《列子集释》Vol. 8

The Qin engraved Lu edition reads “forty-eight,” meaning forty-eight years of age; following the Northern Song edition and the Shide Tang edition, this is changed to “eighteen.” Hong Yi says that Gao You’s commentary on the “Spirit Training” chapter of Huainanzi records: “Yan Hui died at eighteen.” History of the Later Han, biography of Lang Yi, also says: “Formerly Yanzi at eighteen had the realm turn toward benevolent virtue.” Baopuzi, “Recluses” chapter, records that when Yan Hui died, Duke Ding of Lu intended to go in person to offer condolences and sent someone to ask Confucius. Ge Hong likewise held that Yan Yuan lived eighteen years, so one may infer he died while Duke Ding of Lu was on the throne.

Yang Bojun holds that ancient accounts of Yan Yuan’s lifespan disagree. Though legend makes him short-lived, on the more reliable evidence of Zuozhuan, Records of the Grand Historian, and the like, his age was surely more than eighteen. Still, since this passage is parable, adopting the shortest lifespan is unobjectionable.

Confucius’s virtue was not inferior to a feudal lord’s, yet he was besieged between Chen and Cai; King Zhou of Yin’s conduct fell short of the three humane men of the Shang, yet he occupied the throne. Yang Bojun says Analects, “The Viscount of Wei,” records: “The Viscount of Wei left; Jizi became a slave; Bi Gan remonstrated and died. Confucius said: ‘The Yin had three humane men.’”

Ji Zha held no rank in Wu. The commentary says Ji Zha was a descendant of Wu’s Taibo—worthy and yielding, he gave up the house and farmed; later he was enfeoffed at Yanling, hence “Yanling Jizi.” Tian Heng alone grasped Qi’s great power. Boyi and Shuqi starved on Mount Shouyang, while the Ji clan grew rich and Zhan Qin (Lord of Liu, i.e., Huì of Liú) remained in want.

If all this could be decided by your power, why did you grant long life to that man and early death to this one? Why leave sages in straits while the perverse prosper, the worthy base and fools honored, the good poor and the wicked rich?

“Power” said: “If things are really as you say, I originally had no merit toward the ten thousand things—so why are they the way they are? Did you arrange all this?”

The phrases “some live long while others die young, the sage is trapped while the perverse flourish, the worthy are scorned while fools are honored, the good are poor while the wicked are rich” mean that some people enjoy long life and others die early; those with virtue struggle while those who defy the Way rise; the worthy are looked down on while the foolish are respected; the good are impoverished while the evil grow wealthy.

“Fate” replied: “Since it is called ‘Fate,’ how could anyone be arranging it from behind the scenes? I only advance along what is straight and let what is crooked run its course. Length of life, success or failure, rank high or low, wealth or poverty—each arises just as it does. How would I know why they are so, and how could I control them?”

The commentary holds that this passage explains that all things have their own allotted span and lot, and that human scheming and force cannot steer everything. The Yang Zhu chapter of Liezi says people should follow their own nature and disposition, as if outcomes depended on human choice rather than on Fate. The two views seem to contradict each other, yet the rise and fall of affairs, people’s loves and hates, strife, and the tangle of true and false conduct—what ultimately causes all this is hard to pin down. Therefore the sage keeps both accounts without forcing a final verdict.

The aim is to uphold roles and ethical order while admitting that the roots of abuse cannot be eradicated entirely. Some rely on deceit and brute strength, trying to alter the times and Fate—as when the ruler of Chu asked about the royal tripods at the Zhou court, or when Wuzhi stirred rebellion in Qi. Others go against their innate nature for the sake of reputation—as when Bo Yi and Shu Qi starved on Mount Shouyang, or when Zhong You suffered execution by mincing in Wei. Liezi raises both extremes so that people may find a balance for themselves: those who use wit and action should not use power to overturn their proper place; those who prize reputation should not suppress their nature so harshly that they harm their own lives.

The main point of the discussion probably lies right here. Alas, how can anyone who reads this far fail to reflect on it carefully?

[Explanation] Ming refers to Heaven’s mandate (fate); li refers to human effort. Heaven’s mandate is what allows things to be accomplished; human effort is what moves affairs forward—hence the compound yun ming (“moving fate,” the interplay of mandate and effort).

Zhuangzi says: “When you see that something cannot be helped, calmly accept it and treat it as fate.” Human effort, too, has moments when it cannot work—so the reader should take this meaning to heart.

Confucius said, “At fifty I understood Heaven’s mandate,” and “Without understanding Heaven’s mandate, one cannot be a junzi (exemplary person).” Yet when Confucius traveled among the states looking for office, he even said he would be content to hold the whip (the groom who manages the reins)—which shows he had not forgotten human effort.

Yang Bojun notes: The commentary quotes Zhuangzi, “Renjian shi” (Human Affairs in the World), with er omitted after he. The Shide Tang edition wrongly writes si as yi, cun as qing, and xun as zhi—all textual errors.

Shiwen (pronunciation gloss) reads: e (evil/what is odious) with fanqie wu-lu; shi (fitting) as di; xun (to follow to the death) originally xun (to seek); hai (minced meat) as hai; kou (to knock) as kou.

Beigongzi said to Ximenzi: “You and I were born in the same age, yet others say you are the one who understands; we come from the same kind of background, yet others honor you; our looks are much alike, yet others are fond of you; we speak in similar ways, yet others take your words; our conduct is the same, yet others trust you; we hold the same rank in office, yet others treat you as the more noble; we farm the same way, yet others consider you wealthier; we trade the same way, yet others think you gain more.

“I wear short garments of coarse cloth, eat plain coarse grain, live in a simple hut of thatch, and go out on foot. You wear splendid brocade, eat fine rice and meat, live in a broad house with rafters joined in rows, and go out in a carriage drawn by four horses. At home you are always smiling, as if you harbor contempt for me in your heart; at court your expression is stern, as if you look down on me with arrogance and disdain.”

Note: “short garments of coarse cloth” renders tanshu (rough hemp or cotton clothing); “plain coarse grain” renders zili ( inferior food); “rafters joined in rows” renders lianli, describing a spacious, fine house; “four horses harnessed to a carriage” renders jiesi, a team of four for a noble’s carriage.

We visited each other but never managed to meet; when we traveled abroad, we never went together—this had gone on for many years. Did you think your virtue surpassed mine?

Xizi said: “I cannot know the reason for certain. Whenever you act, you run into obstacles; whenever I act, things go smoothly. Perhaps that is proof that virtue can be deep or shallow? Everything I do turns out well; everything you do runs into difficulty—the depth or shallowness of virtue shows in that. Yet you still claim you are my equal. That is thick-skinned indeed.”

