《列子集释》Vol. 6

“Yu” here is read as “li,” meaning to govern or to handle affairs. The commentary states that “zhi” (knowing) is also written as “zhi” (wisdom); “xiang” is read with the fanqie gloss “xi-liang qie,” and in this passage “zhi” should be read as “zhi” (wisdom). The meaning must be grasped in light of the surrounding context.

One who governs the multitude does not rely on personal cleverness and wisdom; one who sets the multitude to work does not personally take on every skill and task. Rather, intelligence and talent are mobilized and put to use by the governor. The commentary holds that the governor need not understand and master everything himself, but lets people of diverse gifts each fulfill their role. He does not cling to cleverness or talent, neither favoring nor rejecting, making no distinction between self and other—this is taking wuwei (non-action) as the mind-set for handling affairs.

Therefore those with sharp eyes take charge of observing, those with keen ears of listening, the wise of planning, the brave of fighting—while I myself need not personally do these things.

Xun Cai once said to Fu Jia and Xiahuan Xuan: “Your standing, reputation, and achievements in the world surpass mine, but your insight does not match mine.” Fu Jia and Xiahuan Xuan replied: “Achievements depend on insight; how could there be a root that is deficient while the branches are full?” Xun Cai answered: “Achievements depend on aspiration. Aspiration is bounded by one’s capacity, and aspiration and capacity are each their own kind of condition—insight alone cannot accomplish things by itself. What I value is being able to deploy you each to your strengths, yet I may not be able personally to finish what you accomplish.”

Zhang Zhan’s commentary cites this exchange between Xun Cai and Fu Jia as also appearing in the Jin Yangqiu material quoted in the commentary to the biography of Xun Yu in the Wei shu section of the Sanguo zhi, though the wording differs slightly. Here, in the line “achievements are aspiration, what the frame limits,” the character rendered as “bi” ( flaw/limit) is likely a corrupt form of “jiang” (to reward/encourage); another version reads “achievements are what aspiration and the frame together encourage.”

“The one in charge of governing is precisely the one I deploy—what do you have to boast about?” Deng Xi had nothing to say, glanced at his disciples, and rose to leave.

Zhang Zhan also records that another version adds a commentary passage at this point, to the effect that employing various talents to govern affairs, complying with the nature of each thing so it can function, letting chickens, dogs, cattle, and horses each serve their use and scholars, farmers, craftsmen, and merchants each keep their place—only a person of the Dao can do this. How did you reach this by your own ability alone? You see only the surface of affairs and do not understand the root, like a mantis stretching out its arm to block a chariot wheel—overestimating your strength. After Deng Xi had analyzed the reasoning, he felt ashamed before his disciples, looked at them, and departed. Other versions lack this note; in it, “li xi” (analyze principle) may be a mistaken form of “li zhe” (principle refuted/overcome).

Gong Yibo was renowned among the feudal lords for his strength. Tang Xigong recommended him to King Xuan of Zhou, claiming he had real ability. The king prepared gifts and sent for him. When Gong Yibo arrived, King Xuan looked him over and thought he seemed frail, so he was inwardly skeptical and asked, “How strong are you, really?”

Gong Yibo replied, “My strength is enough to break the legs of spring locusts and pierce the wings of autumn cicadas.” This was not about lifting heavy loads; it meant he could apply force with exact control—snapping the fine legs of insects and piercing the thin wings of cicadas. Old commentators disagree on how to read kan here: one tradition glosses it as “to surpass” or “to bear”; another treats it as kan in the sense of kan (to pierce or stab through).

King Xuan’s face fell. He said, “My strength can tear the hide of a rhinoceros or a si (a rhinoceros-like beast), and drag the tails of nine oxen at once.”

Gongyi Bo sighed deeply, rose from his seat, and replied: “Your Majesty asks well! Your servant will answer frankly as the facts allow. My teacher was named Shangqiu Zi. His strength was unmatched under heaven, yet even his own kin did not know it—because he never displayed his force.

“My teacher told me: If you wish to be unmatched in strength yet keep your family unaware, you must never rely on brute force. If you wish to see what others cannot see, observe what others overlook; if you wish to obtain what others cannot obtain, do what others refuse to do. Others often fix on what is hard; I devote myself to what is easy.

“What people commonly do and watch is the chase for fame and profit; what they leave behind is only the outward trace of action. What people neglect and will not do is precisely the domain in which those who possess the Dao can move at ease. Therefore, one who can be without rival under heaven does not contend and overpower others—he makes his strength without an opponent.

“Thus, one who learns to see must first see a whole cartload of firewood nearby; one who learns to hear must first hear the strike of a bell. The ancients said that one skilled in using force can lift the lightest autumn down, and one skilled in hearing can hear thunder—this is the same principle. What the heart finds easy presents no difficulty outwardly. When nothing outward is difficult, fame naturally does not spread beyond one’s own gate.” The efficacy of the Dao is far-reaching and subtle, so it does not parade a name.

Things that are easy to see or hear always begin with what is close at hand and then extend from near to far. Those who are good at preserving life first nurture their own spirit. When the spirit is whole and complete, the efficacy of following the natural course manifests, and nothing in the outer world remains beyond reach. Thus what the heart finds easy to do faces no difficulty in the external world.

Once one grasps this principle, one can realize it within a single heart and put it into practice within a single household, so that outsiders never know. The phrase “fame does not issue from a single household” refers to this kind of situation in which nothing is displayed outward. Commentators have examined the variant readings “household” (jia) and “Way” (dao), and hold that “household” fits better: the preceding line speaks of “the six kin not knowing,” and the following line speaks of “the minister’s fame reaching the feudal lords”—the two passages mirror each other precisely. If the text read “Way,” that might reflect influence from Zhang Zhan’s commentary phrases such as “when the Way reaches its depth, its efficacy is subtle.”

The minister said: “Now my fame has reached the feudal lords, which shows that I went against my teacher’s instruction and displayed my own skill.” The commentary explains that this indicates he failed to keep his fame and his conduct from showing. It goes on: “Yet my fame did not come because I relied on my own strength.” The commentary takes this as still counting as not boasting, and therefore as the reason he could win praise. Those who are skilled at deploying strength can, on the contrary, keep their fame and their conduct from appearing.

My reputation did not come from boasting about my abilities, but from putting those abilities to use. Those who wield power well know how not to parade it—and that is far better than flaunting one’s skills wherever one goes.

Though I cannot hide my tracks as my teacher does, I can at least avoid deliberately showing off what I can do. Power that truly counts is power in harmony with the Dao (the Way), able to nurture and transform the ten thousand things. Hence Zhuangzi says: “Hide a mountain in a marsh, hide a boat in a valley—a person of strength carries them off in the dead of night, while the dull-witted still do not know.” The “strength” meant here is the power to transform and nourish all things; King Xuan, however, took it to mean mere muscle and bone.

Zhongshan Gongzi Mou was a worthy scion of the state of Wei. Gongzi Mou was a son of King Wen of Wei; he authored four treatises reckoned among Daoist writings. When Wei conquered Zhongshan, it granted that territory to Gongzi Mou, whence he was called “Lord of Zhongshan.”

Gongsun Mou of Zhongshan was a worthy scion of the state of Wei. Commentators identify him as a son of Marquis Wen of Wei; he is said to have composed four works classified under the Daoist school. After Wei conquered Zhongshan, he received a fief there and was therefore styled “Gongsun Mou of Zhongshan.”

The commentary probes this further: Gongsun Mou was indeed known as the Zhongshan scion of Wei, but the “Zhongshan” of his title may not be the Zhongshan state founded by the Xianyu and later seized in turn by Wei and Zhao. In the period when Gongsun Mou was active, that Zhongshan had long since fallen to Zhao. Moreover, treating him as a son of Marquis Wen of Wei may conflate him with another of the marquis’s sons named Zhi. Sources and commentators through the ages do not agree on this point.

The “Bibliographical Treatise” in the Book of Han records four pieces by Gongsun Mou, listed under the Daoist category. Qian Mu held that the reasoning in this passage of the Liezi is finely argued and may draw on older books—or even preserve remnants of Gongsun Mou’s own writings—rather than being a later forgery.

The Shiwen (pronunciation gloss) notes that mou is read with the fanqie spelling mo-hou.

He delighted in keeping company with the worthy yet gave little thought to affairs of state.

The Shiwen (gloss on the text) reads: hao is pronounced hubao qie, and xu is pronounced suilü qie. Gongzi Mou delighted in the company of worthy men and took no interest in affairs of state, yet he admired Gongsun Long of Zhao. The annotation takes Gongzi Mou and Gongsun Long to be figures who postdate Liezi; their appearance in the book is probably material added by later editors to expand its meaning. So long as such additions do not break the work’s overall design and still serve to clarify points, there is no real harm—passages of this kind are therefore kept. Yang Bojun notes that the Bibliographic Treatise in the History of the Han lists the School of Names treatise Gongsun Longzi in fourteen sections, whereas the text that survives today has only five sections, roughly two thousand characters; some scholars also doubt that the extant book is authentic.

