《列子集释》Vol. 7

In Bowuzhi (Records of Investigation into Things), the text reads “hai mu.” Shiwen (Exegetical Notes) writes “mu” as “xiu” and explains: “zhe” is written as “yi” in Shuowen Jiezi, read with the fanqie zhu she qie, meaning ears that hang down; “xiu” has the sense of “fine” or “beautiful,” probably referring to people like the Dan’er (long-eared folk). Various editions write “□ mu,” which is wrong.

“Their eldest son is born, and they cut the child open and eat him.” Lu Wenchao holds that “xian” here should be glossed as “to cut open.” Mozi, “Lu Wen” chapter, likewise has “xian er shi zhi” (cut open and eat), matching Liezi; but Mozi, “Jie Zang” chapter, has “jie er shi zhi” (dissect and eat), showing that “xian” and “jie” mean the same here. Liji, “Yueling” (Monthly Ordinance), says that if in the last month of summer one carries out spring ordinances, then grain “xian luo” (fails to ripen / drops unripe); the corresponding passage in Lüshi Chunqiu has “jie luo,” which also supports this.

Another interpretation holds that “xian” and “xi” are close in sound and can be used interchangeably, so “xizhi” is also written “xianzhi”; Mozi likewise writes “xian.” Wang Zhong argues that “xian” is “xi,” through sound change and mutual substitution. Zhong Fu also maintains that “xian” should be glossed as “xi.” Lüshi Chunqiu, “Bao Geng” chapter, records that Zhao Meng saw a hungry man under a mulberry tree, gave him a strip of dried meat, and said: “Take it and eat.” Here “xian er shi zhi” means the same as “si shi zhi” (take it and eat); “si” and “xian” are also the same in old pronunciation and old meaning.

Wang Chongmin, however, holds that “xian” does not mean “to cut open”; Lu Wenchao’s view is incorrect. Here “xian” is probably a scribal error for “jie.” In vulgar script “jie” is sometimes written with the “sheep” radical; characters with “fish” are easily miscopied as “horn” (jiao). There are similar graphic confusions in ancient books—for example, characters in Shiji, “Biography of Jia Yi,” and on the stele of Jing Jun, Chancellor of Beihai in Han times, were wrongly written because the forms resembled each other.

The collators discuss variant readings of the characters xian and jie in ancient books. In different classics and editions the two forms are sometimes confused or substituted for one another, so some hold that xian in the Liezi is also a corrupt reading and should be emended to jie, claiming that only then does the sense come clear. Bo Jun argues that this emendation is unwarranted: xian as written already makes good sense and need not be changed.

The commentary further explains that xian can mean “few” or dying without having lived to a full span. Du Yu, glossing xian in the Zuozhuan, says that death that is not dying at the natural end of life is xian; Kong Yingda adds that xian carries the sense of “few” or “little.”

The passage then treats Yidi: after his grandfather died, he carried his grandmother on his back and cast her away, saying that a ghost’s wife cannot live together with him. The phrase “cannot live together in the same place” may also be written without yu (“with”); in old texts yi sometimes stands for yu, so here yi means “with, together with.”

In “deng jia” (ascending in borrowed form), jia is cognate with xia (cloud-rosy mist). Huainanzi, “Qi Su Xun,” pairs “sheng jia” with “cheng yun” (riding the clouds), which shows that “sheng jia” is the same as “deng xia” (ascending the rosy clouds). Chuci, “Yuan You,” has “zai ying po er deng xia” (bearing the soul and ascending the rosy clouds), using the character xia directly.

(Note) This episode is also recorded in Mozi.

(Explanation) What everyone takes to be right is treated as fitting (heyi); what everyone is accustomed to is taken as the norm. What is most fitting and most ordinary, people often no longer examine closely. Yet custom takes shape by following the crowd—how then can people know whether it accords with the highest principle?

(Bo Jun’s comment) This passage in Liezi matches Bowuzhi (Records of Investigation into Things). The Bowuzhi that survives is not Zhang Hua’s original work; but Liezi was likely forged between the late Western Jin and early Eastern Jin, so it may well have had access to Zhang Hua’s original and copied material from it.

Confucius traveled east and came upon two children arguing. He asked what they were disputing. One child said, “I think the sun is nearer to us when it first rises and farther away at noon.” The other child held the opposite view: when the sun first rises it is farther away, and at noon it is nearer.

The first child said, “When the sun first rises it looks as large as a chariot canopy; by noon it is only the size of a bowl or dish. Doesn’t that show that distant things look small and nearby things look large?”

The other child said, “When the sun first rises the air feels cool…”

Ren Dachun observed that both the Shuowen and the Guangya gloss cang (written with the water radical, often rendered “cold” or “chill”) as “cold.” When Huan Tan’s Xinlun recounts the same matter, it uses the graph chuang (with the heart radical) in the compound chuang liang (“chill and cold”). In the “Correct Naming” chapter of the Xunzi, the phrase ji yang cang re appears—Yang Liang glosses cang as “cold.” So the character that means “cold” in such contexts should be written cang (with the ice radical). Huan Tan’s chuang liang in the Xinlun should likewise be understood as using chuang as a loan graph for cang.

The Liezi has chuang chuang xu xu. Given what xu xu means, chuang chuang ought to read cang cang (both ice-radical “cold”). The received Yizhou shu, “Taizi Jin jie,” has “between Heaven and Earth there is cang cold and heat”; Kong Chao notes, “cang: cold”—again the ice-radical form, matching the current Liezi. Only the Shiwen’s citation of the Yizhou shu gives chuang for “heat” (chuang re). Perhaps the old text Jingshun saw had chuang rather than cang. Writing cang cang as chuang chuang is a case of borrowing one character for another.

Bo Jun adds: the Shuowen’s ice section defines cang as “cold,” and its water section defines cang (water radical) the same way. The two graphs share pronunciation and sense and may originally have been one character; hence the Jiyun: “cang, cold; also written with the water radical.” Zhu Junsheng’s claim that the water-radical cang was primarily a river name seems overly rigid.

“By midday it is like reaching a hand into hot water”—does this not mean that what is near the sun is hot and what is far from it is cold?

Wang Chongmin argued that the word “sun” (ri) in the line is redundant: the passage already speaks of the sun, and adding ri makes the wording repetitive. The Yiwen leiju, Chuxue ji, and Taiping yulan quote the sentence without ri, which supports the emendation. Wang Shumin noted that the Fayuan zhulin, Shilei fu, Taiping yulan, and Yunfu qunyu likewise omit ri, while the Yilin and the former collection of the Jinxiu wanhua gu omit qi (“its”) instead.

This passage discusses whether the sun is closer to people at noon or in the morning and evening. Legend has it that Confucius once met two people arguing over this, each offering reasons. One held that the sun at noon is nearer, because it feels hotter at noon than in the morning or evening; the other held that the sun in the morning and evening is nearer, because it looks larger then than at noon. Confucius could not tell who was right.

From the standpoint of modern science, neither reason shows that the sun is actually at different distances. The sun’s looking larger in the morning and evening is an optical illusion; it usually feels hotter at noon because sunlight strikes more directly and travels a shorter path through the atmosphere, so less heat is absorbed along the way.

To go further and ask whether the sun is at different distances from us at different times of day, we first need to see how the observer’s location and Earth’s motion affect what we observe. Earth is a sphere and spins constantly. If Earth only rotated, with no other motion, and its axis were perpendicular to the line between Earth and the sun, then for someone on the equator the sun at noon would always be closer than in the morning or evening, by about Earth’s radius—roughly 6,400 kilometers. Observers need not be on the equator, so latitude also changes what they see.

The higher the latitude—that is, the farther from the equator—the smaller the difference in distance between the sun at noon and the sun in the morning and evening.