Beigongzi had nothing to say. He went back ashamed. On the way he met Master Dongguo. Master Dongguo asked: “Why have you come back so soon? You walk alone, hesitating, with deep shame in your face—what happened?”

Beigongzi told the whole story. Master Dongguo said: “Let me lift this shame from you. I will go with you to Xi’s house and get a clear answer.” He asked Xizi: “Why did you humiliate Beigongzi so? Speak plainly.”

Xizi said: “Beigongzi said his family background, age, looks, and speech and conduct were much like mine—only rank and wealth differed. I told him I could not know the reason for certain; when he acts he always hits trouble, when I act things always go smoothly—perhaps that shows virtue is deep or shallow? Yet he still says he is my equal. That is thick-skinned indeed.”

Master Dongguo said: “The ‘deep and shallow’ you mean is only that talent and virtue differ in higher and lower degree; the ‘deep and shallow’ I mean is not the same as yours.”

Beigongzi (North Palace Master) possessed profound moral character yet met with a harsh fate; you enjoy a smooth fate, yet your character falls short of his. Your success was not won through wisdom; Beigongzi’s hardship was not caused by stupidity or lack of talent. All of this stems from fate (ming)—it has nothing to do with what a person does or how clever they are. The annotation explains that these outcomes arise naturally; they are not the product of human scheming or ability. You, however, take pride because your fate is favorable, while Beigongzi feels ashamed—traditionally read as ashamed because his virtue is deep. Commentators note that “ashamed because of deep virtue” does not fit the sense of the passage; Hu Huaichen proposed reading it as “ashamed because of a thin/meager fate.” Yang Bojun argued that the text uses “thick fate” to stand in for “thin virtue” and “deep virtue” for “thin fate”—a mutual echo common in classical prose. People fail to recognize this principle of how things simply are.

Ximenzi said: “Sir, please say no more! I dare not speak again.” The annotation states that this shows he understood the teaching and accepted it wholeheartedly. The exegesis holds that Ximenzi sought advancement and obtained a smooth path—that is fate; Beigongzi sought the same and did not get his wish—that too is fate. Those who do not understand fate boast; those who understand it have neither worry nor shame. Gain and loss have no connection to cleverness or foolishness, talent or character. Ximenzi fell silent because he saw that his smooth course came from fate and dared not credit it to his own virtue.

When Beigongzi returned home, he wore coarse hemp short garments yet felt as warm as if clad in fox or sable fur; he ate beans yet tasted them as though they were fine rice and millet. The annotation identifies “gou shu” as a kind of bean—also called ren shu or hu dou (hyacinth bean / broad bean).

If you gave him soybeans to eat, they tasted as sweet and satisfying as rice or millet. If you put him in a hut woven from coarse grass, he felt as comfortable as under the roof of a spacious hall. If he rode in a rough cart of brushwood, he felt as dignified as in a finely decorated carriage. All his life he was at ease and untroubled, not knowing whether honor and disgrace rested in others or in himself.

The commentary says: When someone truly understands how things work, they do not let the quantity of external things change their mind. The explanation adds that those who understand fate do not worry and feel no shame; likewise, they do not measure whether their own virtue is deep or shallow.

Mr. Dongguo heard this and said: “Master Beigong slept a long time, yet one sentence woke him—how easily he came to clarity!” The explanation takes “asleep” to mean not yet awakened in understanding; waking is simply like a person who naturally rouses at dawn.

Guan Yiwu (Guan Zhong) and Bao Shuya were bound by a very close friendship. Both lived in the state of Qi. Guan Zhong served Prince Jiu, while Bao Shuya served Prince Xiaobai. Within the Qi ducal house, many members enjoyed royal favor, and legitimate sons and bastard sons were treated almost equally, so the people feared that turmoil would break out.

Guan Zhong and Zhaohu accompanied Prince Jiu into exile in Lu, while Bao Shuya accompanied Prince Xiaobai into exile in Ju. Later, Gongsun Wuzhi launched a rebellion, killed Duke Xiang of Qi, and declared himself ruler; before long he was killed by the people of Qi. For a time Qi had no lord, and Prince Jiu and Prince Xiaobai each strove to return home and take the throne.

Near Ju, Guan Zhong fought Xiaobai in battle and drew his bow, striking Xiaobai’s belt hook. Xiaobai later ascended the throne and became Duke Huan of Qi. He compelled the state of Lu to put Prince Jiu to death; Zhaohu died for Prince Jiu, and Guan Zhong was taken prisoner.

Zhao Hu and Guan Zhong were enemies. Duke Huan of Qi wanted to seize Guan Zhong and personally mince him into paste to vent his hatred; otherwise he would destroy the state of Lu. Lu, feeling the threat, killed Prince Jiu. Zhao Hu took his own life, and Guan Zhong asked to be taken prisoner. Bao Shuyu said to Duke Huan: “Guan Yiwu (Guan Zhong) has talent and can govern the state.” The Shiwen notes that zhi (to govern) is read with the fanqie zhi-li.

Duke Huan said: “He is my enemy; I want to kill him.” Bao Shuyu replied: “I have heard that a worthy ruler does not harbor private grudges. Moreover, one who can devote himself to serving his lord can also serve another ruler. If you wish to achieve hegemony, you probably cannot do without Guan Yiwu. I beg you to spare him!” The Shiwen notes that wei is read with yu-wei, wang with yu-kuang, and she (to release/spare) is glossed as in the commentary’s reading.

Thereupon Duke Huan summoned Guan Zhong. Lu returned Guan Zhong to Qi; Bao Shuyu went to the border to meet him and removed his bonds. Duke Huan received him with courtesy. A comment explains that Bao personally met Guan at Tangfu, took off his shackles, and then presented him outside Qi’s capital. The location of Tangfu is disputed in older sources: Jia Kui said it was on Lu’s northern frontier; Du Yu placed it in eastern Qi; Bo Jun argued it was northwest of present-day Mengyin County in the Linyi region of Shandong, within Qi.

Guan Zhong’s standing in Qi was above that of the hereditary clans such as the Gao and Guo. Bao Shuyu willingly ranked himself below Guan Zhong; Duke Huan entrusted state affairs to Guan Zhong and honored him as Zhongfu (a title like “uncle” or senior mentor). The Shiwen notes that fu is read as fu. After this, Duke Huan achieved hegemony.

Guan Zhong once sighed and said: “When I was young and poor, Bao Shuyu and I did business together; when we divided the profits I often kept more for myself. Bao Shuyu did not think me greedy, because he knew I was poor.” The Shiwen notes that jia is read as gu.