Yuezheng Ziyu and his companions ridiculed Gongzi Mou. Gongzi Mou asked, “Why do you mock me for admiring Gongsun Long?” Ziyu replied, “Gongsun Long has no teacher to guide his conduct and no friends with whom to refine his learning; he does not take the sages as his models. He is quick with words but off the mark in principle; his discourse is elaborate yet belongs to no stable school; he loves strange doctrines and his language is often empty. Wishing to bewilder people’s minds and overwhelm others in disputation, he studied the art of debate together with figures such as Han Tan.”

Zhuangzi likewise says: “Gongsun Long of Huan could defeat others in verbal contest but could not win their assent at heart; he was only a man of the debaters’ circle.”

Someone who acts without a teacher to guide him, who studies alone without friends to sharpen his understanding, will in debate often miss the main point and, when he expounds doctrine, wander without a firm root. His teaching may for a moment leave others with nothing to say, yet it cannot truly win their hearts. Han Tan was such a person—written in the Zhuangzi as “Huan Tuan.” He was clever at disputation, but he turned disputation into a cage that confined him.

The young lord Mou’s face fell. “Why do you make Gongsun Long’s fault sound so grave? Give me the facts.”

Zi Yu said: “I laugh at the way Gongsun Long fooled Kong Chuan—Confucius’s grandson, who tradition says was once his disciple. Gongsun Long told him: ‘A master archer can make the head of each new arrow strike the tail of the one before it, so the shafts line up arrow after arrow, notch to point.’”

When the first arrow hits the bullseye, the next are loosed in unbroken succession with no gap between them; the nock-end of each later arrow still rests on the bowstring, so that from a distance they look like one continuous line. The point is that the shafts strike in an unbroken chain—the first lodges in the target, the next strikes the first, and the tail of the last shot still touches the string, so that from far off all the arrows seem fused together.

Kong Chuan was astonished when he heard this. Long said, “That still falls short of the highest and most refined level.”

Hong Chao, a disciple of Feng Meng, meant to startle his irate wife; he strung the Wu Hao bow (the bow of the Yellow Emperor in legend) and fitted a Qi-Wei arrow. Commentators have taken “Qi” as a region known for fine shafts and “Wei” as the fletching; Wang Chongmin, relaying Wang Yinzhi’s philological work, argues that “Qi-Wei” is rather the name of one kind of arrow bamboo, and that “Wei” is not a place name.

“Wuhao” is the name of an excellent bow, so “Qiwei” should likewise be a designation for fine arrows. Some take “qi” (written with the graph often read as qi/ji in this debate) as the name of a bamboo used for arrows, which is probably incorrect. The arrows used in board games and those used in archery are not the same thing; can one treat gaming arrows as the fine arrows used in shooting? The “Binglüe” (Military Strategy) chapter of the Huainanzi writes “Qiwei zhu” (Qiwei and zhu). If both “Qiwei” and “zhu” are names of arrow bamboo, then why does the Guangya “Shicao” (Explaining Plants) say “zhu lu … are arrows” without mentioning “Qi” at all? Zhang Jie also held that reading “Qi” or “Ji” as arrow bamboo finds no support in ancient books.

The Zhu Pu (Bamboo Treatise) says “… fine bamboo.” Here “Qi” should refer to the Qi Garden in Wei territory. “Qiwei” means the excellent bamboo produced at the Qi Garden; making arrows from it pairs naturally with a strong bow made from the black mulberry of the Wuhao type. Moreover, if “Qiwei” and “zhu” are both arrow bamboo, there is nothing wrong with listing them together. Wang’s explanation clings to the literal surface of the text and therefore misses the point.

As for “Jiwei,” the “Yuandao” (Originating Dao) chapter of the Huainanzi writes “Jiwei,” while the “Binglüe” chapter writes “Qiwei”; the two forms are interchangeable, and the “Qiwei” spelling should be taken as standard. The Liezi as cited in Taiping Yulan 745 also has “Qiwei.” According to the Shiming (Explaining Names): “The side of the arrow shaft is called the feather; people in Qi call it wei.” Zhang Zhan’s commentary says “wei means the arrow’s feathers,” relying on exactly this gloss.

The Shiwen (Textual Notes) says “hao” is read with the fanqie hu-gao, and “ji/qi” is read as “qi” (its). The Shiji mentions “bamboo of the Ji state”; Jin Zhuo says the parks and preserves in Wei had abundant bamboo. The phrase “she qi mu” means the arrow is aimed at the eyes.

The Shiwen says “she” is read with the fanqie shi-yi. The line “the arrow arrives [or: has not yet arrived—see below] fixed on the pupil, yet the eyelids do not blink” means that when the arrow comes to the eye and points straight at the eyeball, the eyelids still do not flutter. Wang Chongmin notes that in the wording cited in Taiping Yulan 350, “lai” (comes) appears as “wei” (not yet), matching the text quoted in the Shiwen.

In another passage, a quotation in the Yülan (Imperial Readings) writes lai zhu (“coming, aimed”) as zhi (“arrived/reached”). Some hold that the character lai (“come”) is superfluous, because zhi and zhu (“fix upon, aim”) mean the same thing, and the following line shi zhu mouzi er kuang bu jie (“the arrow is fixed on the pupil, yet the eye socket does not blink”) continues directly from what precedes—so lai should be a spurious addition. Bo Jun rejects this view and argues that lai should be emended per the Shiwen (Explanation of Characters) to mo (“tip, end”). Shi mo means the arrowhead. The Yülan quotation has wei, which is a miscopy of mo. The Shiwen reads shi mo, and notes that one manuscript writes lai instead.

Mou (pupil) is read móu; kuang (eye socket) is read kuāng. One manuscript has jie (eyelashes) written as a variant graph meaning the eyes’ blinking. Jie and that variant can interchange in old texts, both referring to movement of the eyes; usages in the Shiji’s biography of Bian Que and the Han Feizi’s Yulao chapter illustrate the point.

Shi zhui di er chen bu yang (“the arrow plunges to the ground, yet no dust rises”) means the arrow falls to earth without stirring dust. The commentary explains that the arrow’s force is already spent, so even hitting the target is hard to notice—like a strong crossbow’s bolt at the end of its flight, which cannot pierce even Lu’s thin white silk. Here zhui is read zhuì (“to fall, plunge”); nu is read nǔ (crossbow); gao is read gǎo (white thin silk). Shi qi zhizhe zhi yan yu? (“Is this really the speech of a wise person?”) uses yu read yú, a final interrogative particle.

Gongzi Mou said: “What an intelligent person says is not something a dull person can understand in the first place.” This remark was meant to tease Ziyu. In archery, when a later arrow is shot along the same line as an earlier one, the arrowhead can strike the nock-end of the previous arrow. Thus, as long as each following shot duplicates the one before it in every respect, you will not miss.

Recently someone cast the wumu (a kind of throwing piece used in a betting game) and came up “Lu” (a winning throw in that game) a hundred times in a row. People thought he had mastered a secret and reported this to Wang Yifu. Wang Yifu said: “There is nothing remarkable about it—it is simply that each later cast was made in exactly the same way as the one before.” When Yu Zisong heard this, he said: “What the Duke Wang said accords with the underlying principle.” Cases of this kind are all alike.

When an arrow is shot toward the eye, the shaft can reach the socket before the eyelid has time to blink. This speaks of the point where the arrow’s force is exhausted. Commentators explain: if one can gauge the bow’s power and the distance of the shot, whether the arrow hits the mark depends on judgment in the mind and control in the hand—there is no need to worry about going wide. Even the clumsiest person, shooting in secret, if he knows where the arrow will fly, can aim at the limit of its range; once that limit is reached, the arrow cannot advance a hair’s breadth farther. Once one grasps the arrow’s range, one can also regulate how deep it penetrates according to how near or far the target is.

Liu Daozhen once said to Zhang Shuqi: “I once discussed this matter with Yue Yanfu. He held that this is not necessarily something an ordinary worthy could do; archers on the level of Confus and Yan Hui would surely understand the principle.” Zhan’s commentary holds that the deployment of body and skill is a relatively shallow level of doctrine; once one has fully mastered the knack in a given line, one can reach the utmost. Ding the cook wielding his knife to dismember an ox, or Carpenter Shi swinging his axe to pare wood—these are cases of thorough mastery in a single craft, not achievements reserved for sages alone. What doubt can you still have?

If the position of the bowstring relative to the arrow differs slightly from shot to shot, a hundred releases can look like a single one, which is why the observer takes them to be exactly the same. An arrow that comes close to the eyelashes without touching them does so because its force is spent by the time it nears the lashes, so no dust is stirred on the ground; it is not that the arrow strikes the lashes and then falls.

Ziyu treated a hundred shots as one continuous release and therefore imagined the path from bowstring to target as an unbroken chain; hearing that the arrow drops when it reaches the eyes, he assumed the archer never drove it into the eye at all. That reading misses the deeper point of the matter; the issue is not that Gongsun Long’s doctrine is merely crafty or absurd.

Le Zheng Ziyu said: “You are a follower of Gongsun Long—how can you fail to gloss over his shortcomings? I will mention something still more serious.” Here “still more serious” (you) means “even graver.” Gongsun Long misled King Hui of Wei with the claim that there can be “intention (yi) without mind (xin).” By “mind” is meant the original heart in stillness, free of wandering thought; once deliberate intent and discursive thinking arise, the heart’s native state is lost. The heart’s active aspect is called yi (intention). Ordinary people recognize their yi but do not recognize the original heart.

