xuanying, Li Rong, and Sun Simiao all produced commentaries and expository works on the classics. Cheng Xuanying’s Daodejing kaiti xujue yishu, Li Rong’s Laozi yishu and Laozi xuanlun (Profound Discourse on Laozi), and Liu Jin’s Zhuangzi shu (Commentary on the Zhuangzi) were widely read. Sun Simiao also authored a Laozi zhu (Commentary on Laozi) and a Nanhuajing shu (Commentary on the Nanhuajing). The preface to the Laozi in the Xuandu (Mysterious Capital) recension states that the text was divided into twelve chapters. In the mid-Tang, Du Guangting’s five-juan edition of the Daodejing became the standard. By the late Tang, Daoist scholars focused almost exclusively on Laozi and the Zhuangzi; the influence of Li Rong and Cheng Xuanying waned, and Du Guangting’s commentarial line came to dominate.

Wu Guang holds that the motive behind the Chongxuan revival was to “draw on Daoism to enter Confucianism”—using Daoist thought to reform and renew Confucian learning. Han Lidian analyzes this from three angles: first, “drawing on Daoism to enter Confucianism,” that is, employing Daoist ideas to renovate Confucian doctrine; second, “drawing on Buddhism to enter Confucianism,” using Buddhist concepts to enrich Confucian theory; third, “drawing on Confucianism to enter Daoism,” applying Confucian ethical and political ideals to guide Daoist practice. Together these show how Chongxuan learning served as a bridge among the three traditions.

Chongxuan studies aimed chiefly at borrowing Daoist resources to reform Confucianism and at the same time to renew Daoism itself. Figures such as Sima Chengzhen, Wu Yun, Li Hanguang, and Zhang Zhihe exemplify this dual effort: they drew on Daoist cultivation and metaphysics to deepen Confucian self-cultivation and governance, while also using Confucian moral and ritual frameworks to give shape to Daoist religious life. In that way Chongxuan thought both pushed Confucian renewal and helped Daoism adapt to the intellectual climate of the Tang.

In the Puze region of Zheng, many people of moral cultivation lived in seclusion; in Dongli there were many men of talent who could govern affairs and take part in state administration. The distinction was this: those who cultivated virtue were called “the worthy” (xian), while those who studied documents and handled criminal judgment were called “men of talent” (cai).

In Puze there was a man named Bo Fengzi, who seemed to be a disciple of Deng Xi. When he passed through Dongli he met Deng Xi. Deng Xi was a clever, sharp-witted scholar of Zheng skilled in disputation; he often put forward arguments that could be defended from both sides, and at the time few could refute him. He had once compiled the bamboo penal code, which Zichan, the chief minister of Zheng, adopted.

Deng Xi turned to his disciples and said with a laugh, “Let me tease him a little. That fellow is coming—what do you think?” The disciples replied, “We have just been wanting to see how it goes.” Here zhi means “to hear of” or “to witness.” Deng Xi, trusting in his rhetorical skill, wanted to make fun of Bo Fengzi in front of his followers. Then Deng Xi said to Bo Fengzi, “Do you understand the principle of yang shang?” The two characters yang shang: the first is read yǎng, the second shǎng.

Zhang Zhan explains that for yang (to nourish or support), the upper-tone reading is yang (as in “to raise up”), and the lower-tone reading is yang (as in “itch”). Qin Enfu notes that the Zhang Zhan edition that survives today does not include this phonetic gloss. Yang Bojun holds that the pronunciations yang and yang cited in the Jie (explanation) are simply tone labels—upper tone versus departing tone—or readings of the kind “Yu Liang qie” and “Yu Shang qie.” Lu Huan uses wording to clarify pronunciation; Qin Enfu’s claim that the surviving Zhang Zhan text lacks this passage is not quite right. The Shiwen (phonetic commentary) records: “yang yang: the first character is read Yu Liang qie; the second is read according to the base form of the character.”

Those who live on others’ support yet cannot sustain themselves are like dogs and pigs. To nurture the ten thousand things and turn them to human use is what people can do. To let you all eat your fill, dress warmly, and rest at ease—that is the achievement of those who hold power.

The commentator says this is a metaphor for people who treat others like dogs and pigs while imagining that rulers alone keep them alive. Old and young crowd together like animals penned for slaughter and cooking. Hong Yi explains ji (padding) as what is laid underneath, as in the Yijing Da Guo line about spreading white thatch for use; Ma Rong’s gloss says whatever is spread below is ji. The Erya Shishou says the place where pigs sleep is called zeng; Guo Pu glosses it as the bedding pigs lie on—that is, ji. Lao means livestock and also the pen that holds them; ji can mean a fence of bamboo or wood, or something with barbs for catching. Wording differs among versions, but the sense is much the same. Qin Enfu points out that the Zhuangzi text that survives today has lao ce instead.

Is that really any different from dogs and pigs? Bo Fengzi gave no reply.

It was not that they lacked the ability to reply, but that they found the other party ridiculous and therefore ignored him. In their view, the other’s understanding was insufficient and not worth a conversation.

A follower of Bofengzi stepped out of turn and said: “Has the great officer not heard that Qi and Lu have many master craftsmen? Some excel at civil engineering and construction, some at metallurgy and leatherwork, some at music, some at writing and reckoning, some at military affairs, and some who know ancestral-temple ritual. Every kind of talent is represented, yet no one can take charge of the others, and no one can order the others about. This is because when a person completes one kind of work, there are aspects he cannot cover; when he perfects one craft, he cannot be equally skilled in all others. People who each have their own strengths and are matched in ability cannot govern one another.”

Here, “ancestral temple” (zongmiao) means the place where ancestors are worshipped and rites are performed; “writing and reckoning” (shushu) means literacy and arithmetic. Commentators also note that “xiangwei” may originally have read “xiangli,” with li meaning to preside over or govern—that is, among these people there was no one who stood above the rest to lead the others.