I once made plans for Bao Shu, yet repeatedly fell into difficulty. Bao Shu did not consider me stupid; he knew that in the course of events there are times of smooth progress and times of setback. Three times I took office and three times I was dismissed by my lord; Bao Shu did not think I lacked talent or virtue—he knew I had not met with the right moment. Three times I went to battle and three times I retreated in defeat; Bao Shu did not think me cowardly—he knew I had an aged mother at home. When Prince Jiu failed, Zhaohu died for him, while I was imprisoned and disgraced. Bao Shu did not think me shameless; he knew I did not fixate on gains and losses in minor points of conduct, but took as shame that my achievements could not be displayed to the world. Wang Shumin notes that in the text cited in Du Fu’s Caotang Shijian, the word ming (name/reputation) is preceded by gong (merit/achievement), and the same is true in the Shiji, “Biographies of Guan and Yan,” and in Liu Xiang’s “Preface to the Guanzi.” Those who gave me life were my parents; the one who truly understood me was Bao Shu!

The world praises the deep friendship of Guan Zhong and Bao Shu, and also praises Duke Huan of Qi for knowing how to employ the capable. Yet in the final analysis there is nothing that can be called “skilled at friendship” or “skilled at employing talent” in a separate, higher sense—this is not to say there is some other, loftier way of befriending or appointing people. The commentary explains that what is being set forth here is that success and failure belong to fate (ming); the point is not limited to Guan Zhong, Bao Shu, and Duke Huan alone. The exegesis holds that Guan Zhong’s opportunity to act came because fate allowed him to gain his opening through friendship; being employed on the basis of talent is fate, while rising through friendship is human effort. When things go well, there is both the right season and human planning and exertion—but in the end all returns to fate. When fate arrived, Bao Shu could not but recommend him wholeheartedly, and Duke Huan could not but employ Guan Zhong; these too were matters of destiny. Zhaohu was not merely someone who could choose to die for his lord—fate compelled him to die.

Baoshu Ya did not deliberately promote the worthy; he was compelled by circumstances and had no choice but to recommend someone. Xiao Bai (Duke Huan of Qi) was not eager to employ his enemy Guan Zhong either—he simply had no alternative. The commentary holds that such events are propelled by hidden forces beyond human control, not by anyone’s deliberate will. Another reading is that fate works through power, and power in turn fulfills fate, with no private agenda in the mix.

When Guan Yiwu (Guan Zhong) was gravely ill, Xiao Bai came to see him and said, “Zhong Fu, your illness is very severe; we probably can no longer avoid speaking plainly…” “Cannot avoid taboo” here means the sickness is so advanced that one is at the point of death and must speak frankly. Different versions of the main text disagree on “bing bing yi” (illness upon illness); related textual research suggests the original may have read “ji bing” (serious illness): classical texts often use the paired expression “ji bing” to mean the condition is grave.

The particle ye added after “qi yu bu ji ruo” (that he does not treat others as his equals) follows a variant in the manuscript tradition, so that the phrasing matches the pattern of “qi wei ren ye” (as for the kind of person he is) below. The commentary text writes jie (pure, clean) as xie and notes that xie is to be read as jie (to tie, to bind).

Such a man holds that others are not his equal and refuses to measure himself against them. [Note] This means using his own strengths as the standard by which he judges all things. Yang Bojun notes: The “Gui Gong” chapter of Master Lü’s Spring and Autumn Annals has “bu bi yu ren” (not comparing with people), and Gao You’s commentary explains bi as “to compare, to measure.”

As soon as he hears that someone has done wrong, he remembers it for the rest of his life. [Note] This is the inability to let go of others’ flaws and to take their good points instead. The commentary says that xia (flaw) here is to be read as xia in the sense of “far” (i.e., holding a grudge at a distance over a long time).

If a person like this is put in charge of the state, he will constrain the ruler above and go against the people below. [Note] He is sure to invoke the ruler’s orders at every turn, so the way he handles affairs will not be broad or accommodating. When the Way is not broad, he will oppose the people and cannot win their allegiance. Wang Zhongmin says: In the “Xu Wugui” chapter of the Zhuangzi the text reads “zhi guo” (governing the state); here too it should read zhi (to govern)—the wording was altered to avoid a taboo character. The quotation in the Essentials of Government from the Book Compilation also has zhi. If he offends the ruler, he probably will not last long. [The Essentials of Government quotation has no ye.]

Duke Huan asked, “Then who can fill this post?” Guan Zhong replied, “If you must choose one man, Yin Peng (a grand officer of Qi) will do.” [Note] This does not mean that he always matches the ruler’s wishes in every detail—only that he is equal to the task. The commentary says that yin (Yin Peng’s surname) is to be read as xi.

In his conduct, though he stands in a high position he can forget his own rank, and the common people will not turn away from him. [Note] When one is high in office yet not self-important, there is no need to fear that subordinates will scatter. Wang Zhongmin says Zhang Zhan’s explanation is incorrect. The Zhuangzi has “shang wang er xia pan” (forgetting above while those below rebel); here an extra bu (not) has been inserted. Pan and puan (rebellion) are equivalent; here pan means conduct that is unrestrained and not according to rule. “Pan yan” is a common reduplicated form in old texts. The “Huang Yi” ode in the Book of Poetry has “pan yuan”; a note in the “Xuzhuan” section of the Book of Han cites “pan huan”; the “Wei Du fu” in Selections of Refined Literature has “pan huan.” There are also cases where only yan appears—for example, “nai yi nai yan” in the “Wu Yi” chapter of the Book of Documents, which the forged Kong commentary glosses as “unrestrained and not reverent”; and in the “Xianjin” chapter of the Analects, “You ye yan,” where Zheng Xuan’s note treats Zilu’s behavior as excessive and lacking in respect. There are also formulations that use only pan.

The Analects (Yongye) says: “When the gentleman broadly studies the classics and then holds himself in check with ritual, he need not stray from the proper path.” Here the word pan (to deviate or rebel) aligns with the Liezi phrase “forgetting one’s place above while those below turn away.” Zheng Xuan’s Commentary on the Odes glosses panyuan as domineering; the Han Odes tradition explains it as violent arrogance; Liu Yuanlin’s note on the Rhapsody on the Wei Capital says panhuan means unrestrained excess. Thus “forgetting above without rebellion below” means: not presuming on one’s high station toward those above, and not acting haughtily toward those below. Hence the next line: “Relying on one’s talent yet treating others with humility—such a person wins people’s hearts.” Guo Xiang’s comment on the Zhuangzi—“high in rank yet not arrogant”—hits precisely this point. Bo Jun notes that the Lüshi Chunqiu, “Esteeming Impartiality” chapter, has “aspiring above and seeking below” instead.