Earth not only rotates on its axis but also revolves around the sun. The angle between Earth’s rotation axis and the perpendicular to the plane of its orbit is about 23.5°. The direction in which the axis points changes very slowly, so over the course of a year the sun’s height in the sky at noon keeps changing. Earth’s path around the sun is an ellipse, so the distance between Earth’s center and the sun’s center changes from day to day.

The times of sunrise and sunset also shift day by day with the seasons, and on the same calendar day they differ with latitude. Because the direction of Earth’s rotation axis changes slowly and because the gravity of the planets affects Earth’s orbit, the date when Earth is closest to the sun is not fixed. At present, the two are nearest on January 2; every thousand years after that, this date moves back by about seventeen and a half days.

Taking all these factors together, one can work out formulas to compute how much farther or nearer the sun at noon is from the observer compared with the sun at sunrise and sunset; the required figures can be found in an astronomical almanac. The results show that, for latitude 40° north (for example Beijing), between January 22 and June 5 each year (under current conditions), the sun at noon is farther from the observer than the sun at sunrise. In early February the difference is about 1,000 kilometers; in early March about 4,000 kilometers; in early April it is largest, about 6,400 kilometers; then it gradually decreases until it reaches zero.

After June 5, the sun at noon is closer than at sunrise. By early July it is closer by about 5,800 kilometers; by mid-September, by about 16,000 kilometers. After that, the difference in distance gradually shrinks until it reaches zero on January 22 of the following year. The change in how far the noon sun is from the sun at sunset is quite different: from August 1 to December 15, the sun at noon is farther than at sunset; for the remaining roughly seven and a half months, the sun at noon is closer, by about 17,000 kilometers in mid-April.

Except within the Arctic and Antarctic Circles, other regions can divide the year into four periods:

• First period: December 15 to January 22, 38 days in all. The sun at noon is closer than both in the morning and in the evening.
• Second period: 134 days in all. The sun at noon is farther than in the morning and closer than in the evening.
• Third period: June 5 to August 1, 57 days in all. Again the sun at noon is closer than both in the morning and in the evening.
• Fourth period: 136 days in all. The sun at noon is closer than in the morning and farther than in the evening.

At the boundaries between the four periods, the distance of the sun at noon matches that at sunrise or at sunset: on January 22 and June 15, noon matches sunrise; on August 1 and December 15, noon matches sunset. The boundary dates shift with latitude: the higher the latitude, the longer the first and third periods and the shorter the second and fourth. The pattern in the Southern Hemisphere is broadly the same as in the Northern Hemisphere.

Only in the region at 40° south latitude is the length of the first period (54 days) greater than that of the third (41 days)—the opposite of what holds at 40° north. The calculations above are based on the year 1954. Because the sixth factor has very little effect over short spans of time, these results will remain valid for roughly the next hundred years. From this it is clear that only explaining all phenomena by scientific means is correct.

Consider next the account in the “Shuo Ri” (Discourse on the Sun) chapter of Lunheng: “Among the Ru scholars, some hold that at sunrise and sunset the sun is near us, and at noon far away; they think so because the sun looks large when it rises and sets and small at midday. Others hold that at sunrise and sunset the sun is far, and at noon near; they think so because it is warm at noon and cold at sunrise and sunset. Each view has its reasons, so right and wrong cannot yet be settled.” Whoever falsely attributed text to the Liezi may have drawn on this passage. The received Bowuzhi also records these words and says they “likewise come from the Liezi.” As the Siku Quanshu abstract to the Bowuzhi puts it, some people like to collect materials and patch together passages from the Liezi and other books into a single work.

The note’s phrase “beyond the six directions, the sage preserves it but does not discuss it” appears in the “Qi Wu Lun” (Discourse on Equalizing Things) chapter of the Zhuangzi. “Six directions” means heaven, earth, and the four quarters.

Evenness is the most fundamental and comprehensive principle under heaven. When the myriad things are balanced and proportionate, the Way can be fully embodied. Even visible objects must conform to this principle of balance.

If a single hair is suspended to bear a weight, and the load is unevenly distributed, the hair will snap; if it holds without breaking, that shows the force is evenly applied. Where true evenness exists, there is no reason for breakage. Some may think this is wrong, but in time someone will grasp the principle.

Zhan He (a man of Chu renowned for his skill at fishing) used a single cocoon thread as his fishing line.

Using a fine needle (mang zhen) as a fishhook. Wang Niansun observed that the original word for the hook was written diao; diao could also mean a hook. Present editions use gou because later readers knew diao mainly as “to fish” and did not treat it as a synonym for hook, so they “corrected” the graph. In the “Tang Wen” chapter of the Liezi, “Zhan He used a mang needle as diao” was likewise changed to gou in later copies, though the Taiping Yulan quotation still has diao. The phrase “cast the line and sink the diao” is also altered to gou in modern texts; the Yunfu Qunyu entry under diao cites this Liezi line, so the version it used still read diao. The Shiwen glosses mang as read wang and zhen as zhen (needle).

A small branch of thorn bamboo (jing) for the rod. The word for fine bamboo (xiao) appears as you in the Daozang, Yuan, and Shide Tang editions—a scribal error. The Shiwen notes a variant you and states the archetype had tiao (branch).

Split grain kernels for bait. Lu Wenchao noted that li (grain) is a damaged or wrong character in the library manuscript. The Shiwen gives pou (split) as pian kou qie and li as li.

He landed a fish large enough to fill a cart. The Jia Yu says, “The kun fish is big enough to fill a cart.” The spot was a pool a hundred ren deep with a swift current. The Shiwen reads mi (rushing water) as gu wu qie, “rapid flow.”

The line did not snap, the hook did not bend, and the rod did not bow. The commentary: prepare fragrant bait, hang it on a tiny hook, let it down into the green mud, let the hook drift beneath the churning surface, reel with the water—line now taut, now slack, rising and sinking with the stream; when the line slackens or parts, the fish can be taken alive. That is the angler matching the water and handling tackle flexibly. The Shiwen has rao (bend) as nai xiao qie, “to bend”; er (bait) as reng er qie; gua (hang) as gua.

Bo Jun: From “Zhan He” through this passage the Bowuzhi text matches here word for word. Taiping Yulan, juan 384, after rao adds seven characters meaning “yielding to the water’s force in casting and giving”—likely commentary copied into the main text by mistake.

The note on the graph read as hu jie qie and hu lang qie. When the king of Chu heard of it, he was greatly astonished and summoned Zhan He to ask how it worked.

Zhan He replied: “I heard from my late father that Puyuanzi, when he shot birds, used a soft bow and fine silk cord; riding the wind as he drew, he could bring down two cang birds (bluish waterbirds) on high. That was because his mind was single and the force in his hands even. I took that as my model and applied it to fishing.

“I studied five years before I grasped the principle. Whenever I came to the river with rod in hand, I had no stray thoughts—only the fish. When I paid out line and let the hook sink, the pressure in my hands was neither too light nor too heavy, and nothing outside could disturb me. The fish that saw my hook and bait took them like sinking dust or gathered foam, swallowing without suspicion.”

The commentary says fang means “to emulate”; cang is read cang. The collator holds that gou in the text should read diao, since diao here can also mean the fishhook.

With gentle instruction, all living things naturally turn toward transformation; one who governs the realm should follow the same principle.

Gong Hu of Lu and Qi Ying of Zhao both fell ill. They went together to see Bian Que, the famous physician of antiquity, and asked him to examine them. Bian Que treated them, and both soon recovered.

Bian Que said to Gong Hu and Qi Ying, “Your earlier illnesses had entered the inner organs from the surface; those could originally be cured with medicine and acupuncture. Now you each also have an innate illness that has grown along with your bodies. I would like to treat that for you—what do you say?”

The two replied, “Please first tell us how these conditions manifest.”

Bian Que said to Gong Hu, “Your will is strong and your qi…”

Here, “zheng” is read as “zheng” in the sense of zheng (symptoms)—what we would today call a medical condition or illness.