“Pointing does not reach” (you zhi bu zhi) means that when one uses the finger to grasp at things, one never truly reaches them, because one is still judging externals from the standpoint of “self.” To measure the outer world only by the self is not yet to have reached the utmost of things; only when this reliance is forgotten can self and other meet in depth and mystery. Huizi said: “The finger cannot reach things.” Whatever still has a direction of pointing has not truly arrived; when arrival is complete, there is no longer anything to point at.

“Things are not exhausted” (you wu bu jin) means that within the range of coarse, concrete things, beings always show themselves as “something that is”; yet at the point where the myriad things are exhausted, the “One” that holds them together still remains. That One cannot be split apart, so even if one tries to pare it away, it cannot in principle be wholly used up. Only by yielding to it—neither harming nor going against it—do the loftiness of Mount Tai and the breadth of primordial qi become one whole.

Huizi said: “A stick one chi long—if each day you take away half of what remains, even after ten million years it will not be used up.” Each time one removes only half of what is left; though it is constantly reduced, something always remains. If it could truly be exhausted, it would no longer exist at all.

A staff one chi in length, if halved every day, generation after generation, would never be fully exhausted. Though it is cut many times and what remains grows ever finer, in principle it does not vanish entirely.

On the character for “staff” (chui): the Northern Song edition reads one form (jing), and the Shide Tang edition reads “shen” (spirit).

The shadow seems not to move. [Note] A shadow arises from light; if the light’s position does not change, shadows still keep forming. Hidden change in the ten thousand things works the same way. People do not grasp the principle, so the shadow serves as a likeness.

Huizi said: “The shadow of a flying bird has never moved.” [Commentary] When a shadow shifts, its shape changes. In fact a new shadow follows the old without pause, so people cannot see that it moves.

The phrase “never yet” (weichang): one Wang edition has “not fitting” (weiyi); this follows the Cang edition. The “not” in “if the light did not move” (guang gou bu yi) may be redundant. The commentary says “jie” is read as zi-yi qie.

A fine thread can pull a weight of a thousand jun. [Note] Things break because force is uneven at some point; where force is even throughout, there is no break. So a thin line, though slight, can bear a heavy load because the stress is uniform. [Commentary] Many strands in one thread can lift a heavy object; likewise many hairs piled together can snap an axle—gathered force is not slight. Bo Jun notes: the Mozi, “Jing xia,” says: “Even distribution prevents breaking; the explanation lies in evenness.”

A white horse is not a horse. [Note] Many have argued this thesis, yet none has fully penetrated its reasoning, so it is not pursued here. [Commentary] “White” names color; “horse” names form. To say “a white horse is not a horse” is to distinguish form from color.

The phrase “presently existing” (xianzai): the base text has “presently stored” (xiancun); the Cang edition has “presently existing” (xianzai).

Liezi jishi (Collected Commentaries on the Liezi), Volume 5: “Tang Wen” (Questions of Tang), Chapter 5.

Human wisdom and understanding are limited, and what most clearly reveals that limit is precisely what people have not yet understood. Yet people often measure all things by what they themselves can see; that is why the sage raises questions and invites those who seek the truth of things to answer.

Each being cherishes its own life, yet does not know how to nurture what truly sustains life; instead it fixates on preserving the body, and in doing so harms life. Thus this chapter treats letting go of attachment to physical form and preserving life, so as to penetrate the inherent nature of the ten thousand things; once that nature is penetrated, one can grasp the Great Dao.

Qin Enfu held that in Lu’s commentary, the character zhu in the phrase zhu sheng might be a mistake. The Shiwen (Textual Notes) states that qi should be read with the fanqie spelling cai-xi-qie—that is, pronounced like ji.

Shang Tang asked Xia Ge (Xia Ji, a minister of Shang Tang): “At the very beginning of antiquity, did anything exist?”

Xia Ge replied: “If at the very beginning there was nothing, how could there be anything today? If people of a later age were to say that today there is nothing at all, would that claim hold up?”

Shang Tang said: “Then would the myriad things have no order of before and after?”

Xia Ge said: “The ending and beginning of the myriad things have no fixed limit to begin with. What counts as a beginning for something can at times turn into an ending, and an ending can at times turn into a beginning again—how could one know where their boundaries lie?”

What is called the beginning of a thing may in fact be the ending of another; ending and beginning turn into each other in a cycle until they can no longer be told apart. Jiang Yougao observes that the word shi (beginning) here serves a rhyming function—in archaic pronunciation it belonged to the same rhyme group as zai (exist/be at).

As for what lies outside things, or what obtains before events occur, I simply do not know. The commentary explains: if before things and before events there is only emptiness, then there is nothing that can be named or described. The exegesis holds that later ages will surely treat the present as “ antiquity,” which is no different from the present inquiring into antiquity—so how could there be no things at all? Taking the era before King Tang of Shang as still more remote, the beginning of things and the state before events occur cannot be ranked in sequence; that order is genuinely unknowable.

King Tang asked, “Then do the limits of up, down, and the four directions have an end?” The commentary notes that although Tang and Wu exchanged questions and answers, he had not yet fully grasped the point, so he asked again, hoping to clarify it completely. Wang Shumin argues that jin (exhaust/end) in the commentary should read hua (clear, distinct); huaran means “clearly, plainly.” Jin may be a graphic error for hua, or a slip influenced by jin in the main text.

Wu answered, “I do not know.” The commentary: this is not that he truly did not know, but that the matter cannot be grasped by human intellect.

Tang pressed further. Wu said, “If it is emptiness, there is no boundary; if there is existence, there is an end. On what basis could I know?” The commentary: Tang wished to settle whether emptiness has limits and whether existence has an end, yet he reasoned from what cannot be known. Tao Hongqing holds that you in “if there is existence, there is an end” should likewise be wu, yielding “if there is existence, there is no end”—meaning that what exists has no exhaustion. He links this to Gongsun Long’s “that which exists is not exhausted,” Hui Shi’s “take half of a one-foot stick each day and it will never be used up in ten thousand generations,” and the Western idea that matter is indestructible.

Beyond the Boundless (wuji), there is no other Boundless; within the endless, things each day take away half, yet even after ten thousand generations nothing will be fully taken away.” What this says is what Western Confucian scholars call the “indestructibility of matter.” The lines below—“Beyond the Boundless, there is no other Boundless; within the endless, there is no other endless”—carry on exactly that meaning. The received text wrongly reads “finite” (you jin) where it should read “endless” (wu jin), which does not fit the original sense. Zhang Zhan’s commentary puts it this way: “There is nothing outside the infinite, yet there is a range that is unlimited.” From this it is clear that the version he saw originally had “endless,” not “finite.”

“Beyond the Boundless, there is no other Boundless; within the endless, there is no other endless.” [Note] If it is called “without,” how could there be an “outside”? If it is called “exhausted/end,” how could there be an “within”? To say “no Boundless and no endless” is to speak of true limit and true end. In the note, “already called exhausted,” the Northern Song text has “already called empty (xu)”; Wang’s edition follows “empty”; here the reading is emended to “exhausted (jin)” on the basis of the canonical manuscript.

“Beyond the Boundless, there is no other Boundless; within the endless, there is no other endless.” [Note] Someone might think that beyond the Boundless there is further Boundless, and within the endless further endlessness, so the text repeats: beyond the Boundless there is no other Boundless, within the endless no other endless. I therefore know that it has no extreme and no end, yet I do not know what its bounds and terminus are like. [Note] To know it as “without” is to know nothing that cannot be known; not to know it as “having” is truly to know.

Shang Tang asked again: “What is there beyond the four seas?” Wang Chongmin notes that in the citation in the Taiping yulan, juan 2, there is an extra particle “hu” after the word “you” (is/have).

Ge answered: “The same as the Central Region (Qizhou).” [Note] “Qi” means the center. [Explanation] The point is: since it is called “without,” how could there be limit and end? Thus the Dao is nowhere not present—this is what “without” means. Its substance and function are both vast and unbounded; it does not mean that it is empty, solid, or that nothing exists. Yang Bojun holds that Qizhou refers to China. The Liezi, “King Mu of Zhou” chapter, says: “The qi of the four seas means the central state”—which can serve as evidence.

The commentary states that the Er'ya records: from the Central Plains southward to the utmost distance, when one looks up one always sees the sun—that region is called “Danxue”; northward to the utmost distance, when one looks up one always sees the Big Dipper and the Pole Star—that region is called “Kongtong.” “Ju” means distance or arrival; “qi” means the center.

Tang asked: “On what basis can you prove this?” Bo Jun notes: here “shi” means to prove or verify. Usage in Huainanzi, “Jingshen xun,” and in Hou Hanshu, “Shundi ji,” also supports this reading.

Ge replied: “I went east to Ying (a place-name; commentators identify it with the area of present-day Liucheng, anciently called Yingzhou), then farther east to the seashore; the people there were the same as the people here. I asked about lands east of Ying; they too were the same as Ying. I went west to Bin (an ancient place-name, pronounced bin); the people there were the same as the people here; I asked about lands west of Bin, and they too were the same as Bin. From this I know that conditions beyond the four seas, the four wilds, and the four extremes are no different from here.”