“Ashamed that one is not like the Yellow Emperor and grieving that others are not like oneself” means: feeling ashamed that one’s virtue falls short of the sages, and also pitying common people whose conduct falls short of one’s own. Such a person will not abandon anyone. The commentary says he is ashamed that his practice cannot match the sages, yet sympathizes with the people for not keeping pace with him, and therefore does not cast anyone aside. The exposition adds: forgetting one’s elevated rank and reflecting on one’s insufficient virtue steels the will to pursue the good; toward those who lag behind, one should show compassion—then subordinates will not turn away in disloyalty. Wang Chongmin points out that in the Qunshu Zhiyao quotation there is no qi after kui, and neither the Zhuangzi (Xu Wugui) nor the Lüshi Chunqiu (“Esteeming Impartiality”) has that character—usable as textual evidence.

Sharing virtue with others is called being a sage. The commentary says this is teaching others so they accord with the Way, not dominating or controlling them. Sharing wealth with others is called being a worthy; the commentary says that once wealth is given away, one becomes richer still. Placing one’s talent above others and demanding perfection from them—no one can win hearts that way. The commentary says that when one is harsh and exacting toward others, people naturally will not wish to draw near. Wang Chongmin notes that in the Qunshu Zhiyao quotation, the first ren (person) is followed by zhe (one who).

This passage explains the line that those who, though capable and worthy, humbly place themselves below others invariably win people’s hearts. Because the following clause contains the particle zhe (“those who…”), commentators infer that the preceding line originally had zhe as well. The corresponding passages in Zhuangzi lack these two zhe characters—a textual difference between Zhuangzi and Liezi; that difference can also be read the other way around: the upper line in Liezi may indeed have originally included zhe.

“Those who rise and fall with things—things are sure to come to them” means that one who adapts to change and advances or retreats together with the myriad things will inevitably find the ten thousand things gathering to him. In ancient citations and commentaries, after the word gui (“return / gather to”) there also appear the two characters zhi ye (“to him indeed”).

“As for the state, there are things he does not hear; as for the household, there are things he does not see” means that in governing the state one need not inquire into every matter, and in managing the household one need not detect every small fault. The commentary explains that when the way of governance is fully realized, one need not rely on what reaches the ears and eyes—as the proverb puts it: “Neither blind nor deaf can one accomplish great affairs.” The point is not to obstruct others’ actions by insisting on hearing and seeing everything oneself. Guo Xiang explains: if the ruler hears and sees everything, affairs pile entirely on him and those below have no room to act; therefore one must let go to some extent—though when the way of governance is not yet fully realized, one can only go this far.

“Not hearing in the state” means not being excessively strict about conduct that accords with ordinary human feelings; “not seeing in the household” means not pursuing minor faults among family members. Thus Guan Yiwu (Guan Zhong) did not fail to value Bao Shuya—he had to keep some distance; nor did he especially favor Suipeng (Xianpeng)—he had to treat him generously. One may be generous at first and later keep distance, or distant at first and later generous.

Tao Hongqing argued that the phrase “being slighted at the end, or honored at the beginning” should be emended to “being slighted at the beginning, or honored at the end.” Read as the text now stands, it merely repeats the sense of the two preceding lines.

When generous treatment or cold neglect in human relations will arrive is not something one can decide for oneself. The commentary takes all of this as Heaven’s principle (tianli). It explains that Guan Zhong (Yiwu) had no original intent to honor or slight anyone: whoever Gongsun Wuzhi recommended received favor; whoever went unrecommended was left in the cold—yet these outcomes still hinged on what people did. That Duke Huan in the end did not employ Bao Shuya was Bao Shuya’s allotted fate (mingshu); that he did employ Yin Peng was Yin Peng’s allotted fate. Had Bao Shuya lacked that fate, the result would not have changed even if Guan Zhong had not pressed his recommendation; had Yin Peng lacked that fate, Guan Zhong’s strenuous recommendation would have availed nothing.

Deng Xi, a thinker from the state of Zheng in the Spring and Autumn period, was skilled at framing arguments that could plausibly go either way. In this context, the term cao (as in the skill or “handling” of such rhetoric) is read with the pronunciation indicated by the fanqie gloss “qi-dao”; liang ke zhi shuo (“doctrine of both sides being admissible”) means presenting both “yes” and “no,” right and wrong, as if each were equally reasonable.

Both the Liezi and the Xunzi say that Zi Chan had Deng Xi executed, but the Zuozhuan records that Zi Chan died in the twentieth year of Duke Zhao of Lu, while Deng Xi was killed by Si Chuan in the ninth year of Duke Ding of Lu—and Si Chuan adopted the bamboo penal code that Deng Xi had devised. On the Zuozhuan account, then, it was not Zi Chan who killed Deng Xi.

Ren Dachun observed that the story that Zi Chan killed Deng Xi appears in many works, not only the Xunzi and the Liezi. The “Li Wei” chapter of the Lüshi Chunqiu states that when Zi Chan governed Zheng, Deng Xi constantly challenged him in disputation. When people wanted to go to court, Deng Xi charged clothing as his fee according to the size of the case: one garment for a major suit, a short jacket and vegetables for a minor one. Those who brought clothes and came to learn litigation from him were too many to count. Deng Xi inverted right and wrong and had no fixed standard of judgment; what was permissible or forbidden shifted with the situation. Whomever he wanted to win, he helped win; whomever he wished to punish, he framed with charges. Zheng fell into great disorder and the people talked endlessly. Zi Chan, worried by this, executed Deng Xi and exposed his corpse as a public warning, after which the people submitted.

The “Quyan xun” chapter of the Huainanzi says Deng Xi was eloquent but disrupted the legal order. Gao You’s commentary explains that Deng Xi taught the people of Zheng to litigate so that neither side would yield, and therefore Zi Chan killed him. Yang Jing, commenting on the “Zhenglun” chapter of the Xunzi, likewise cites the Xinxu in terms largely matching the Lüshi Chunqiu: Deng Xi taught people to quarrel in court and reversed right and wrong; Zheng was thrown into chaos; Zi Chan then moved against him, put him to death, and order was restored.

The claim that Deng Xi was not killed by Zi Chan appears earliest in Zhang Zhan’s commentary on the Liezi passage in this chapter where it says “soon he was executed.”