Bian Que said to Gong Hu: “Your xin zhi (mind and intent) is strong while your qi xing (innate temperament rooted in qi) is weak, so you are good at scheming but poor at making decisions.” Here, xin zhi means the intellect and its aims; qi xing means one’s inborn disposition. When the mind is active, worries multiply; when temperament is weak, it is hard to be decisive.

Bian Que said to Qi Ying: “Your mind and intent are weak while your temperament is strong, so you think little yet act with easy, firm self-assertion.” That is to say: when mental capacity is insufficient and one lets temperament alone rule, one tends toward bold, self-willed action.

Bian Que said: “If your hearts were exchanged, your strengths would come into better balance.” He then had them drink a potent draught that left them unconscious as if dead for three days; he opened their chests, removed their hearts, swapped them, and gave them a miraculous medicine. When the two awoke, they were as clear-minded as before.

The two took their leave and went home. Gong Hu entered Qi Ying’s house and faced Qi Ying’s wife and children; they did not know him. Qi Ying likewise went to Gong Hu’s home and faced Gong Hu’s wife and children; they too failed to recognize him. Commentators explain that although the two had exchanged minds, each retained his original memory and understanding, so each returned to the other’s household—yet their outward appearance was unchanged, and thus the families of the other man could not identify them.

The two families quarreled over the matter and asked Bian Que to clarify. When Bian Que explained what had happened, the dispute subsided.

Commentators hold that this tale is exceedingly strange and that similar accounts are rare in old books. Still, Hua Tuo of the Wei period was said to be able to open the abdomen, rearrange the stomach and intestines, and wash the five viscera. Some things in the world truly resist easy explanation, so one should not judge by preconception alone; the annotators chose to record it for the time being without passing final judgment.

The exegesis adds: The physical form in itself is something without awareness; shen shi (spirit-consciousness—the subject that feels and knows) is what truly governs perception.

To hold fast to the root is to preserve one’s true nature and align with the great Dao; if one is fixated on the physical form, one loses one’s original nature and is pulled by desire. Ordinary people see only the aversion and attachment aroused by outward appearance, and do not know that shen (spirit) is what truly governs. The text says that even if the heart were exchanged, each person would still have a wife and children—this is to show that the heart governs emotion, while the form itself has no awareness. Therefore, those who cultivate the Way value nourishing the spirit.

The gloss on readings in the commentary is as follows: Hua is read per the fanqie notation “hu hua qie”; ta has an alternate reading; kou is read “ku”; jian is read “ze qian qie”; xi is read “xian li qie”; yi is read “yi”; yi (in yiyi) is read “yi”.

When Pao Ba (an ancient master of the qin) played, birds danced to the music and fish leapt with joy. Zheng Shiwen, a musician of the state of Zheng, heard of this and gave up his family and property to study under Shi Xiang (another ancient master of the qin).

Shi Xiang placed his fingers on the pegs of the qin and adjusted the strings. Three years passed, and he still could not play a single piece through. Shi Xiang said, “You may go home.” He felt that Shiwen was not someone he could teach to completion. Shiwen set down the qin and sighed, “It is not that I cannot tune the strings properly, nor that I cannot play a piece through to the end…”

Here, “peg” refers to the part of the qin used to adjust pitch; “tuning the strings” means adjusting their tightness and pitch. At this point in the plain-language reading, Shiwen’s words are not yet finished.

Master Wen said, “What I understand of the Dao is not on the strings; what I fix my attention on is not in the sound of the qin.” The commentator explains that only when one is not trapped in strings and tone can the strings and tone be fully employed.

When the inner mind still cannot merge with the sound, and the outer fingers still cannot answer the instrument, he did not dare to pluck the strings. The commentator says that when heart, hand, and instrument are aligned and never miss one another, harmonious music can issue forth. People know how to use the body in practice to produce sound, but they do not know that it is spirit that discerns sound and governs the body. If the heart cannot respond to the instrument, even when one plays, the result is not yet refined; to bring out fully the expressive power of sound and the subtlety of bodily movement, spirit and heart must be united and the inner meaning spontaneously grasped.

Master Wen said, “Allow me for now to play a little less and see what follows.” Before long he visited Master Xiang again. Master Xiang asked, “How stands your art of the qin?” Master Wen replied, “I have comprehended it. Allow me to try.” The commentator explains that only after one has comprehended in the heart and responded to the instrument does one then cultivate the sound, and only then can one reach through to spirit and heart.

Therefore, in spring, if one strikes the shang string—the tone of Metal associated with autumn—to call forth the pitch standard Nanlu (the pitch of the eighth month), a cool breeze suddenly rises and plants set fruit. This is because the myriad things receive autumn qi and thus ripen.

In autumn, if one strikes the jue string—the tone of Wood associated with spring—to stir the pitch standard Jiazhong (the pitch of the second month), a warm wind slowly circulates and vegetation grows thick and lush. This is because the myriad things receive spring qi and thus bloom and flourish.

In summer, if one strikes the yu string—the tone of Water associated with winter—to call forth the pitch standard Huangzhong (the pitch of the eleventh month), frost and snow fall in turn and rivers and pools freeze at once. Hu means to congeal and freeze. The point is that striking a pitch belonging to another season can bring on the climatic changes of that season.

The performance was repeated three times in succession. The curtain tore from the vibration, the ritual vessels (zu and dou used to hold offerings) were shattered, tiles along the corridor flew up, and people on both sides ran to escape. Duke Ping of Jin (Jin Ping Gong) was so terrified that he threw himself flat on the ground. Jin then suffered a great drought; the earth cracked, and for three years no rain fell.

Commentary holds that in the phrase about Duke Ping “obtaining sound,” some versions read “therefore it is said, one who obtains sound,” and the latter wording should be adopted. The exegesis notes that “wei” is read as “wei” (pseudo/false).

The story of Zou Yan blowing on pitch pipes runs as follows: in the northern region there was land with rich soil but extreme cold, so grain would not grow. Zou Yan blew on the pitch pipes and warmed the soil, and millet and broomcorn millet then flourished. Zou Yan was a man of Qi, served as teacher to King Zhao of Yan, lived at Jixia (where Qi’s scholarly activity flourished), and was known as “Tan Tian Yan” (“Discuss-Heaven Yan”). He wrote forty-nine chapters, plus fifty-six chapters of Zhongshi (Endings and Beginnings); nothing more is attributed to him. The exegesis notes: “Zou” read as ce-you, “Yan” as yi-zhan, “wang” as wu.

“He will probably follow behind you carrying a zither and holding wind instruments.”

Commentary: Actions driven by human nature can accord with the transformations of Yin-Yang and the sequence of the four seasons; thus neither fire nor water can burn or drown such a person—how much less so wind, rain, cold, and warmth? Therefore the Yi (Book of Changes) says: “Act ahead of Heaven’s timing, and Heaven will not go against him.” How much more is this true of a human being? How much more of ghosts and spirits? That is the point. What is meant by saying that sound and pitch can transform is that they are not bound by the limits of the four seasons. The exegesis notes that “xie” is read as “xie” (assist/hold).

Xue Tan studied singing under Qin Qing, a master singer of the state of Qin. Before he had learned all of Qin Qing’s art, Xue Tan thought he had mastered everything and asked to go home. Qin Qing did not hold him back. He saw him off on the main road outside the city, beat time for him, and sang with deep sorrow. His voice shook the trees, and the echo seemed to stop the clouds in the sky.

Only then did Xue Tan apologize to Qin Qing and beg to stay and keep learning. From then on he never again spoke of going home.

Qin Qing said to a friend: “Long ago in the state of Han there was a woman named Han E who was skilled at singing. She went east toward Qi. On the way her food ran out. Passing through Yong Gate (the gate of Linzi, capital of Qi), she sang for her food. After she left, the lingering sound of her voice still hovered under the roof beams for three days without fading. People nearby thought she had not yet gone.