The annotation says that the meanings of “four seas,” “four wilds,” and “four extremes” are explained in the Er'ya. Since one knows that distant regions match this place, the judgment has a basis. The explication adds further: the borders of the four directions cannot be exhausted, yet everywhere people have birth and death, love and hate, parents and spouses; therefore one can know that conditions beyond the four wilds and four extremes likewise do not differ from those around Ying and Bin.

Wang Chongmin held that in the phrase “the four seas, four wilds, and four extremes—zhi [that which] is no different from this,” there was originally likely another character wai (“beyond”) after zhi, which was later lost. Above, Tang asked what lies beyond the four seas; here Ge answers, so the text should say “beyond the four seas, four wilds, and four extremes.” The Yu lan citation indeed has wai after zhi. Bo Jun agrees that Wang Chongmin’s view is correct.

From the Four Seas and the Four Wild Regions all the way to what lies beyond the Four Poles, the dimensions of heaven and earth mutually contain one another without end. The so-called “Four Seas” refer to the nine Yi, eight Di, seven Rong, and six Man; the “Four Wild Regions” refer to Guzhu, Beihu, the Queen Mother of the West, and Rixia; the “Four Poles” refer to Taiyuan in the east, the state of Bin in the west, Puyan in the south, and Zhuli in the north.

The heaven and earth that embrace the myriad things are also, like the myriad things, embraced by heaven and earth. Heaven and earth embrace the myriad things, so the myriad things are ceaselessly generated and transformed: yin-yang qi gives birth to the myriad things, and the myriad things in turn change and replace one another—hence there is no exhaustion. Taixu (the vast, formless void) embraces heaven and earth, so heaven and earth likewise have no absolute boundary.

Though heaven and earth are vast, they are ultimately things with form and still have a scope; Taixu can contain heaven and earth. Heaven and earth rest within Taixu; compared with Taixu, they seem at once to exist and not to exist. Whatever has form and limits has distinctions of large and small, more and less. If one pursues inquiry to the utmost of the formless and unbounded, how can one assert that there is only one heaven and one earth? Heaven and earth and the myriad things may mutually contain one another and each become the other’s domain—who can know how many there are or where their boundaries truly lie?

How do I know that beyond heaven and earth there are not still greater heavens and earths?

The vast emptiness has no boundary, yet Heaven and Earth have a definite extent. To hold the bounded Heaven and Earth within boundless emptiness does not necessarily make them the largest of all forms. Thus what Master Zou (Zou Yan) described was probably only what fell within what he saw and knew. The character in the manuscript tradition appears as “chang” (to taste/try) where another edition has “zhang” (palm). “Yan” is read with the yu qian cut in fanqie; the same applies below. On this point, I too do not know.

Affairs of the world may be pursued by reason, yet they cannot be verified by concrete things alone before one’s eyes. To trust only what one’s mind can know, without seeing that knowing itself has limits, is the mark of shallow insight; to trust only what the ears and eyes hear and see in person, without seeing that seeing and hearing are inherently limited, is the mark of ordinary insight. One who has penetration can dissolve the bounds of the mind and grasp subtle principles beyond ordinary intelligence; one can also break through the barriers of sight and hearing and recognize wonders beyond usual experience.

If the mind is confined to one finite patch of Heaven and Earth, circling only within the six directions (the cosmos bounded by Heaven and Earth in all directions), one will think the Three Graves and Five Canons (ancient canonical texts) have recorded everything, and that the four seas and nine provinces have already embraced all things. If one understands that emptiness is vast and without limit, and that things great and small never end, one will know that Heaven and Earth are only one dwelling within the six directions, and that the myriad things are like dust motes adrift in the void. Those who cling to short, shallow views before their eyes remain confused all their lives and in the end die together in the same oblivion.

Therefore Liezi (Master Lie) expounded the ultimate meaning of “no inner limit” (wu nei) to loosen what binds the mind, and promoted the grand idea of “no outer limit” (wu wai) to open what confines sight and hearing. Those who aspire to this teaching unknowingly set aside self-conceit and boasting; those bound by doctrinal formulas unknowingly loosen their shackles. When Liezi criticized the Confucian and Mohist schools and pointed out the vastness of the Dao (the Way), was that merely a taste for the strange and deliberate exaggeration? Alas! Laozi (Lao Dan) and Zhuang Zhou (Zhuangzi) already suffered the ridicule of worldly talk—how could you expect to escape the same?

The wondrous Dao (the Way) embraces the myriad things, and therefore has no end; Yin and Yang embrace Heaven and Earth, and therefore have no boundary.

Beyond heaven, earth, and the myriad things, I cannot know the principles that lie therein—but that does not mean I know nothing at all. In annotated editions, “boundless” (wuyin) was originally written as “without limit” (wuxian); here the text follows the Shide Tang edition in reading wuyin. The Shiwen (pronunciation glosses) writes the second character of wuyin as yin, and notes that the “ji” in zhiji (to reach, to know) has an alternate reading as “fan,” which is probably a corrupt variant. “Huo” is read as in the huokuo cut; “yin” as in yin (same below); another manuscript reads “limit” (xian) instead. “Ju” as in ju; “zhigou” as zhigu; “jie” as in xie; “kua” as in kouhua cut; “kua” (to boast) likewise. “Dan” is read as in tagan cut, referring to Laozi; “Zhou” refers to Zhuangzi.

If that is so, heaven and earth too belong among the myriad things. Because the myriad things are incomplete, in high antiquity Nüwa (the legendary divine ancestress) smelted five-colored stone to make up what heaven and earth lacked.

Zhang Zhan comments: when the text speaks of heaven and earth having gaps, it may mean yin and yang were out of balance or the sun, moon, and stars ran off their proper courses—not necessarily that the physical form of heaven and earth was broken. Nüwa was a divine being who could refine the vital essences of the Five Phases (Wuxing) to harmonize yin and yang and restore the normal motion of the heavens; it need not mean literally patching heaven and earth with stone.

The exegesis holds that Zhang Zhan’s reading is apt. Qin Enfu notes that lian is the ancient form of the character for “smelt/refine” (lian), as also written in the Huainanzi. He Zhu observes that Zhang’s gloss of five-colored stone as the qi of the Five Phases is a clever turn; Warring States masters often wove legendary tales into their writings, and one need not treat every story as historical fact. Take the Liezi alone—how then are we to explain the episodes of Lord Longbo fishing the great ao, or the transformed visitor’s hem?

Wang Shumin points out that in quotations in the Yiwen Leiju and Taiping Yulan, the character zhi appears before shi (stone), matching the phrasing in the passage below, and should therefore be supplied in the text. The Shiwen reads wa as in gua; Nüwa was a thearch of antiquity, surname Feng.

Ao, the legendary giant turtle, had its four legs cut off to prop up the four corners of heaven and earth. Later, the chieftain Gong Gong contended with Zhuanxu—the legendary ancient ruler and grandson of the Yellow Emperor—for the throne. Ancient books disagree on whom Gong Gong fought: some say Zhurong, some Gaoxin, and some Zhuanxu himself—these are simply different versions of the old tradition.

In his rage, Gong Gong butted his head against Mount Buzhou, the mountain said to stand in the northwest. He broke the pillar of heaven and snapped the earth cords that held and sustained the world. Because of this, heaven tilted toward the northwest, and the sun, moon, and stars run that way; the southeast of the earth was left wanting, and rivers and lakes all flow toward the southeast.

Commentary takes disturbing the natural order and ruining virtue to be like breaking the heaven pillar and severing the earth cords. The sage knows that the Way of heaven reduces what is excessive and fills what is lacking, so the sun, moon, stars, and the flow of rivers can each find their proper place.

Tang asked again: “Do things differ in size, length, and sameness or difference?” Ge replied: “East of the Bohai Sea, at a distance of who knows how many tens of thousands of miles, there is a great ravine…”

The Classic of Mountains and Seas (Shanhai Jing) states that beyond the Eastern Sea there is an enormous deep valley—in effect, a bottomless mountain gorge. The Spiritual Mist of the Odes (Shi Han Shen Wu) likewise says: “Water flows east into the bottomless valley.” Calling it bottomless means depth taken to the extreme; calling it inexhaustible means it cannot be fully measured. If it truly had no bottom, that would be nothing remarkable. This place is named Gui Xu (the legendary great sea basin where the waters of the world gather). Zhuangzi calls it Wei Lu (the “tail outlet,” where the sea discharges). Some versions write Gui Tang instead.

The waters of the eight remote regions and the four quarters of heaven and earth, together with the waters of the Celestial River (the Milky Way), all pour into Gui Xu, yet it neither rises nor falls. Here “eight strings” refers to the eight extremities of the world; “nine fields” refers to the eight directions of heaven plus the center. Popular tradition holds that the Celestial River and the great sea are connected.

Gui Xu is unfathomably deep and can serve as a metaphor for the Dao (the Way) as inexhaustible. Among things extremely small and fine, nothing penetrates crevices more thoroughly than water. All waters flow into Gui Xu without increasing or diminishing it—meaning that nothing is excluded from its embrace.

Within Gui Xu stand five mountains: the first is called Dai Yu, the second Yuan Qiao, the third Fang Hu (some accounts call it Fang Zhang), the fourth Ying Zhou, and the fifth Penglai. Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji) records that the three divine peaks Fang Zhang, Ying Zhou, and Penglai lie in the Bohai Sea.