In Zhang Zhan’s commentary it says: “Zi Chan killed Deng Xi. Then the state of Zheng attacked Deng Xi and put him to death, after which the people submitted and right and wrong were finally clarified.” This belongs to the same type of account. The view that Deng Xi was not killed by Zi Chan first appears in Zhang Zhan’s note on the phrase “soon afterward he was executed” in this chapter of the Liezi.

Zhang Zhan says: “Zi Chan killed Deng Xi. The Zuozhuan says that Si Zhuan killed Deng Xi and adopted his bamboo penal code; Deng Xi died more than twenty years after Zi Chan’s death.” Jingshun’s Shiwen (Textual Notes) reckons from this that Zi Chan died in the twentieth year of Duke Zhao, and Si Zhuan killed Deng Xi in the ninth year of Duke Ding—so Deng Xi died twenty years after Zi Chan. In the commentary on the “Bu Gou” chapter of the Xunzi, it likewise says: “The Zuozhuan records that Si Zhuan of Zheng killed Deng Xi and adopted his bamboo penal code; yet some say Zi Chan executed Deng Xi—probably an error.” Liang’s note and Jingshun’s Shiwen both follow Zhang Zhan’s commentary.

“Setting forth inexhaustible arguments, while Zi Chan held office, he made the bamboo penal code.” This means: Deng Xi kept advancing endless disputatious arguments; while Zi Chan was in power he formulated the bamboo penal code. The bamboo penal code was penal provisions written on bamboo slips. Lu Wenchao thought the note’s “bamboo penal code, simplified law” (zhu xing, jian fa) might should read “bamboo-slip penal law” (zhu jian xing fa). Bo Jun held that Lu had not grasped Zhang Zhan’s point; Zhang Zhan was probably using “simplified law” (jian fa) to gloss “bamboo penal code” (zhu xing).

Zheng adopted the bamboo penal code. Deng Xi repeatedly criticized Zi Chan’s governance; Zi Chan could not refute him, so he had him seized and dealt with, and before long put him to death. Here shu is read as shuo, meaning repeatedly; nan is read nai dan qie, meaning to challenge or criticize.

The commentary adds that this chapter of the Liezi records Zi Chan as killing Deng Xi, whereas the Zuozhuan records Si Zhuan as killing Deng Xi and adopting his bamboo penal code; Deng Xi died twenty years after Zi Chan’s death. Bo Jun held that the two characters Zi Chan in “Zi Chan seized and … him” are an intrusion influenced by the preceding text; lu zhi (put him to death) and zhu zhi (executed him) repeat the same idea, and he suspected lu should be ju, meaning to detain or arrest.

When the Taiping Yulan (Imperial Readings) cites this passage in juan 626, it omits the eight-character line about Zichan enforcing the law and putting someone to death. The compilers probably found that line hard to understand and cut it according to their own guess; that already shows how long these textual corruptions have existed.

The Shiwen (Textual Notes) says that lu (to kill/execute) should be read as liu; some editions have a different written form. Chuan is another reading for a corrupted graph. Zu should be read with the fanqie zi-lü, that is, as zu. From this it appears that Zichan was not in a position where he could impose the bamboo penal code—he had to impose it; Deng Xi was not in a position where he could make Zichan yield—he had to yield; Zichan was not in a position where he could execute Deng Xi—he had to execute him.

[Note] The argument and examples in this chapter match those in the previous one.

[Commentary] Enacting laws depends on power (shi); being put to death is a matter of fate (ming). Applying laws likewise depends on power; killing the person is likewise a matter of fate. Striving at an undertaking depends on ability (cai); having ability yet not meeting the right moment is likewise a matter of fate.

Note: The Northern Song edition, Wang’s edition, and the Shide Hall edition all omit the word for “chapter”; it is restored here from the Cang edition.

To be able to live and yet live, … [Note] Perhaps those who accumulate virtue and practice benevolence and righteousness …

Commentators say that surviving when one is in circumstances where survival is possible may mean having accumulated merit through good deeds, or it may mean that the times run favorably—so one enjoys present happiness and fulfills one’s aims, which looks like reward for goodness or like something won by talent. This is heaven’s gift of fortune. They also say it may simply mean living on naturally and dwelling in peace naturally, not necessarily because of benevolence or ability. Still, if one is consistently sincere and upright, realizes one’s aims, and passes life without worry or harm, how else can such blessing be explained if not as heaven’s gift?

Commentators say that dying when one is in circumstances where death is fitting may mean doing evil and violence, or hunger and cold hardship; because one no longer heeds punishment or no longer clings to survival, one ends in death—something that looks self-invited or like the natural course of events. This too is heaven’s gift of fortune. They also say it may simply mean dying naturally and falling into distress naturally, not necessarily because of brutality or weakness. Yet if one indulges a brutal heart and is in a situation where one no longer relies on survival, and still ends in death, then dying as one ought can likewise be called heaven’s gift.

The commentary gives examples: surviving when one is in a time and place where one can survive is heaven’s gift; dying when one ought to die is equally heaven’s gift. For instance, Guan Zhong (Yiwu) sought to live in Duke Huan of Qi’s age and finally preserved his life—this can be called receiving heaven’s fortune. Again, Chu Ni struck the locust tree and died: he neither disgraced his lord’s charge nor harmed the worthy man, achieved a death that completed his integrity, and left an undying name—this too can be called receiving heaven’s fortune.

Not surviving when one is in circumstances where one could survive—commentators say this is being amid glory and ease, wishing for long life yet dying early. This is called heaven’s punishment: wanting to live but unable to live, hence the name heavenly punishment.

Not dying when one is in circumstances where one should die—commentators say this is being in hardship and humiliation, unwilling to live on, yet still unable to die.

The commentary notes that in various editions there is no character jiu (“long-lasting”) before sheng (“life” or “to live”). “Heaven’s punishment” (tianfa) means this: one who originally scorns death yet cannot die when one seeks death—this is called heaven’s punishment.

The commentary also says that “one may die yet does not die” refers to being in straits and disgrace, unwilling to live on, yet unable to die. [Interpretation:] To dwell in ease and honor in high station, yet though one could live one cannot go on living—as with someone like Dong Xian; or to be in hardship and shame, yet though one could die one cannot die—as with someone like the “human pig.” Whether one seeks life or seeks death, if neither wish is granted, both count as heaven’s punishment.

“One may live, one may die; obtaining life or obtaining death—such cases exist.” The gloss takes this as when one ought to live one can live, when one ought to die one can die. The text later adds: “One may not live, one may not die; sometimes dying, sometimes living—such cases exist.” The gloss explains: one who should live dies instead; one who should die lives instead.