“When Han E passed an inn, the people there insulted her. She drew out her voice and wept in grief. Old and young throughout the village were sad and troubled; they wept facing one another and did not eat for three days. The people hurried after her to bring her back. When Han E returned, she again drew out her voice and sang a flowing, distant song.”

The crowd wept and faced one another in tears. For three days they ate nothing. E (the singer’s name) hurried after them. When E returned, she again sang aloud in long, lingering tones. The whole village’s old and young leaped for joy, clapped their hands, and danced, forgetting their grief of before. So the people gave E rich gifts and sent her on her way. Therefore, people in the Yongmen region to this day still excel at expressing joy and sorrow in song—tradition says that art was left by E.

The note says “fang” means to send off. In the Six States period there was a Yongmenzi named Zhou, skilled at the zither and at weeping; he once moved Lord Mengchang to tears with his crying.

The commentary holds that each of the senses has its role and can reach a state of penetration and responsiveness; once penetrated, wondrous and unforeseeable responses arise—not only the mind can do this. So the chapter on Duke Hu of Lu speaks directly of the mind’s power; the stories from Huoba onward turn to how sound moves people.

Bo Jun notes that Lu Ji’s “Poem on This Fine Day’s Gathering” has the lines “Mournful tones coil around the rafters’ beams, lingering resonance enters the clouded sky,” which Li Shan’s commentary cites in connection with this tale; but he thinks such stories existed from antiquity and were later inserted into the Liezi by forgers. The extant Bowuzhi records much the same content. On textual grounds, the character “fang” in Daoist canon editions, the Northern Song edition, and the Jifu edition is written as “xiao”; the Shiwen gives its reading as “fen liang qie.”

Bo Ya was skilled at playing the qin, and Zhong Ziqi was skilled at listening. When Bo Ya played, if his mind was on lofty mountains, Zhong Ziqi would say, “Well played! Soaring and vast, like Mount Tai!” When Bo Ya’s mind turned to flowing water, Zhong Ziqi would say, “Well played! So vast and surging, like a great river!” Whatever Bo Ya had in mind, Zhong Ziqi could always hear it in the music.

Once, while traveling on the north side of Mount Tai, Bo Ya suddenly met a violent rainstorm and stopped under a cliff to shelter. Sorrow filled his heart, and he took up his qin and played. At first he performed the Lin Yu Cao (Rainstorm Piece); then he went on to compose a piece expressing a mountain’s collapse. With each piece he played, Zhong Ziqi grasped its meaning. Bo Ya then set down the qin and sighed, “Excellent, excellent! Your power to listen is so fine—what you imagine and understand matches what is in my heart without the slightest gap. Where could I hide my qin’s voice from you?”

The commentary explains that once Bo Ya’s intent was expressed through the qin, Zhong Ziqi could understand it, so Bo Ya had nowhere to conceal the music. The qin’s sound arises from the heart: when intent moves, sound follows. A keen listener can even read a person’s feelings from a cough—how much more so when the music is already shaped into a pattern, making its meaning easier to discern. Textual notes observe that the word deng (“ascend”) in “intent was on ascending lofty mountains” may be redundant; other citations read simply “intent was on lofty mountains.” Other sources record the piece names as “Sound of Pouring Rain” and “Tune of the Mountain’s Collapse.”

The king had him presented and asked, “Who is this person who came with you?” The other replied, “This is someone I brought—a performer skilled in song and dance.” In this context, chang denotes a song-and-dance artist.

King Mu watched in amazement. The figure walked briskly, bent forward and leaned back, and moved so convincingly that it seemed a living person. When the artist lightly moved its jaw, its singing matched the tones of the scale; when they raised its hand, it danced in time with the beat. It could shape its movements in countless ways, all as if at will. King Mu took it for a real human being and had Lady Shengji, his favorite consort, watch together with the palace women.

As the performance was about to end, the chang—a singing and dancing figure made of wood that the master craftsman Yanshi had built—winked and made eyes at a concubine beside King Mu of Zhou. The king flew into a rage and was about to have Yanshi executed. Yanshi was terrified and immediately cut the chang open and dismantled it for the king to see. The king saw that the chang had been assembled from leather, wood, glue, lacquer, and pigments in white, black, red, and blue-green.

The king looked closely and found that inside the chang were liver, gallbladder, heart, lungs, spleen, kidneys, intestines, and stomach, and on the outside were sinews, bones, joints, skin, hair, teeth, and head hair—everything in place, all imitated from materials. Yanshi put it back together again, and the chang was once more as it had been when the king first saw it.

The king tried removing the chang’s heart, and it could no longer speak; he removed its liver, and it could no longer see; he removed its kidneys, and it could no longer walk. Commentators explain that these parts worked like the main controls of a mechanism, each cooperating so the body could move; remove a key part and the rest could not function. This is like how in a person the five viscera relate to the seven openings and the four limbs—when an internal organ is diseased, other parts of the body are affected too.

The liver, gallbladder, heart, lungs, and other viscera can outwardly manifest as sight, hearing, and walking only because spirit-consciousness—the mental agency that governs perception and action—employs them; only then do they become living beings. Without spirit-consciousness, the five sense faculties (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, and body) cannot function. When Zaohua (the creative transformation of nature) brings forth the myriad things today, how is that different from Yanshi fashioning a wooden puppet? Without spirit-consciousness, a person is no different from grass or trees; with spirit-consciousness, what is strange about the body being able to move? The puppet is driven by Yanshi’s spiritual intent, so it can indeed be compared with a living creature. When creative skill reaches its utmost refinement, how far can it be from Zaohua itself?

King Mu was first delighted, then sighed and said, “Can human craft truly rival the efficacy of Zaohua?” He then ordered that the puppet be carried back to the palace in an escort carriage.

In recent times some have said that human intelligence is produced by mechanical devices. Why would they say this? The efficacy of Zaohua is exceedingly subtle, so the myriad things can grow and change in activity without fixed patterns. Human craft is crude by comparison: one can only shape an outer form, which remains a stiff, lifeless object. When skill approaches the highest level, it nears Zaohua; perhaps some people drew that inference from this. But the meaning of this book is not that. What it means to show is that when craft is refined to the extreme, conception and transformation are boundless and cannot be confined by ordinary reason; hence the text often cites stiff, outwardly inanimate objects precisely to dispel shallow doubts. Is it claiming that the myriad things have no spirit-consciousness governing them? That would miss the point entirely.

The commentary notes that Lu Ban built cloud ladders that could rise into the air to assault city walls, and that Mozi made a wooden kite said to fly for three days without landing. These were works in which each considered his craft to have reached its peak.

The Bojun An records: According to the "Lu Wen" chapter of Mozi, Gongshuzi carved bamboo and wood into a kind of flying device; once completed and released, it stayed aloft for three days without descending. Huainanzi, "Qisu Xun," states that Lu Ban and Mozi made a wooden yuan (a kite-like flying object) from wood, and after launch it did not fall for three days. Han Feizi, "Waichu Shuo," says Mozi spent three years making a wooden yuan, which flew for one day before breaking. Lunheng also records that Lu Ban and Mozi carved wood into a yuan that flew three days without falling; Baopuzi further says Mozi carved a wooden chicken that flew up into the sky.

These accounts sometimes name Lu Ban as the maker, sometimes Mozi, and sometimes suggest both took part; the object is sometimes called a yuan, sometimes another flying device or a wooden chicken, showing that the same story acquired different versions as it circulated.

The tale of Yan Shi (a craftsman skilled in mechanical contrivances) reached Mozi and Qin Guli (a disciple of Mozi). Sun Yirang held that Dongmen Jia was probably a disciple of Ban Shu (Lu Ban), and thus passed the story to Lu Ban and Mozi; some thought Dongmen Jia was also Mozi’s disciple, which Sun considered incorrect. The Shiwen (commentary) explains that in Qin Guli’s name, “Hua” is read gu, “Li” is read li, and identifies him as a disciple of Mo Di.