It is said that people have reached that place before: immortals and the elixir of immortality were both on that mountain. Before one could get there, seen from far off the mountain looked like clouds; when one tried to draw near, it drew back and kept receding, so it could never be reached. The mountain’s folds and ridges ran on and on, with a circumference of thirty thousand li; the level ground on the summit covered nine thousand li. Distances between places in the mountain were seven thousand li, yet people treated them as if they lived next door to one another. Terraces, pavilions, towers, and halls were all built of gold and jade, and the birds and beasts there were pure white throughout.

The commentary discusses variant readings for the word rendered as “zhouxuan” (circulation or turning): some texts have “zhoufan,” others “fanwei.” Ren Dachun and others hold that “fan” may be interchangeable with “fan” in the sense of scope or circumference. The notes also suggest that “upon it” in the received text may be a redundant interpolation; the quotation in the Taiping Yulan omits that repeated phrase. That the birds and beasts are “chun gao” means they are wholly white; “gao” denotes white silk cloth.

Groves of zhugan trees—the treasure trees of immortal realms—grow in clusters; they blossom and bear fruit, and every fruit has its own flavor; eating them grants long life without aging. Wang Chongmin noted that in the passage cited in Taiping Yulan, juan 38, there is no second “jie” (all) under “jie you zi wei” (each has flavor); he held that an extra “jie” appears here. Those who dwell here are beings of the rank of immortals and sages; they fly back and forth in a single day and night, in numbers too great to count.

The commentary says the two mountains are seventy thousand li apart, and the five mountains altogether are two hundred eighty thousand li apart, yet people can come and go by day and night, travelers too numerous to count, swifter even than shifting wind and cloud. The exegesis holds that embodied things are born within the Dao, yet people only add ornament and pleasure, unaware of aging or death; they move without rest, suddenly departing and suddenly arriving, without end to their number.

The Shide Tang edition’s note does not repeat “wanglai” (coming and going). In “bu ke de shu” (cannot be counted), some versions read “bu” as “nai”; the Northern Song edition also has “nai.” Shiwen states that “shu” is read with the fanqie “se zhu qie.”

The roots of the five mountains are not joined to one fixed place. The commentary says these peaks seem to float upon the sea; from this one infers that whatever has form rests in Tai Xu—the vast void—with no fixed foundation. Lu Wenchao pointed out that in the Zang ben commentary there is no “yu” under “fu.” Shiwen writes “zhu” as “zhuo,” read “zhi lüe qie.” The mountains rise and fall with the tide and cannot stay still for an instant. “Shang” is read “shi zhang qie.”

The exegesis takes “wu gen” (five roots) as eye, ear, nose, tongue, and body, likening them to drifting on waves, unable to pause even briefly. This means ordinary people are pulled by sensory desires—sound, color, odor, taste—and cannot stop; they even forget life, treat death lightly, and chase fame and gain.

Some people do not know when to stop, and they do not know how to restrain the heart, return to the root, nourish the spirit, and come home to the Dao.

Commentaries on the pronunciation of the character read as zhi li qie (zhi in the sense of “to stand firm” or “to rely upon”). The immortals and sages were therefore troubled—commentary glosses du as worry and affliction. They reported the matter to the Celestial Emperor (Di).

Here, Di kong (“the Emperor feared”) appears in some recensions as Di nu (“the Emperor was enraged”), but read together with the later phrase Di ping nu, it should be taken as Di kong: the five mountains drifted on the waves without a fixed mooring; that they might float far away was simply how things stood—the Emperor did not actually grow angry. In the scripture, the phrase qun xian sheng (“the host of immortals and sages”) also varies across versions; textual critics hold that the word xian (“immortal”) should be retained. As for xi ji (“the western extreme”), some suspect the reading should be si ji (“the four extremes”), since the following passage says Mount Daiyu and Mount Yuanqiao drifted to the far north—the five mountains would not necessarily drift only toward the west. In quotations from the classics, an extra shang (“upper”) sometimes appears before Di (“Emperor”).

The Heavenly Emperor then commanded Yu Qiang—the Northern deity, also regarded as a sea god—to dispatch fifteen giant turtles, each using its head to lift one mountain. They were divided into three groups taking turns on duty, each group serving for sixty thousand years. From that point on, the five mountains stood firm and no longer drifted.

The "five mountains" mentioned here refer to the legendary fairy mountains floating upon the sea; the giant turtles taking turns to bear them is a myth explaining why these sacred peaks could remain stable. The commentary further states that the human body is the dwelling place of spirit; if the five sense organs (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body) are indulged without restraint and lose their proper governance, then even immortals and sages have no place to abide.

Zhuangzi said: “Once a person receives a physical form, they should hold to it until life ends. Sixty thousand years pass before one cycle alternates. The five mountains then stand firm and no longer shift.”

The physical form is where spirit and divinity dwell. If the five roots—the eye, ear, nose, tongue, and body—scatter in every direction and lose restraint, immortals and sages have nowhere to settle. What Zhuangzi means by “once a person receives a physical form, they should hold to it until life ends” is this: when the five roots drift without anchor, a person follows wandering thoughts all the way to death, and a whole lifetime is wasted in vain—a truly lamentable outcome. For this reason, the great sage established norms and set up teaching to constrain them, so that the five roots become settled.

The five dusts (the objects contacted by the five senses) face the five roots; the five consciousnesses (cognition arising from the senses) arise through contact with the five dusts—hence they are called “the fifteen.” The mind is added to distinguish and judge—hence “the three turns.” “Sixty thousand years before one cycle alternates” refers to this; from this one can understand the method of restraining the five roots.

Various editions differ on the phrase “and no longer shift” in “the five mountains then stand firm and no longer shift”: the Zang edition, Qin edition, and Shide Tang edition lack these characters, but quotations in the Yiwen Leiju and Taiping Yulan include them; collators believe the present text may have dropped them. Regarding the giants of the land of Longbo, the “few steps” in “after walking only a few steps they reached the five mountains” appears in some versions as “several thousand” or “several tens of steps”; collators consider “several tens of steps” likely closer to the original. The giants hooked six ao (legendary great turtles) with a single cast.

The commentary on the text states that “diao” (fishing) appears in one version as “he fu er qu,” with “qu” read as “qu” (to hasten). After returning to his own country, he burned the bones of the giant turtles (ao) for divination. The annotators explain that he calculated the height and girth of Mount Daiyu and Mount Yuanjiao from the turtles that bore them—each peak rested on one giant turtle—and that a single cast of the line brought up six turtles at once.

The annotators add that six turtles carried the two mountains while the people of Longbo carried them off together and drilled and burned their bones for divination. On that reading, the Longbo people would stand more than a million li tall; compared with them, the kun and peng (the legendary great fish and great bird) would be as tiny as mosquitoes, gnats, fleas, and lice. Seen this way, what could the Great Void (Tai Xu)—boundless empty space—not hold?

The exegesis says that “bo” means “chief” or “elder.” When the Longbo people carried off the six ao, they took themselves to be at ease, yet they only displayed brute strength and lost what they ought to have kept. This illustrates how people in the world sink into craving, show off and exaggerate, indulge and chase desire until desire stains them; they even ruin what was originally precious and then use the wreckage to feed desire. Huang Sheng notes that lexicons gloss “ao” as a great turtle; according to this book, however, ao is the turtle (gui), not merely a large soft-shelled turtle (bie). Qin Enfu holds that the commentary from “jingkua” (boasting) onward may have lost text. Wang Shumin points out that in quotations in works such as the Chuxueji and the Caotang shijian, an extra character “yin” appears before “zhuo” (burn). The text commentary also gives readings: “zhuo” is read as “zhuo” (to pour); “shu” as “suoju qie,” meaning to calculate; “zuan” as “xiangguan qie”; “kunpeng” as “kun peng”; “wenrui” as “wen rui”; “zaoshi” as “zao se.”

Thereupon Mount Daiyu and Mount Yuanjiao drifted to the northern extremity, sank into the sea, and the immortals and sages who were displaced numbered in the hundreds of millions.

The commentary holds that what the worldly mind sinks into above all is the pleasure of sound and color; both the gentleman and the petty person are trapped by reputation and gain. Hence the two mountains are said to drift away and sink—the sea standing for the depth of drowning. The human spirit and consciousness turn and wander abroad; such cases are too many to count.

The Celestial Emperor was greatly angered and gradually shrank the territory of Longbo (Dragon Baron) country until it became narrow and cramped; he also gradually shrank the people of Longbo until they grew short. By the time of Fuxi and Shennong, the people of Longbo were still several tens of zhang tall.

The commentary explains that ping means “large”; another text reads feng, a sound close to fen. E and ai are interchangeable and mean “narrow.” For qin, some versions write jin; in this passage both words indicate gradual change that deepens little by little. The Huainanzi, for example, says that things are alike at first but gradually grow farther and farther apart.

The Classic of Mountains and Seas records that beyond the great wilds east of the Eastern Sea there is a land of giants. The Hetu Yuban says that ninety thousand li north of Mount Kunlun lies Longbo country, whose people are four hundred zhang in height and live to eighteen thousand years before they die.