The original and the commentary, however, hold that these two lines repeat what came before and may be a copyist’s mistake. Tao Hongqing argues that the two bu (“not”) in “one may not live, one may not die” are redundant; the line should read, “One may live, one may die; sometimes dying, sometimes living—such cases exist”—that is, one who could live may die; one who could die may live. Zhang Zhan’s comment likewise shows that the version he knew had no such bu characters.

Whether people live or die is neither ruled by outer things nor settled by oneself; all is the disposition of fate (ming), beyond what wisdom can grasp or alter. The commentary says: since the way of life and death cannot be measured, death is not wrought by external things and life is not held in one’s own hand—how could human wisdom answer to that?

A person is neither ruled by external things nor fully master of themselves; wisdom cannot push fate forward, and strength cannot alter whether things succeed or fail—only then can one calmly leave things to fate. [Note: The Yuan edition reads “ru” (as if); the Shide Tang edition reads “bi” (must).] Death is not decided by external things, and life is not held in one’s own hands—can wisdom foretell that?

Deep and boundless, the Dao of Heaven moves of itself; silent and undivided, the Dao of Heaven turns on its own. [Note: “Boundless and undivided” is the utmost of the natural; the Dao of Heaven joins and runs by itself—what need is there for force to drive it?]

Though Heaven and Earth are vast, they cannot violate the natural; though sages are wise, they cannot go against the times; though ghosts and spirits are strange, they cannot deceive what is real. Nature silently completes the myriad things and settles them in peace and quiet; it draws them on and meets them so that affairs unfold as nature intends. [Note: “Silent” (mo) here means wuwei (non-action), not imposing; “ping zhi ning zhi” means making things level and tranquil without deliberate contrivance; “jiang zhi ying zhi” describes how natural efficacy misses nothing, as if guiding and welcoming the myriad things.]

[Commentary] If one can align with the Dao and rest in fate, even Heaven and Earth cannot oppose it; even sage wisdom cannot interfere. When one applies things aptly and responds with ease, even ghosts and spirits cannot deceive—how much more so the affairs of the human world?

Ji Liang, a friend of Yang Zhu, fell gravely ill. After seven days his condition grew still more critical. His son gathered around him weeping and sent for physicians to treat him.

Ji Liang said to Yang Zhu: “My son is so lacking in understanding—why do you not sing a song to wake him up?”

Yang Zhu sang:

“Heaven itself does not fathom a person’s ming (allotted fate); how could people see it clearly? Heaven has not singled me out for special blessing, nor have I brought disaster on myself through fault; this illness is simply what ming decrees. I, you—we still do not know the reason; physicians, shamans—how could they know?”

Ji Liang’s son did not grasp the meaning of Yang Zhu’s song and still went far and wide to summon three physicians. In the song, ming refers to the fixed course of a person’s life, death, fortune, and misfortune; Yang Zhu meant that even he and Ji Liang could not foretell how the illness would run or whether they would live or die, so physicians and shamans could not know either.

The first physician was named Jiao, the second Yu, and the third Lu; they examined Ji Liang in that order. Jiao said, “You have failed to regulate cold and warmth properly, and the balance between deficiency and excess in your body is off. Your illness comes from eating without moderation—now going hungry, now overfull—and from indulging in sexual desire, thinking too much, and letting your heart-mind grow restless and scattered. This sickness is neither heaven’s decree nor the work of ghosts and spirits. Though it is getting worse step by step, it can still be treated.”

Ji Liang said, “These doctors are all quacks—send them away at once!”

Yu said, “From the time you were in the womb you received too little of the primordial Qi (yuanqi); after birth you were given too much milk. Your disease did not arise overnight; the root of it goes far back, and it cannot be cured.”

Ji Liang said, “This one is a real physician—give him a meal!”

Lu said, “Your illness is caused neither by heaven, nor by human action, nor by ghosts and spirits. When a person is born, a body is given and life begins; there are those who create the conditions for disease, and there are those who can discern what the illness truly is.”

Whether a person lives or dies, and whether their lifespan is long or short, are all determined by the natural principle of Wuwei (non-action). The ignorant find this puzzling; those who penetrate the subtle principle can grasp it. What can drugs and acupuncture needles do to you? Ji Liang said: “He is truly a divine physician—give him generous gifts and send him on his way!” Before long, Ji Liang’s illness cleared up on its own.

Lu believed that Ji Liang’s affliction was an illness arising from Shen (spirit). What Shen produces can be favorable or unfavorable; the physical form is the vessel that receives Shen’s governance, and Shen can determine the condition of the form. Before the form has even fully manifested, Shen already knows; when Shen and Qi are insufficient, the form weakens accordingly. Long life or short life, beauty or ugliness—all are fixed by inborn endowment and bodily constitution. How could drugs and needles change that? Ji Liang regarded Lu as a divine physician because Lu cultivated spirit and nurtured virtue, and the illness healed by itself.

Life is not preserved simply because one is treated with honor, nor does the body become strong simply because it is cherished. Life does not necessarily end early because one is treated with contempt, nor does the body necessarily weaken because it is regarded lightly. Some who are honored do not survive; some who are scorned do not die. Some who are cherished never grow strong; some who are slighted are not necessarily weak. This may seem to defy common sense, but it is not really so: life has its own coming and going, and the body has its own strength and weakness.

Sometimes one survives because of honor; sometimes one dies because of contempt. Sometimes the body grows strong through care; sometimes it weakens through neglect. This may look like the working of human sentiment, but that is not the whole story either: the changes of life and body each follow their own course.

Xiong Yu (traditionally said to be King Wen of Zhou’s teacher) said to King Wen: “Human lifespan does not increase because one deliberately prolongs it, nor decrease because one deliberately shortens it. What can human scheming change?”

The commentary holds that if one understands that body and fate each have their allotted measure, one will not judge them by personal likes and dislikes. People may be honored, cherished, or despised in different ways, yet the body’s strength, weakness, longevity, or early death are not decided by those feelings. Thus outcomes sometimes seem favorable and sometimes contrary, but neither can simply be called “following” or “going against” the way things are. A person’s stature or appearance is not altered by love or hate; this is what scheming cannot control.

Laozi said to Guan Yin (traditionally the keeper of Hangu Pass, Yin Xi): “What Heaven dislikes—who can know the reason?” Wang Bi’s commentary says: “Who can know Heaven’s intent? Perhaps only the sage.”