The original text says Mozi and Ban Shu never dared speak of craftsmanship in their lifetimes, but always held the compass and square (tools for drawing circles and right angles). One gloss takes “always holding compass and square” to mean they did not lightly judge Yan Shi’s skill; another explanation holds that Yan Shi’s art was so refined it seemed to accord with creation itself—people like Ban Shu, though their mechanical ingenuity was at its utmost, could not reach such mastery by compass and square alone. The Jifu edition adds the character yan after “square.” Wu Kaisheng argued that “always holding compass and square” means they were diligent in study.

The Bojun An also cites the “Biography of Master Ma” from Quan Jin Wen (Collected Jin Dynasty Prose): Later someone presented a set of hundred variety puppets that could be arranged but could not move. The emperor asked Master Ma whether he could make them move; he answered, “I can.”

Gan Ying was an archer of antiquity renowned for his skill. When he drew his bow and released an arrow, wild beasts would collapse and birds would fall from the sky. This means his shots never missed their mark; neither beast nor bird could escape. Ancient texts also record that Geng Ying once made a bird drop without even loosing an arrow.

Gan Ying’s disciple was named Fei Wei. Fei Wei studied archery under Gan Ying and eventually surpassed his teacher. Some older books preserve passages about a shooting contest between Fei Wei and Gan Ying, but the received Liezi does not contain this episode, so it cannot be confirmed whether it once belonged to this chapter.

Ji Chang in turn studied archery under Fei Wei. Fei Wei told him, “First learn to keep your eyes from blinking; only then talk about shooting.” Ji Chang went home, lay on his back beneath his wife’s loom, and fixed his gaze on the treadle—the pedal on the loom that drives the moving parts.

The Shuowen says: “□ is the part below the weaving loom on which the feet tread.” □ means to step on with the feet. Below the loom hang cords and two treadles; in weaving one treads them so that the warp is pulled up and down. This mechanism is called “qian □” (the treadle that draws the heddles). The treadles rise and fall so quickly that the motion is finished in the blink of an eye. That is why, when Ji Chang was learning not to blink, he lay under the loom and kept his eyes fixed on the treadles. After two years he had finally trained himself not to blink.

Xu Lian’s account agrees. Wang Chongmin notes that in Taiping yulan, juan 745 and juan 852, “lie down” (wo) is written as “sit” (zuo). The Shiwen records: ting is read tu ding qie; nie is read nü zhe qie. After two years, even if the point of an awl were driven into the corner of his eye, he would not blink. Wang Chongmin also notes that in Taiping yulan, juan 745, “two years” is written “three years,” and dao (invert/upend) is written dao (arrive/reach); juan 825 likewise has dao. He thinks dao (“reach”) may be the correct reading. Zhui (awl) is read zhui; dao is read du dao qie; zi (corner of the eye) is read zai yi qie.

Ji Chang reported his progress to Fei Wei. Fei Wei said: “That is still not enough. To shoot down a flying bird with an empty bow is consummate skill (jing); to surpass one’s teacher is skill that touches the spirit (shen). Consummate skill comes from repeated practice; touching the spirit comes from grasping what is finest and most subtle. Learning not to blink first means pushing training to the limit; keeping the eyes on the treadles without them moving shows that the heart-and-mind (xin) is already calm and settled. But calm and settlement are not yet the ability to apply that capacity outward—so I say it is still not enough. You must next learn guan (observation, “seeing”), and only then will you meet the requirement.” The point is that the power gained from not blinking must be carried further into the practice of observation.

In the Daozang plain-text edition, Lin Xiyi’s edition, the Yuan edition, and the Shide Hall edition, “must learn” (bi xue) appears as “next-stage learning” (ya xue). The Shiwen also has ya, glossed as read wu jia qie, meaning “the following phase.” Some versions read bi xue (“must learn”); collators hold that reading to be incorrect.

“See” means to look carefully and closely. Ji Chang tied a strand of yak hair to a louse, hung it before the window, and watched it while facing south. After about ten days the louse gradually grew larger; after three years, in his eyes it was already as large as a chariot wheel. When he looked at other things, they too appeared as big as hills and mountains.

Next he used a bow made from horn from the Yan region and arrow shafts of peng grass from the north to shoot it.

Wang Guoguo explained: The Yijing says, “Bent wood is made into a bow, sharpened wood into arrows; the use of bow and arrow is to awe all under Heaven.” The Zhouli (Kaogong ji) records that six materials are chosen for bow-making and gathered according to the seasons: wood to make the bow shoot far, horn to increase spring, sinew to drive the arrow deep, glue to bond, silk to wrap and fix, and lacquer to resist frost and dew. Seven kinds of wood are used for the bow stave; zhe wood is best, then zhi, mulberry, tangerine, papaya, and jing wood, with bamboo the least suitable.

Thus the bow body is wooden, while horn, sinew, glue, silk, and lacquer are combined and fixed to it. A bow is not made without wood; horn alone cannot make a bow—it only assists the wood. In antiquity customs were plain; when bows were first made, wood was bent into a bow shape. By the Zhou, ritual and music and the various institutions were gradually complete, and bow-making came to use horn, sinew, glue, silk, and lacquer together. The Qian Hanshu Wuxing zhi says that hu means the curved bow; the Liji mentions “mulberry bow and peng arrows.” The hu spoken of in these places are all wooden bows. However, the Liezi says “then all was ready…”

[Commentary] Ji Chang saw the louse as large as a chariot wheel, so other things accordingly appeared even larger.

[Note] Ji Chang saw the louse as large as a chariot wheel, so other things accordingly appeared even larger.

Making a bow requires combining horn, sinew, glue, silk, and lacquer. In older texts, hu usually means a wooden bow; but in this passage Liezi speaks of a bow made from horn from the Yan region, which shows that bows might be of wood or of horn, with no single fixed rule.

The character shuo is likely a graphic slip for jing. The line “horn from Yan, staves from Jing” comes from the Kaogong ji (Artificers’ Record): horn from Yan and bow staves from Jing were both prized materials for bow-making. Putting Yan and Jing side by side also indicates Jing is meant specifically, not the north in general.

Ji Chang, using a strong bow and a stiff arrow, pierced the center of a louse without cutting the thread from which it hung. When Fei Wei saw this, he struck his chest in admiration and said, “You have got the knack of archery!” The point is that Ji Chang could treat a target so tiny that it seemed as large as anything else, so hitting it was not hard. After he had learned everything Fei Wei could teach, he decided that the only person under heaven who could match him was Fei Wei, and he planned to kill him. The commentary takes this as ambition to beat and outdo his teacher’s skill, not necessarily as intent to take Fei Wei’s life.

One day the two met in open country and shot at each other. Their arrows met in midair; the heads struck together and both shafts fell to the ground.

Two arrows flew along the same path, one chasing the other, until their force was spent and they fell to the ground together without raising the slightest dust. The arrow Fei Wei had shot ran out of force first. Ji Chang loosed an arrow, and Fei Wei blocked it with the point of a thorn bush stalk—not the least bit off.

The point is that two arrows could pursue each other until they exhausted their momentum and landed so lightly that no dust stirred, which shows how subtle and refined the action had become; and that blocking an arrow with a thorn tip without the slightest error shows judgment and control pushed to the utmost limit.

Then the two men wept, cast aside their bows and arrows, bowed to each other on the road, and asked to become father and son in their bond of mastery. They cut their arms and swore an oath. In antiquity, cutting the arm to seal a blood oath was a custom meant to show how solemn the pledge was. After that, neither man passed his art on to anyone else.