The exegesis holds that sages loathe the harm of craving and desire, and therefore established laws and standards to restrain it. As the sages’ teaching spread, the people of Longbo gradually grew smaller. Even so, when Shennong ruled the world they were still several tens of zhang tall. Human craving cannot be wiped out entirely—it can only be reduced step by step. Wang Chongmin also notes that in the Taiping Yulan citation, after you (“still”) there is an additional character chang (“long/tall”).

The collators note that the Shiwen (Exegetical Commentary) writes “you guo ren” (there are people of the country) where the received text has “qi guo ren” (the people of that country), writes “shu qian zhang” (several thousand zhang) where the text has “shu shi zhang” (several tens of zhang), and records that one manuscript reads “several tens of zhang.” Another quotation adds the character “chang” (long) after “you” (still/as before).

The original passage states that from Zhongzhou (the central region), one reaches the land of Jiao Yao after forty thousand li to the east. Wang Chongmin holds that “dong” (east) is a scribal error for “xi” (west). Classical sources disagree on where Jiao Yao lies: the Huainanzi, “Zhui Xing” chapter, places it in the southwest; the commentary on the Lu Yu treats Jiao Yao as another name for southwestern barbarians; the Taiping Yulan citing the Waiguo Tu says Jiao Yao is thirty thousand li from Jiuyi, which suggests the south; the Kuodi Zhi places it north of Daqin (Great Qin), and since Daqin is in the southwest, that too points westward. Taken together, Jiao Yao was roughly in the southwest. Some old books say west or south, but none say east—so “dong” is likely wrong.

This passage catalogues marvels of the four directions: in southern Jing there is the Mingling tree; in northern Shuobei there is the Kun Peng; in the northeast there are the Zhengren; in the west there is Jiao Yao. If Jiao Yao were placed in the east, it would overlap with the northeast position of the Zhengren, which also supports correcting “dong.”

In Taiping Yulan, juan 378 and juan 790, the cited text writes the “si” of “si shi wan li” (forty thousand li) as “san” (three). On that basis the collators infer the original may have read “from Zhongzhou thirty thousand li to the west one reaches the land of Jiao Yao”; later “xi” was miscopied as “si” (four), “dong” was added by error, and “san” (three) was dropped.

The Shiwen says “Jiao Yao” is read “qiao yao” and is the name of a land of dwarfs. The Shiji records that the Jiao Yao clan were three chi tall—people of extremely short stature.

Born in the morning and dead by evening. In some older versions, one character in the phrase is written as another homophone meaning “earth.” The Shiwen gloss notes a reading for jun (the “mushroom” word) with the yin initial. Cui Zhuan took it to mean lingzhi (spirit fungus) growing on manure—sprouting at dawn and gone by dusk; Jian Wen said it was lingzhi that appears suddenly.

Another interpretation: born in the morning, dead at twilight. In spring and summer, the clear sky holds swarms of tiny flying insects (meng and rui in the commentaries). The Yunji Qiqian has “in the midst of a clear sky”; the Taiping Yulan and related works write the insect name as miemeng. The Shiwen gives meng with the mo-kong reading and rui with the rui reading—here meaning midges, gnats, and similar small flies. They arise after rain and perish when the sun appears.

[Commentary] Whenever people sink into cravings and desires, they lose their original nature. Seen that way, what difference is there between a large body and a small one, a long life and a short one? From the highest immortals down to the lowliest ants, whoever loses true nature, turns from the Dao, and lets emotion and desire run free ends up losing the same thing in the end.

In “north of Zhongbei,” Zhongbei is the name of a land. A later passage says that when Yu the Great was controlling the floods he lost his way and entered a country on the northern edge of the North Sea called Zhongbei; thus “north of Zhongbei” means the region beyond that country to the north. The Zhuangzi has qionfa (“bald/bare region”) in a parallel line, with a sense akin to Zhongbei; some editions insert an extra fa between the two syllables of Zhongbei, added by later editors following the Zhuangzi. Yu Yue argued that this insert should be removed, because this text speaks of “north of Zhongbei,” whereas the Zhuangzi speaks of “north of qionfa”—the wording is not identical.

To the north lies a vast sea called Minghai (the Dark Sea). According to the Record of the Ten Islands (Shizhou ji), a sea whose water is deep black is called Minghai; it is also the Heavenly Pool (Tianchi). In that sea lives a fish several thousand li across, with length matching width, named Kun—the legendary giant fish; some commentators identify it as a whale.

On the sea there is also a bird named Peng—the legendary great bird. When it spreads its wings, they seem like clouds hanging from the edge of heaven; its body is equally huge, length and width in proportion.

Zhuangzi says Kun transforms into Peng. How could ordinary people know such beings exist? People trust only what they see and hear often; even if told, they might not believe. Yu the Great saw it with his own eyes, Boyi knew its name, and Yijian heard of it and wrote it down. Strange reports often invite doubt—but were Yu the Great, Boyi, and Yijian simply inventing marvels to frighten the world? These accounts show that such creatures really exist and warn those who cling stubbornly to the familiar not to let what they see and hear stay closed off. Yijian, too, was an ancient figure of wide learning and many reports.

Along the Jiang Pu region grows an extremely tiny insect. Commentaries explain that “me” (the character for “tiny”) means minute or fine.

Wang Simian notes that in the quotation in juan 26 of the Erya Yi, the character for “born” or “there is” is written as you (“there is”), while Shiwen Leiju Houji, juan 49, quotes the line as “on the sea there are insects.” The received text reads sheng (“born”/“arise”), which may be a scribal error. Me is read mi; lexicons gloss it as “minute” or “tiny.” These insects are called jiaomeng; meng is read ming. They fly in swarms, alight on the eyelashes of mosquitoes, never bump one another, come and go as they rest, and the mosquitoes are entirely unaware.

Lichu and Ziyu, rubbing their eyes and raising their brows to look carefully by day, still cannot see the form of the jiaomeng; Shi Kuang and others with keen hearing, bending ear and head to listen at night, cannot hear their sound. The commentary explains that Lichu was a man of the age of the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) whose eyesight was so sharp that at a hundred paces he could make out the tip of a newly grown hair on an autumn bird or beast; nothing is recorded about Ziyu. □ Yu’s deeds are also unrecorded; Shi Kuang was a minister of Duke Ping of Jin in the Spring and Autumn period. Xia Ge lived earlier than Shi Kuang, so he could not have mentioned Shi Kuang; later writers who recounted this episode probably added that material.

Those who rely on mind and on eyes and ears to look and listen still cannot detect things of the utmost minuteness. Only the Yellow Emperor and Rongchengzi (a legendary immortal of antiquity), dwelling on Kongtong Mountain, kept purification fasts for three months and reached a state of xin si xing fei—the heart like dead ashes and the body as if discarded wood. The commentary further notes that older texts write Kongtong as “Kongtong” with the tree radical; the passage as quoted in the Yiwen Leiju and in Zhuangzi, “In the World,” names Rongchengzi as Guangchengzi.

He first slowly used his mind-spirit to look. What is meant here by “spirit vision” (shen shi) is letting the mind-spirit grow quiet and naturally mirror things, without relying on the eyes. Before him appeared an undifferentiated, vast image, as grand as a mountain hollow on Mount Song.

He then slowly used qi to listen. What is meant here by “qi listening” is feeling sound in accord with nature, without leaning on outward means. In the ears there suddenly roared a sound, like thunder.

Whenever form and sound meet obstruction, heaped earth can become a mountain, and gathered gnats can sound like thunder; therefore when a vast undifferentiated image appears before the eyes and a roaring sound is heard in the ears, there is no cause for alarm.

In the Wu and Chu regions there is a large tree called the you. Its leaves are green, it does not shed them in winter, its fruit is red and sour. The commentary also cites works such as the Classic of Mountains and Seas, the Central Mountains Classic, and others: the you resembles the orange, but its fruit is larger and its peel thicker; the tree bears thorns and stays evergreen through winter.

The leaves of this tree stay a vivid green and do not fall in winter, which is why the Liezi speaks of “emerald trees that stay green in winter” (bi shu er dong qing). In this passage the character qing (“green”) was probably damaged in transmission, misread as zhu (“lord” or “master”), and then further corrupted to sheng (“to live” or “to be born”). Qimin Yaoshu (Essential Techniques for the Peasantry), juan 10, quotes the line as “emerald trees green in winter, sheng”—an extra sheng, but qing is correct there. Yiwen Leiju, juan 87, and Taiping Yulan, juan 973, both read simply “green in winter” (dong qing), which supports the same reading. “Emerald trees green in winter” is meant to parallel “precious elixir with a sour taste” (bao dan wei suan); if the line read sheng, the two phrases would no longer balance. Wang Shumin notes that Jizuan Yuanhai, juan 92, also has qing.

Eating the bark and sap of this tree is said to cure disorders of reversed or obstructed breath (qi ni). Xu Weiyong cites Gao You’s commentary on the “Utmost Loyalty” chapter of the Lüshi Chunqiu: yi means “to cure” (yu). Wang Shumin takes jue as a loan for jue (the graph for reversed-breath disorder in the source tradition). The Shuowen Jiezi defines that term as breath that runs counter or is disordered. Fen is read fang wen qie; “the ailment of fen jue” is the sickness of reversed qi.