If one constantly guesses at Heaven’s will and calculates gain and loss, one does better to follow nature. Aligning with Heaven’s principle without clinging to personal calculation, neither ghosts nor spirits can harm one, and human affairs can hardly bind one. If one flatters what one imagines to be Heaven’s will, weighs fortune and misfortune, and seeks benefit while avoiding harm, one places oneself in opposition between “following” and “going against,” benefit and harm. That is merely clever use of intellect; it still cannot keep good and ill from arising, nor make fortune and disaster vanish at once.

Those who do not understand the Way—how can they know what Heaven loves or hates? If they anticipate Heaven’s intent in advance and reckon benefit and harm by personal preference, they cannot act in accord with principle and accept fate in peace. This chapter shows that human power cannot override fate, and fate cannot be known in advance: leave things as they are, and the outcome often appears only afterward; force matters with effort, and one may instead go against fate. The commentary adds that those who cultivate the Way nurture spirit and preserve truth, and transform fate at the very start of karmic formation—they use their own power to resonate with Heaven’s mandate.

Yang Bu (Yang Zhu’s younger brother) asked: “There are people whose ages are about the same, whose family background and wealth are comparable, whose abilities are similar, and whose looks resemble one another—they are like brothers to each other. Yet in how long they live, how high or low they stand, whether their names are honored or disgraced, and whether others love or hate them, they differ as greatly as father and son. I am puzzled by this.”

Yangzi said: “The ancients had a saying—I remember it and would like to tell it to you: when you do not know why something is so, that is fate (ming). In the world today things are dark and confused, hard to fathom; people sometimes act one way and sometimes another; days pass and return—who can make out the reason? All of this is fate.”

People who do not understand things that arise of themselves treat them as “just the way things are”; the world is dim and unclear, the sun sets and rises again, and the cycle never ends—so people take all of this as ming (fate/destiny).

Those who trust in fate no longer fuss over whether life is long or short, for if long and short still differed, one could not say one fully leaves things to fate. Those who trust in li (principle/order) no longer cling to right and wrong; if dispute over right and wrong remained, one could not say one fully follows principle. Those who trust in the xin (heart-mind) no longer split things into favorable and adverse; those who trust in xing (nature/innate disposition) no longer weigh safety against danger. Such a person has nothing fixed to believe in and nothing fixed to disbelieve—only then is one truly simple and sincere. Where still to go, and to what place? Why grieve, why rejoice? What must be done, and what must not? If one can follow principle without private intent, there is nothing one absolutely must do and nothing one absolutely must not do.

Long life and early death belong to ming; right and wrong belong to li; favorable and adverse belong to xin; safety and danger belong to xing. If one trusts ming, li, xin, and xing, one is no longer pulled by the distinctions of long and short, right and wrong, favorable and adverse, safe and dangerous; not clinging to belief or disbelief is to reach the true Dao. This is what is called the ultimate Dao.

The Huangdi shu (Book of the Yellow Emperor) says: “The zhiren (person of utmost attainment) in stillness is like one dead; in movement, like one who has been startled.” This speaks of the utmost of the state of wuxin (no fixed heart-mind/no deliberate mind). Commentators hold that the character for “device/fetter” in the received text does not fit the sense and may should read “startled/frightened”—meaning to move as if shaken into motion.

“Sitting quietly as if dead, moving as if startled”—this is what is meant by “the maiden and the bolted hare”: still as an untouched maiden, in motion like a hare that has broken free. Wang Shumin holds that Yu Yue’s reading is mistaken. The perfected person (zhiren, one who has attained the Way) does not let intentional thoughts arise in the mind, so in stillness he is like dead ashes; the body is like withered wood, and in movement he likewise seems to lack perception and autonomous intent, like a passive mechanism. That “in movement he is like a mechanism” fits the wording of the passage. The comment that “this cites the utmost of having no mind” (wuxin) is exactly that point. The character read as jie can also stand in for “mechanism” (xie); to gloss it as “frightened” (hai) misses the original sense. Zhuangzi, “Gengsang Chu,” says one moves without knowing what one is doing—a idea close to “moving like a mechanism.” The pronunciation gloss records xie with the reading hu jie qie, and some recensions write jie where others write the homophone used for “mechanism.”

The perfected person neither knows why he sits quietly nor why he does not; neither knows why he moves nor why he does not. He does not alter expression and bearing because the crowd is watching him, nor does he deliberately hold himself unchanged because the crowd is not watching. The gloss means that he does not let outward seeing and hearing shift his ordinary state. Tao Hongqing argues that the line “nor does he change his expression and bearing because the crowd does not watch” should read “nor because the crowd watches”—the “does not watch” in received texts is a later scribal addition. Zhang Zhan’s commentary shows that in the text he had, both lines spoke of “the crowd watching.” The extra negative particle in today’s wording varies the letter but makes the sense redundant. Wang Chongmin notes that wei and yue were interchangeable in early usage; from Zhang Zhan’s gloss, the version he used had wei. The pronunciation gloss likewise gives yue as wei and notes the reading.

“He comes and goes alone, enters and leaves alone—who can obstruct him?” The gloss: as outer things come and go, he comes and goes with them; he allows the ten thousand things to enter and leave, so nothing blocks him. The exegesis adds: “sits as if dead” because of no mind; “moves like a mechanism” because of operating the inner springs.

Four people live together in the world, each acting according to their own inclinations. They spend the whole year in one another’s company, yet never grasp what the others are thinking; each still believes their own understanding is profound.

The types meant here are qiaoning (those skilled at fine words and flattery), yuzhi (those who seem dull but are plain and upright), anzhuo (whose bearing looks stiff and abrupt, or who take long to catch on and seem not to understand), and bianpi (whose words and conduct are nimble in social give-and-take and good at fitting in). Commentaries differ on how to read and pronounce “anzhuo”; the accounts given here all describe either outward manner or a state of not understanding what is meant.

“Bianpi” (overly deferential bearing) means excessive modesty and respect—so deferential that it feels unnatural. Four people travel together in the world, each acting entirely on their own inclinations; they go a whole year without teaching one another their skills, each convinced that his own mind is especially clever.

“[Character]” describes someone stubborn, perverse, and narrow-minded. Qin Enfu holds that, on the basis of glosses in the Wenxuan and the Fangyan, this graph should be read as connected with jiao (cunning). Ruan Xiaozu says that “[double character]” denotes the look of someone who keeps his schemes hidden inside.