Commentators hold that the meaning of this chapter is the same as the related passage in the “Zhong Ni” (Confucius) section of the Liezi. What is described here is mutual attunement of heart and mind, mutual understanding—not archery skill alone—so the two cast away their bows and arrows and swore their oath. Once their intentions were fully aligned, they no longer transmitted this art to outsiders.

Zaofu, the celebrated charioteer in the time of King Mu of Zhou, went to Master Taodou to learn the art of driving. At first Zaofu was deferential in his bows and demeanor, yet for three years Taodou taught him nothing. Zaofu then became even more careful and respectful, and only then did Taodou speak to him: “An old poem says, ‘In a household skilled at making bows, the children are first taught to weave winnowing baskets; in a household skilled at smelting metal, the children are first taught to sew fur garments.’ Both baskets and fur work begin with soft, pliable, curved pieces that must be joined together before anything can be made into a finished object. Making bows requires adjusting bowstrings and horn; smelting requires casting metal—and the principle is the same. The learner must first master what is easy, and only afterward can he take on what is difficult. Watch my footwork—how I walk—and do as I do. When you can match me in that, you will be ready to handle six reins and drive six horses.”

Zaofu said, “I will do whatever my teacher asks.”

Tai Dou then set up upright planks and laid them out as a path so narrow that only one foot could land at a time. The gaps between the planks matched the stride of a walk. Zaofu stepped onto the planks and moved back and forth over them at a quick pace, neither falling nor losing his footing.

He mastered this in only three days. Tai Dou marveled: “How quick you are to learn! Whatever you drive, you will probably handle it just as well.”

Tai Dou explained that when Zaofu walked on the plank path, he depended on stepping with both feet and aligning his intention with each step; charioteering follows the same principle. When driving, one must harmonize reins and bit (the metal piece in the horse’s mouth used to guide and control it), adjust pace through the subtle give and take at the mouth, hold the right measure in one’s chest, and, when the hands take the reins, govern the rhythm of movement.

When one has inwardly mastered the essentials of driving and outwardly aligns with the horse’s intent, then in advancing and retreating the wheels follow a line as straight as a plumb cord, and in turning they curve as regularly as an arc drawn with a compass. Tao Hongqing holds that the character ju (“square”) in gui ju (“square and compass”) is a spurious addition; the original should read “in advance and retreat, centered on the cord; in turning, the curve fits the compass”—meaning that going straight conforms to the plumb line and turning conforms to the compass arc. Many quotations in ancient books likewise omit the ju character.

Taking the road by a long route yet still having strength to spare is truly a case of having mastered the method of driving. The secret of managing horses appears first in the bit (xian), passes from the bit to the reins, from the reins to the hands, and finally from the hands into communion with the mind. At that point, when driving one need neither stare fixedly at the horse nor urge it with the whip; with spirit settled and body upright, the six reins are never in disorder, and when the four horses’ twenty-four hooves come down, none step wrongly. Whether turning, wheeling, advancing, or retreating, every movement hits the mark and keeps time with the bells on the carriage.

Then where the wheels pass they leave no superfluous rut, and where the hooves fall they take up no extra inch of ground. The driver no longer feels the steepness of valleys or notices the levelness of plains and lowlands; to him every stretch of road is the same. He said: “My skill is exhausted—remember these words!” The annotation explains that wherever carriage and horses go, it is enough that the path just accommodates their passage.

Beyond where the soles of the feet can stand, there is no extra ground to step on, yet one does not dare to step there—because the mind is unsettled and the body is not relaxed. When the mind is calm and the body loose, advance and retreat keep a fixed rhythm, fast and slow have fitting measure, and the whole performance looks steady from start to finish. My art has nothing more to teach you; hold this in mind.

[Note] When walking, the ground under the foot need only hold the sole. When there is no spare ground outside the foot and one still dares not step, it is because the mind is unsettled and the body is not relaxed. With a calm mind and relaxed body, advance and retreat have a set rhythm and fast and slow have proper measure. Once you grasp the subtle point, you can apply it not only to yourself but also to controlling external things. Even with six reins and many horses, if you manage them rightly, you need not fear disorder. Thus the outer rim of the wheel need not rely on useless ruts, and the hoof need not rely on useless ground beyond it. Is that not so?

[Commentary] Zhuangzi, “Nurturing Life” (Yangsheng zhu), tells how Cook Ding butchered an ox: gaps lie between the bones and the blade is thin; sliding the thin edge into those gaps leaves room everywhere. The present passage borrows that idea: once you grasp how things work, action becomes ample and at ease. When the eyes do not worry about ground outside the feet, the will (zhi) can stay single-minded; when the will is single-minded, the feet naturally follow the heart. Apply this to reins and spirited horses, and hoof and rut align—what danger of overturning remains? People often chase minor ends and miss the root; those who understand must first grasp the root, then put it into practice. Even skills like archery and charioteering must accord with this principle.

[Editorial note] The Zhuangzi material in the “Commentary” section summarizes the gist; it is not a verbatim quotation. The character read as zhi (will/intention) in the commentary is not shi (recognition).

Wei Heiluan killed Qiu Bingzhang out of a private grudge. Qiu Bingzhang’s son Lai Dan planned to avenge his father. Lai Dan was fierce in temperament but frail in body: he counted his food grain by grain and walked as if leaning into the wind. Even with resentment burning in him, he could not take up arms to seek revenge. What is meant by “the form is greatly exposed” (xing shen lu) is that the body was emaciated; “to brandish arms” (cheng bing) means to take up weapons and resort to force. Commentators hold that killing from private enmity and harming life out of desire are ordinary worldly ways—not the conduct of one who follows the Dao.

Drawing on another’s strength, he swung his sword intending to kill Heiluan. Heiluan was fierce and resolute, with a will stronger than ordinary men; his strength could match a hundred people. His sinews, bones, flesh, and skin were all unlike those of others. He stretched his neck toward the blade and bared his chest to meet arrows; the sword edge bent on impact, yet his body bore no wound.

Heiluan relied on his own power and looked down on Laidan entirely, treating him as weak as a fledgling still needing to be fed. A bird just hatched that still requires feeding is called a kou (nestling); only when it can find food for itself is it called a chu (young bird).

Laidan’s friend Shen Ta said to him, “Your resentment toward Heiluan has already gone to the utmost, and Heiluan’s bullying of you has been excessive as well. What do you plan to do?” Laidan wept and said, “I hope you will devise a plan for me.”

Shen Ta replied, “I have heard that Kong Zhou of the state of Wei—his ancestors once obtained the sword of the Yinde (Emperor of Yin). When a mere boy wore that sword, he could by its authority drive back an army three jun strong. Why do you not go and ask to borrow it from him?”

[Commentary] The finest treasure under heaven—once a boy wears it, he can by its might repulse three armies. Why not go and seek to borrow it?

Kong Zhou said: “The most subtle thing between heaven and earth can only be used to command armies by sheer might; if one takes slaughter as one’s skill, that falls short of the most subtle.” Lai Dan then went to Wei to visit Kong Zhou. He paid obeisance in the manner of a servant attending a charioteer, asked first to entrust his wife and children to Kong Zhou’s care, and only then stated his purpose. Kong Zhou said: “I have three swords—you may choose among them; none of them can kill a person. Let me first describe how each one appears.

“The first is called Han Guang (Containing Light). You cannot see it; when it is swung, you do not know it is there. Where it meets things, their traces vanish without bound; the sword passes through objects, yet the objects are wholly unaware.

“The second is called Cheng Ying (Receiving Shadow). In the hour when dawn is near and the sky is dimly lit, or at evening when light fades from bright to dark, if you face north and look closely, you only faintly sense that something is there, yet cannot make out its shape. When it touches things, it gives a faint sound.”

When passing through an object, the blade met no resistance, and the object suffered no harm.