In Qi Province this tree was treated as a prized local product; moved north of the Huai River, it was said to turn into trifoliate orange (zhi). The note quotes the Zhouli: when the orange crosses the Huai northward, it becomes zhi. The hill myna (quyu) was not supposed to cross the Ji River; the raccoon dog (mo, a badger-like animal known for long sleep) was said to die if it crossed the Wen. The gloss gives Ji as zi li qie, quyu as quyu, mo as he, and Wen as wu jin qie.

Li Daoyuan’s Commentary on the Water Classic states: The Ji River rises on Mount Wangwu; at first it was called the Dui River, and after flowing east past Wen County it was called the Ji River. Farther on it enters the Yellow River; about ten-odd li later it cuts south through the Yellow River again, forming the Ying Marsh, then passes through nine commanderies including Jiyin before reaching the sea.

The Rites of Zhou records: “The myna does not cross the Ji River; the raccoon dog dies if it crosses the Wen River.” This is because water, soil, and climate differ from place to place. Zheng Xuan says the Wen River is north of the capital of Lu. Earlier scholars followed this and identified the Wen here with the Wen of Lu—a serious mistake.

According to the Records of the Grand Historian, the “Wen” here is homophonous with “Min” and is read jin, referring to the Min River (Min Jiang), not the Wen of Lu read wen. The Classic of Mountains and Seas says the Great River rises on Mount Wen. Guo Pu comments that the river flows southeast through Shu commandery and northeast through Badong and Jiangxia, finally reaching the sea at Guangling. The Outer Commentary on the Han Poetry says that in antiquity the Yangtze rose on Mount Wen and at first was so small that only a wine cup could float on it—again the same matter. The Songs of Chu also says: “Dwelling hidden beside the clear waters of the Wen River.” These accounts suffice to show that Mount Wen and the Min River are meant.

Both the Liezi and the Rites of Zhou discuss how the nature of water and soil varies; when people move to unsuitable regions they are harmed, so the four great rivers are cited to illustrate the point. The Wen of Lu today is nowhere more than several tens of paces wide, with a source of only about two hundred li. One can wade or cross wearing clothes and return in a moment. Foxes and raccoon dogs merely cross such water for a short time—how could life and death be instantly divided? The Etymological Dictionary says the raccoon dog (mo) is a kind of fox. Both live in hills and dry country. People along the Yangtze today say “the fox does not cross the river,” showing that crossing great water injures their native habits and can even cause death. This is exactly what differing water and soil bring about.

[Note] The rationale of this matter appears in the Offices of Zhou (i.e., the Rites of Zhou). In one Qin-period text it reads “it is the local qi that makes it so.”

Yet though bodily form and vital qi differ, disposition and nature are the same. The Commentary says one version reads “disposition and nature are already equal,” and adding the character for “disposition” (qing) forms a parallel with the preceding “bodily form and qi differ.” The Commentary also says the sentence should break after yi (“already”). Another reading is “disposition and nature are already equal,” meaning disposition and nature are the same; “there is no mutual exchange,” meaning they cannot replace one another; each life is complete in itself, each allotment fully endowed.

The commentary holds that a pause should be placed before the word yi (already). Another version reads: “Emotional natures are all alike; no one wishes to swap with another; each person’s life is complete, and each person’s allotted portion (binfen: endowment and limit) is sufficient.” The commentary notes that fen (portion) is read fu wen qie.

By what do I discern things’ largeness and smallness? By what do I discern their length and shortness? And by what do I discern their sameness and difference?

The annotation says: The myriad things of the world differ in form and in disposition, yet each rests in what suits it. So long as each follows its own nature without clinging to one fixed obsession, all are equally whole and sufficient, and none envies another or wishes to exchange places. Can human wisdom really sort out these differences?

The exegesis adds: Whether through yin-yang generation, each land yielding what fits it, or through shen (spirit) and qi (vital energy) meeting and habit reshaping things, the pattern is the same—what need is there to force distinctions?

The Taihang and Wangwu Mountains were each about seven hundred li around and ten thousand ren high. They originally stood south of Jizhou and on the north bank of the Yellow River. A man of Beishan named Yugong (“Foolish Old Man”) was nearly ninety and lived at the foot of the mountains. Troubled that the northern side was blocked and that every trip in or out required a long detour, he called the family together and said, “Let us all do our utmost to level these steep ridges so the road runs straight to the south of Yuzhou and on to the south bank of the Han River—will you?” Everyone agreed.

His wife raised a doubt: “With your strength, you cannot even shift a hill like Kuifu—how could you move the Taihang and Wangwu?”

Taihang and Wangwu are names of mountains. In the text, “Yugong” is what this old man is called; commentators note that people call him foolish, which does not necessarily mean he truly lacks wisdom. “Xian yi” means to raise a doubt or express difficulty.

Kuifu (also written as Kuifu in another form) is the name of a small hill—literally a mound like a heap of earth. What could great ranges such as the Taihang and Wangwu mountains do against such resolve? And where could all that earth and stone finally be put?

The Miscellaneous Chapters say: “They cast the earth and stone to the edge of the Bohai Sea and to the north of Yintu.” According to the Huainanzi, Yintu is a place in the northeast.

So the Foolish Old Man led three descendants who could carry loads on shoulder poles; together they broke rock and dug earth, and used baskets and shovels (the kind of basket used to hold and haul soil) to carry the earth and stone to the shore of the Bohai. A widow of the Jingcheng clan who lived nearby had a boy who had just lost his baby teeth; he too skipped and hopped over to help. “Skipped over” here means the boy went on his own initiative, without being told.

They all joined in breaking rock and moving earth.

With each turn of summer and winter, they could make only one round trip. Zhi Sou of Hequ smiled and tried to stop Yu Gong, saying, “You are far from wise! With the years and strength you have left, you cannot even shift a blade of grass or a tree on the mountain—what can you do with earth and stone?”

Yu Gong of the northern mountains drew a long breath and said, “Your mind is too stubborn—so stubborn it cannot be opened. You are not even the equal of a widow and her little child. Though I die, sons remain; sons beget grandsons, grandsons beget sons, and sons again have sons and grandsons. Generation after generation without end, while the mountain gains no height—why worry that it cannot be leveled?”

Zhi Sou of Hequ had nothing to reply; his argument failed and his heart yielded. The mountain spirit who held a serpent in his hand heard of this and feared that Yu Gong would dig on without cease until the mountains were indeed leveled.

The world knows that gathering little by little can build something great, yet does not see that whittling away bit by bit can also make much become little.

A nine-story terrace begins with heaping up earth; a lofty cliff, over time, can likewise sink into a deep ravine. As long as one keeps at the work without stopping, and does not fuss over whether success comes sooner or later, then even the smallest thing will keep accumulating, and even the largest will gradually diminish. Today, when whetstone and blade grind against each other, everyone knows the blade will eventually be worn away. The same holds for the two cases above: the waxing and waning of hills and gullies leaves nothing to doubt. If one is baffled because things differ in size or in the pace of change, one has not yet learned to reason by analogy from one case to another.

The scripture says that Yugong reported his sincere resolve to the Emperor of Heaven. Moved by Yugong’s utmost sincerity, the Emperor commanded the two sons of Kuai’eshi—the legendary figures endowed with divine strength—to carry away the two mountains: one was set east of Shuofang, the other south of Yong Province. From then on, between the southern part of Ji Province and the south bank of the Han River, no hill ever again blocked the road.

The commentary says that those who expect results quickly will sigh when the year ends without success; those who demand benefit within their own lifetime will grieve for a long time if the outcome appears only after they are gone. That is the narrow habit of worldly people, clinging to gain and loss within a single lifespan. As for the person of great attainment, they treat heaven and earth as one morning and hundreds of millions of years as a single blink. They set aside fixed opinions and act, without deliberately chasing merit. Whether the deed is done by oneself or by another, whether the effect falls on oneself or on someone else, they see no essential difference and do not haggle over who comes first or last. Thus the old man of North Mountain, his widowed neighbor, and her young orphan were enough to mock the “wise” old man of River Bend for thinking himself clever, and enough to expose the confusion of ordinary people. How can those who drift through life day after day fail to look into this carefully?

Kuafu took himself to be capable, yet he never measured his own strength. Some call him a divine being, others a divine beast; old accounts also say he grasped two yellow serpents and chased the sun’s shadow, following it to Yuyuan—the place where the sun is said to sink.

His thirst was extreme. He drank from the Yellow River and the Wei River but still could not slake it, and planned to go north to the Great Marsh for water. Before he arrived, he died of thirst on the road. The staff he left behind was nourished by his body and grew into the Deng Forest—the woods said to have sprung from Kuafu’s staff—stretching for thousands of li.

Liezi uses this tale to show that those who single-mindedly turn toward the Dao and seek the Great Dao can let go of clinging to outward form and thus merge with what is truly real. To trust one’s own powers and insist on winning is like chasing the sun’s shadow: one never catches it. Merging with the Dao, the bodily form ceases to be a drag; chasing appearances alone can cost one’s life and leave only what can be seen. The Deng Forest stands for what remains when one pursues traces; merging with the Dao is like mounds and hillocks sinking back to level ground.

Great Yu said: “Within the four quarters of heaven and earth and the inner reaches of the four seas, everything is lit by sun and moon; stars mark out positions, the four seasons divide the year, and Tai Sui—the ancient marker used to reckon years, tied to the motion of Jupiter—oversees the whole. The myriad beings born through numinous power take countless shapes; some live briefly, some long. Only the sage can grasp the principle behind this.”