The third sword was named “Xiaolian” (Night Practice). In daylight one could see only its shadow, not the light from the blade itself; at night one could see the light but not the sword’s shape. Commentators explain that by day the blade’s color blended with the light of sun and moon, while the glow visible at night showed that it could illuminate. When the edge touched something, it gave a sharp “huo” as it flashed through—“huo” being the sound of the blade’s swift passage. After the edge had passed, the thing closed up again at once; people felt only how fast it had moved, and saw no blood on the blade.

These three treasured swords had been handed down for thirteen generations, yet were never put to use. Commentators say they could not be used to cut or harm anything—they stayed shut in their cases and were never unsheathed. Lai Dan said, “Even so, I must ask for the least of the three.” Kong Zhou sent his wife and children away from the house and kept seven days of fasting. When evening came and the light failed…

The Hanshu, "Treatise on Astronomy," says: "When the sun was in the shen period, the sky was yan." Here yan means clear weather. Han means evening or dusk. Sun Yirang notes that the Shuowen Jiezi explains yan as "sky clear," that is, a clear sky. The Han Feizi, "Outer Stored Sayings, Left," says: "When the rain stops and the sky clears, the sun comes out, looking as if between clear and cloudy weather." The phrase "between yan and shade" refers to half clear and half cloudy, not evening. Zhang Zhan's commentary interpreting it as dusk is incorrect. Yang Bojun holds that "yan yin" means clear and cloudy alternating, which agrees with Sun Yirang. The Huainanzi, "Appraisals of Reputation," says "look at sunlight to know the weather will clear, look at cloud vapor to know rain is coming"; the Wen xuan, "Rhapsody on Feathered Hunt," also has "sky clear, sun yan"; the commentary cites Xu Shen's explanation of yan as "where there are no clouds."

Lai Dan knelt, handed the sword to Hei Luan's subordinate. Lai Dan bowed twice, took the sword, and returned. The commentary says that because the sword could be held in the hand and seen, what Lai Dan received was an inferior sword. The explanation holds that the more precious an object, the more easily it causes serious harm; the highest Dao and the subtlest realm do not harm the myriad things.

Lai Dan then took the sword and went to Hei Luan. At that time Hei Luan was drunk and lay on his back beneath the window. Wu Kaisheng thinks shi should be read as zhi (when); Yang Bojun thinks shi here means "to attend, to wait upon," as in Analects, Yang Huo: "Confucius shi his absence." Yang Bojun also notes that several ancient citations read "lying on his back beneath the window," the same wording as above "lying on his back beneath his wife's loom," so "lying on his back" is more appropriate.

Lai Dan cut from Hei Luan's neck down to his waist, three cuts in all, yet Hei Luan did not notice. Lai Dan thought Hei Luan was already dead and hurried away.

The commentary says: In some versions “qu” (approach/hasten) is written as “yao” (essentials/key point), read as “qu” (to hasten); the same applies below. Heiluan did not notice. When Laidan saw that Heiluan was dead, he hurriedly withdrew.

Later, Laidan met Heiluan’s son at the door and thrust his sword at him three times, as if stabbing into empty space. Heiluan’s son, however, smiled and said, “Why did you so oddly beckon to me three times?” He did not see Laidan stabbing him with a sword; he only saw Laidan raising his hand, as if greeting him. In one version of the commentary, “zhao” (to beckon) is written as “nian” (to pick up with the fingers); that should be a corrupted character form.

Laidan understood that the sword could not kill a person, sighed, and went home. When Heiluan woke up, he angrily said to his wife, “When I was drunk, you leaked my secret, which made my throat uncomfortable and my waist tight.” Heiluan’s son said, “Yesterday when Laidan came, he met me at the door and beckoned to me three times, which also made my body uncomfortable and my limbs stiff. He probably bears me ill will!”

[Commentary] One who has attained the Way deeply does not harm the myriad things, nor is harmed by them; therefore poisonous insects do not bite him, and fierce beasts do not claw him.

King Mu of Zhou mustered a large force to campaign against the Western Rong. The Western Rong presented a Kunwu sword. A note explains that Kunwu was a name for a fine sword. The Hetu (River Chart) says that Yingzhou had much piled stone called Kunwu, which could be used to make swords. The Shizi says the Kunwu sword could cut through jade. The Western Rong also presented fire-washed cloth (huohuan bu).

The note says that “huan” in huohuan is read as “huan” (to wash). The Yiwuzhi (Record of Strange Things) records that in the land of Xindiao there was a Fire Region with trees and rats; people took their fur and wove it into cloth, called fire-washed cloth. The Kunwu sword was one chi and eight cun long. “Zhi” is read as “zhi”; eight cun make one zhi. The blade was forged from refined steel, the edge tinged red; cutting jade with it was as easy as cutting mud.

Bo Jun notes: The Bowuzhi (Broad Learned Matters) cites the Zhou Shu (Book of Zhou) as saying that the Western Regions presented fire-washed cloth and Kunwu presented a jade-cutting knife. Fire-washed cloth, when soiled, was put in fire and came out clean; the jade-cutting knife cut jade as easily as cutting something ordinary. The Bowuzhi also says that in Han times someone once presented fire-washed cloth, but there is no record of a jade-cutting knife.

Fire-washed cloth had to be put in fire to be cleaned. Wang Shumin points out that a passage in the Yulan (Imperial Readings) writes “huohuan zhi bu” as “qi bu,” matching the pattern of “qi jian chang chi you zhi” above. In the fire the cloth took on the color of flame and the dirt showed the color of the cloth; taken from the fire and shaken, it was white as snow. The note says this is what the Zhou Shu describes.

The prince held that no such thing existed in the world and that those who told of it were talking nonsense. Xiao Shu objected: “For the prince to be so sure of himself—is he deliberately twisting the truth?” The commentary explains that this chapter, placed after the preceding narrative, discusses the jade-cutting knife and fire-washed cloth to show that what was recorded earlier was real and that the jade-cutting knife and fire-washed cloth were not fictions.

The exegesis holds that metal tools cannot cut jade not because the tool is insufficiently sharp;

Fire-washing cloth cannot be washed with water, yet it can be put into fire and burned without harm—such is the special nature of certain things. Between heaven and earth the myriad things are exceedingly numerous; some can be explained by ordinary reason, and some lie beyond what ordinary reason can grasp. For example, something may cut jade without its doing so because the blade is especially sharp; cloth that does not spoil when burned in fire likewise comes from a thing’s peculiar properties.

Yet though jade is hard, there are ways to carve and cut it; though a sword is iron, there are edges that can surely break it. If one uses a sword sharp enough to sever things on jade that can be carved, and it still will not cut, that only means the sword is not sharp enough—not that jade cannot in principle be cut. When such a blade exists, what room is there for doubt?

Animals and plants differ in their habits: some live by fire and water, others die from fire and water. Hence rats in volcanic mountains can live by fire, and beasts born of the wind can live by wind; humans cannot do without air, and fish depend on water. On this view, the fibers of fire-washing cloth are neither ramie nor common hemp, but are made from fire-rat fur. That its cloth name matches usage in the Central Plains and its material is linked to fire-rat fur is nothing to marvel at. To cling stubbornly to one’s own fixed belief is rather to miss how things really are.

Note: The commentator states that after “neither ramie nor hemp” the original text originally had the four characters “made from fire-rat fur”; under “Central Plains and the like” there was originally no character for “fire,” and under “with” there were originally not the three characters “same as rat fur”—emendations now follow the Sijie edition. Lu Wenchao points out that the character read as “therefore/in consequence” appears in some editions as another form with the same meaning. Guang Congxie holds that this passage treats the fire-washing cloth story in Emperor Wen of Wei’s Dianlun; if “imperial son” refers to Emperor Wen of Wei, the book was still being expanded and revised in the Jian’an period (196–220). Yu Zhengxie cites the Shenyijing as recorded in the commentary to the “Biography of the Southwestern Yi” in the Hou Hanshu: in the south there is a fire mountain on which grows a tree that burns without being consumed, blazing day and night; in the fire lives a rat weighing a hundred jin, with fur more than two chi long, fine as silk and pure white, which can be spun into cloth. If the cloth is soiled, burning it in fire cleans it.

Taiping Guangji, quoting Liang Sigong Ji, says that merchants from the South Seas once brought three lengths of fire-washing cloth—the legendary fabric said to be cleansed of dirt by being placed in fire. Two lengths were woven from tree-bark fiber and one from rat hair; the bark was stiff, the rat hair soft. Another account holds that all three pieces were woven white and that, once soiled, they could be restored by burning them in fire.

Commentary on the “Dayuan liezhuan” (Account of Dayuan) in the Records of the Grand Historian (Shiji) cites the Records of the Southern Provinces (Nanzhou zhi): on Sitiao Island in the sea of Daqin (the Roman East), trees grow whose bark is stripped in winter and woven into cloth resembling hemp or banana fiber, with a slightly greenish-black cast. When the cloth is dirty, putting it in fire makes it clean again—hence the name “fire-washing cloth.” The note also mentions a name for one kind of bark. The Comprehensive Gazetteer of the Realm (Kuodi zhi) adds that in the Land of the Fire Mountain, white rat pelts and tree bark in the flames can be spun into fire-washing cloth.

Ren Fang’s Accounts of Strange Things (Shuyi ji) of the Liang dynasty tells of a Blazing Fire Mountain in the south that ignites every fourth month and burns until the twelfth, when the fire goes out; then vegetation puts forth leaves again, and when the flames return the foliage falls. People take the bark and weave fire-washing cloth from it. Kuang Lu’s Red Refinements (Chiya) of the Ming says that among the Miao there are three materials for fire-washing cloth: bifang hemp, zhurong wood, and fire-rat hair.

Commentary on the “Account of the Western Barbarians” in the Book of the Later Han (Hou Hanshu) quotes Fu Xuan: in the time of Emperor Huan of Han, Liang Ji owned a fire-washing cloth singlet. At a banquet he deliberately splashed wine on the garment and then threw it into the fire; when the stains were burned away and the fire died down, the cloth was white and fresh as if laundered in water. Cai Tiao’s Iron Mountain Miscellany (Tieweishan congtan) of the Song describes a similar trick and notes that fire-washing cloth looks like cotton, is green-black, and turns white in the fire. After the Xuanhe and Zhenghe reigns it arrived in large quantities, and the court used it for head wraps, mattresses, skirts, and robes. On this evidence, fire-washing cloth seems to have entered China around the Eastern Han and by the Song had become a familiar southern commodity.

Jiang Shaoshu wrote in Yunshi Zhai Bitan (Notes from the Yunshi Studio): “Fire-washed cloth is slightly whitish in color; when you touch it, powder sticks to your fingers, rather like handling the wings of a butterfly.” It is cloth woven from tree-bark fiber; residual oil still remains in it, so it is nothing more than an ordinary material.

Today, in the crevices of the Wuman Mountain in the Fan territories of Yuexi Subprefecture in Sichuan, there is a kind of grass root called “immortal wood.” Its nature is yin; cloth woven from it can be washed in fire. The Gazetteer of Sichuan says: “The poor use this kind of cloth.”

Baopuzi, “On Immortals,” records: “Emperor Wen of Wei once said that in the world there was no knife that could cut jade, and no cloth that could be washed in fire. Later, when he compiled the Dianlun (Discussions on Classics), he wrote this into the work. Before long, both things appeared, and Emperor Wen sighed and immediately destroyed that piece of writing.” The “fire-washed cloth” mentioned here refers to cloth woven from asbestos.

Examining the account in the Dianlun, Emperor Wen of Wei said that people at the time believed the fur of the fire rat could be woven into cloth, and that when the cloth was soiled it could be put into fire and would come out like new—this view was absurd. Fire cannot propagate life; how could rats live in fire? This passage was once carved on a stele at the Imperial Academy. In the reign of Emperor Ming of Wei, someone presented this kind of cloth, and Emperor Ming ordered the words “this view was absurd” removed from the stele.

Cen Zhongmian said that fire-washed cloth is asbestos; in later times it was called “non-ash wood,” and in modern times “asbestos.” Persians and Arabs were familiar with it very early. Asbestos produced in Central Asia came from Badakhshan, formerly a tributary territory of China. Asbestos has a fibrous structure similar to hemp and can be made into cloth, paper, towels, and other articles.

Bo Jun’s editorial note says that Xing Min’s commentary on the “Shi” section of the Erya, “Explaining Old Words,” cites the Shizi, “Guangze Pian*, which refers to “Huangzi Gui Zhong.” If this record is reliable, then before Shi Jiao there was a Huangzi; the “Huangzi” mentioned here undoubtedly means Emperor Wen of Wei.

Also examining Quan Jin Wen (Complete Jin Dynasty Prose), fascicle 1, which includes Ban Juqi Bu Fu (Rhapsody on the Extraordinary Cloth). The preface states that in the second year of the Taikang reign of Jin, the Great Qin state presented a kind of cloth, among which the “fire cloth” was especially remarkable, so someone composed a fu to describe it. This cloth is huohuanbu (fire-washing cloth—legendary fabric said to be cleansed by fire). Also examining the line “gold cannot cut jade, and cloth cannot be washed in fire”: the two characters read as “not” (bu) are suspected to be spurious additions. The commentary notes: the character read as “duan” is pronounced like guan; ...

Liezi Jishi (Collected Commentaries on the Liezi), fascicle 6

Li Ming (Force and Fate), Chapter Six

[Commentary] “Ming” (fate) refers to a fixed term that must arrive, and also to the circumstances a person is originally allotted. Though events have not yet come to pass, the principle is already so. To hold that length of life depends on nurture, and poverty or eminence on talent and ability, is to fail to understand Heaven’s principle.

[Explication] “Ming” means allotted circumstances, yet for affairs to succeed one cannot do without li (force/effort); here “li” means the capacity to strive actively—without fate to match, things may still not be accomplished. One who has ming must still rely on one’s own li; one who has li may also thereby fulfill one’s ming. Some things cannot be done even with full effort, because the corresponding ming is lacking; to rely on ming alone without striving is to wait for the right moment. To trust only ming and not effort is a great error; to trust only effort and not ming likewise misses the mark.

The commentary notes: “fen” is read with the pronunciation of wen; “yao” (premature death) with zhao; “xi” (tie/connect) with ji.

Force (Li) said to Fate (Ming): “Where does your power exceed mine?” Fate replied: “What have you done to the myriad things that you would compare yourself with me?” Force said: “The length or shortness of a person’s life, whether circumstances run smooth or against them, rank high or low, and whether one lives in wealth or poverty—all are determined by my force.” Fate said: “Peng Zu’s wisdom did not surpass that of Yao and Shun, yet he lived eight hundred years.”

Kong Guangsen held that the “eight hundred years of Peng Zu” mentioned here refers to the Peng state enduring for eight hundred years, not to Peng Zu himself living without death. Peng Zu was the ancestor of the Peng surname; Great Peng was once a feudal state in the Xia and Shang periods, passed down through many generations, and was later destroyed by the Shang. Shi Bo of Zheng, Wei Zhao, the Records of the Grand Historian, and related ancient texts also record that Peng Zu was the third son of Lu Zhong, enfeoffed at Great Peng, and was therefore also called Peng Zu. Ma Xulun agreed with Kong Guangsen and others on this reading.

Zhuangzi, “Free and Easy Wandering,” says Peng Zu was famed for longevity, and Zhuangzi too seems to follow the legend that Peng Zu lived seven or eight hundred years; Xunzi offers a similar account. Yan Yuan’s talent was no worse than ordinary people’s, yet he lived only eighteen years. The record of “eighteen years” here appears in the Cang edition, the Sijie edition, and the Jifu edition.