The annotation says: The sage follows the way of heaven and earth and each thing’s inborn nature, letting each suit itself. He also understands what runs with or against the grain in how things move, so the many kinds of beings each find their place, and lives short or long fulfill their allotted span.

Xia Ge said: “Even so, there are also beings that do not depend on numinous power to be born, on yin and yang turning into form, or on sun and moon to shine clear. Growing, taking shape, and appearing—all of this is simply natural: it is suddenly so, and from the start needs nothing outside itself. They are not cut short by killing or disaster, nor do they lengthen life through welcome and nurture. Without eating the five grains they endure; without silk or padded cloth they live; without boats or carts they go. Their course is wholly from nature itself. The sage cannot fathom this principle.”

The annotation says: The sage does not oppose nature, and the myriad things move on their own—why would he strain to know every one? The commentary explains that visible, active things each have a fitting way to live; the sage can align with their life-patterns and let each keep its path. But the subtle, numinous mind does not lean on externals or feed on the myriad things; it moves alone with nature—perhaps that is what the sage cannot fully know.

When Yu the Great was regulating the waters and managing the land, he once lost his way and took a wrong turn, straying into a certain country. Commentators explain that the story moves into a realm far from the human world, beyond what ordinary people can imagine, so “losing one’s way and going astray” is used to express that shift.

This country lies north of the Northern Sea, at a distance from Jizhou—the legendary region where humans dwell—of tens of millions of li. It is called Zhongbei, meaning a place that is deep, remote, and still, aligned with wuwei (non-action). There are no clearly knowable borders, and no wind, rain, frost, or dew; nor are there birds, beasts, insects, fish, or plants. The land is flat on every side, ringed by towering mountains.

At the center of the country stands a mountain called Huling, shaped like a earthenware vessel: at the top is a round, ring-like opening called the Zixue (Nurturing Cavern). From this opening flows a spring called the Shenfen (Divine Spring). Commentators note that a spring gushing from a mountaintop is termed a “fen.”

Guo Pu said that east of the River, at Fenyin, there is a spring called “Fen.” The mouth of the spring is about as wide as a cart wheel; the water wells up and gushes forth, and the depth cannot be seen. Its fragrance is stronger than orchid and Sichuan pepper; its taste surpasses fine wine and sweet broth. Here mountains are likened to the heart and water to the exercise of wisdom: wisdom seems to well up from the spirit. The spring divides from one source into four streams, flows to the foot of the mountain, and irrigates the whole realm—there is nowhere it does not reach. This describes wisdom penetrating the four limbs and spreading through the whole body, so that every part can respond and function flexibly.

Local soil and water are in harmony; there are no epidemics or illness. Human nature is gentle and follows outer things without striving or competing; the heart is soft and the bones pliant—neither arrogant nor envious. Young and old meet as equals, without distinction of ruler and subject; men and women associate freely, without go-betweens or betrothal rites. People live along the water without plowing or weaving for clothing. The climate is warm and suitable; people live to a hundred before they die—neither dying young nor falling ill.

The population is so vast it cannot be counted; people are joyful and free of aging, sorrow, and pain. Every part and orifice of the body can respond to events and act with ease; they neither contend nor boast, hold Yin-Yang within, and follow change to function naturally.

The Dao practiced there is extremely gentle. People need neither clothing nor food to sustain life; aging cannot overtake them, and the limits of lifespan do not bind them. Those of superior capacity who diligently cultivate can reach that realm.

Yu Yue said that the two syllables zifu (proliferation and flourishing) probably belong before “joy and peace.” The original may read: “The people there are beyond counting; they have a life of proliferation, flourishing, joy, and tranquility, without aging, sorrow, or suffering.” On that reading, “aging” pairs with zifu, and “sorrow and suffering” pair with “joy and peace.”

Custom there favors sound. The phonetic gloss in Guo Xiang’s commentary reads hao as hu bao qie. People join hands and sing in turn; die is read zhi, and yao as yao. They sing without stopping all day long. When tired, they drink from the shen fen (miraculous spring); body and mind return to ease and harmony. Drinking too much makes them drunk, and they wake only after ten days. Bathing in the shen fen leaves the skin moist and lustrous; the fragrance lingers for ten days before it fades.

[Commentary] Humans live by breath (qi), hence they are said to love sound; inhalation and exhalation never cease, hence the singing never stops. When drinking the shen fen, the mind is free of stray thoughts, so the state is called “drunk.” When thought stirs again and they bathe once more in the shen fen, the skin becomes moist and fragrant.

King Mu of Zhou traveled north, passed through this realm, and stayed three years, forgetting to return home. After he came back to the Zhou court, he still longed for that place, his spirit unsettled, as if he had lost something. Guo Xiang’s phonetic gloss reads the character (for distracted, unsettled state) as chang liang qie. The king stopped wine and meat and stopped summoning his consorts; only after several months did he return to normal.

[Commentary] King Mu did indeed reach that realm but could not remain there forever, so the text says he later returned to his usual way of life. Yang Bojun holds that since the earlier passage says Mu “had already returned to the Zhou court,” “stopped wine and meat” must refer to after his return; nai fu (“then again”) means that after several months he resumed his former habits—wine, meat, and receiving his consorts. That reading of [Commentary] does not fully cohere with the text.

Guan Zhong urged Duke Huan of Qi to seize the occasion and visit Liaokou; the two set out together toward that realm and came close to succeeding. [Commentary] takes it that Guan Zhong could persuade Duke Huan to go, hence “visit Liaokou”; they wished to go but did not arrive, hence “almost succeeded in setting out.”

The commentary explains that “ji” is read as “ju ji qie,” and “xi” as “xi.” Yin Peng remonstrated with Duke Huan of Qi, saying: “You would abandon Qi’s vast territory, its large population, its magnificent mountains and rivers, its abundant products, its complete ritual and propriety, and its splendid attire. The palace holds many beautiful women; the court is full of loyal ministers and worthy men. At one shout you can mobilize a million soldiers; with a lift of the hand you command, and the feudal lords obey. Why envy that other state, forsake the altars of Qi, and follow a land of the Rong and Yi barbarians? This is Zhongfu (the honorific for Guan Zhong) grown old and confused—how can you heed him?”

The notes say “si” may should read “chi,” meaning to rebuke or shout down; “shi hui” may should read “zhi hui,” meaning to command with the hand. “Zha” is read as “zhi jia qie”; “zu” as “zi hu qie.” The explanation holds that what people of the world value are a numerous populace, complete ritual and propriety, splendid dress, and the pleasures of sound and color—these match what they desire in a life of honor.

Duke Huan then gave up the idea of going and told Yin Peng’s words to Guan Zhong. Guan Zhong said: “This was never something Yin Peng could understand. What your servant fears is that the situation in that country cannot be known.”

Commentators take Yin Peng’s insight as stopping at Qi; he did not know how vast that country was, hence Guan Zhong’s astonishment. Yu Yue also notes that “bu ke zhi” can mean “cannot be reached, cannot be gone to.” He cites annotations in the Lüshi Chunqiu to show that “zhi” sometimes means “to obtain”; in what follows, whatever Boya has in mind, Zhong Ziqi will surely “de” it—where “de” likewise carries the sense of understanding or knowing.

The meanings of zhi (to know) and de (to obtain) are close. Wang Chongmin points out that in the passage quoted in Taiping yulan, juan 490, zhi is written as sheng (to ascend), which is close in sense to Zhang Zhan’s gloss. The Shiwen notes that kong (fear; perhaps) is read with falling tone.

“What is there to cling to in Qi’s wealth? What is there to worry about in Xi Peng’s view?” Zhang Zhan glosses: the state simply could not be reached in the first place—would one fail to go only because of Xi Peng’s words?

The exegesis holds that Xi Peng’s understanding had not yet reached this level. Guan Zhong (Guan Yiwu) said that, as he had heard it, he only feared the place might not be as rumor made it out to be, hence “probably one cannot truly know.” If rumor were indeed reliable and going there one could truly arrive, then what worldly sounds, colors, pleasures, and riches would be worth clinging to? What concern would there be for names of ritual propriety, loyalty, and worthiness?

People in the south cut their hair short and went about with much of the body exposed; people in the north wrapped their heads in cloth and wore fur garments; people in the Central Plains wore caps and full dress. Across the Nine Provinces, the livelihoods people relied on differed: some farmed, some traded, some hunted, some fished. People also dressed by season—fur in winter, hemp or light cloth in summer—and traveled according to the land: by boat on water, by cart on dry ground. Such skills and customs were often picked up without anyone having to teach them in words; they took shape naturally, in step with one’s inborn tendencies and the surrounding environment.

That is because the way of life each region needed fit local conditions, so people learned it as a matter of course. Boats suited Wu and Yue; horses suited Yan and the northern frontier—each practice arose from adapting to water or land, not from studying under sages or wise men. Shen Dao said: “Those who manage water build dikes and clear blockages; even in remote, foreign places, the approach is much the same. Those methods are learned from the nature of water itself—they are not copied from Yu the Great.”

East of the Yue region there was a country whose name appears in ancient books in several spellings, one of which is “Zhemu.”