“Qinglu” (feelings laid bare) means that one’s mood and purpose show on the surface, with nothing held back. Here “ji” (in some versions written “[character]”) describes slow, halting speech. Yu Zhengxie explains that “[double character]” refers to stuttering; “[character]” carries the sense of urgency. People who stutter often want to speak quickly, yet what comes out of the mouth will not run smoothly—hence it is also called “jian [character]” or “jianchi” (stuttering). The Zhubing yuanhou lun (Treatise on the Origins and Manifestations of All Diseases) holds that when yin and yang are out of balance and the qi of the viscera is insufficient, stuttering may result; the tongue communicates with heart-qi, the mouth with spleen-qi, and if pathogenic influences affect the relevant organs and channels so that qi is obstructed, speech may likewise be impeded. The scripture also says that this condition can sometimes be treated.

The Yiqie Jing Yinyi (Glossary of All Scriptures) cites the Tongsu Wen (Popular Writings), which states that speech that does not flow smoothly is called jian chi—meaning difficulty in articulation and a tendency to stutter. People in antiquity held that such conditions might arise when perverse qi disturbed the proper channels and qi became blocked, and they also believed they could be treated.

The Shiwen (Textual Notes) gives pronunciations for the relevant characters and cites the Zilin and Fangyan for glosses: characters such as chi could describe hurried or stuttering speech, or swift action and an impatient temperament; some graphic variants look similar but are not necessarily all correct. Ren Datun cites an example from the "Fu" chapter of the Xunzi showing that ji sometimes interchangeably reads as ji in the sense of urgency, so related characters might also be written with ji.

Ling sui means relying on one’s position to bully and revile others; ne is slow or dull speech, se is halting or obstructed utterance, and bian gei means quick and agile in debate. Taken together, these terms describe various aspects of how people speak.

Four people may move through the world together, each following only their own inclinations; year after year they fail to understand or communicate with one another, yet each believes they have fully exercised their talents.

Mian and ni here describe a lack of vigor and dullness of spirit. The Fangyan notes that ni can also mean to slight or mock someone with words, or to describe someone as obtuse; Guo Pu glosses it as belittling or ridiculing others verbally. Ren Datun points out that in the current text one character is written as mian.

In dialect, mianni describes someone who is not quick to understand and not agile in response. The character for mian in ancient editions varies; in old commentaries a different graph was read as “to look,” which does not fit here. In the Shiwen (phonetic glosses), the mian marked with the rising tone may be an intrusive or mistaken character. Zhuiwei means affairs that are tedious and burdensome, or people who shift responsibility onto one another and become mutually entangled.

Yonggan denotes boldness, vigor, and fearlessness in decision; qiéyí denotes weakness, caution, and wavering in judgment.

Four people live together in the world, each acting as their own heart inclines. Year after year they do not reproach one another for faults or expose one another’s flaws, because each holds that his own way of acting is fitting and without error.

“No lì” means that there is no clash between them; “duō ǒu” means being skilled at living in harmony with others; “zì zhuān” means deciding for oneself and not taking counsel with the crowd; “chéng quán” means acting by leaning on power and position; “zhǐ lì” means standing alone in solitary independence.

These four kinds of people live together in the world, each following their own heart-mind. Even if for a whole year they never once look at one another, they still feel that this is entirely as it should be. All of these are different ways of conducting oneself in life. Though outward behavior is not the same, it all comes back to ming (fate).

Commentators hold that it is not reasonable to treat every difference—whether crafty scheming, clever speech, dull stupidity, fawning compliance, or blunt integrity—as simply “fixed by fate.” Some think people differ because the qi (vital energy) they inherit is thick or thin, and that apart from handing everything over to Heaven there is nothing to be done. That is not a sound view. Those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) nourish spirit (shen), keep to their authentic root, adjust the heart-mind, and change themselves. The human form is shaped by oneself; through earnest practice one can also alter ming; all of this is the work of continually advancing life.

So if one judges ming by bodily form, human effort seems weaker than ming; if one tests bodily form by human effort, ming in turn seems weaker than human effort.

What looks as if it is about to succeed is only seeming success, not real success. What is called guiguai (the look of something almost there, not yet fully achieved) refers to exactly this state; qiao here means xiao—resemblance, likeness. Conversely, what looks as if it is about to fail is only seeming failure, not real failure.

When something is on the point of completion but not completed, it merely resembles success; when ruin seems imminent but has not arrived, it merely resembles failure. People often speak of “almost obtaining” or “almost losing,” but in terms of how things actually work, there is no fixed, graspable “almost.”

Therefore delusion often arises from what seems right but is not: people take seeming success for true success and seeming failure for true failure, without seeing where the confusion comes from. When things stand at a similar turning point, they are often hard to tell apart; if one can still see clearly amid such resemblance, that counts as wisdom.

Such a person is not alarmed by external misfortune, nor elated by inner good fortune. Misfortune and blessing have no genuine inner–outer split; both are subtle changes that follow their own constant pattern. When people see something happen suddenly, they say calamity comes from outside; when they see it emerge gradually, they say blessing forms from within. Things move and stop as the moment demands; human wisdom cannot fully know this.

Those who truly understand how things work can grasp human nature, penetrate the subtle principles of things, and also see where human effort comes from and how fate takes shape. Because of this, external misfortune does not alarm them, and inner good fortune does not elate them; whether they move or stay still, they follow the circumstances of the time and need not deliberately deploy schemes and plans. Those who trust in fate make no distinction between themselves and others.

Those who do distinguish between self and others would do better to blind their eyes and stop their ears—even with their backs to a slope and faces toward empty ground, they would not fall. The point of this image is that relying on clever scheming is inferior to following what is natural. If one can cease dividing self from other, fortune and misfortune, regret, and worry will not arise; if one cannot know fate and accord with principle, then at least by carefully preserving oneself and avoiding harm one can still escape overturning and falling. Thus people in the world always want to seek outcomes by their own strength, yet cannot entrust the result to fate.

Therefore it is said that life and death depend on fate. If life and death were not decided by fate, then the benevolent and wise would necessarily live long, and the cruel and foolish would necessarily die young—but things are not necessarily so. Poverty and hardship depend on the turn of fortune; if they were not decided by fortune, then the diligent and frugal would necessarily be rich, and the extravagant and lazy would necessarily be poor—but that too is not necessarily so.

Zixia said, “Life and death are a matter of fate; wealth and honor depend on Heaven.” Here “Heaven” means the turn of fortune. When yang qi is warm and all things flourish, a sage appears and enables living beings to be at ease and to thrive. What is established from within oneself is called “fate”; what comes along with change is called “the times.”

Tao Hongqing holds that “poverty and wealth” (pin fu) should replace the reading “poverty” (pin qiong), so that the line aligns with the earlier statement that “life and death are a matter of fate” (si sheng zi ming ye). Zhang Zhan’s commentary also indicates that the version he saw originally had “poverty and wealth.” The current text was probably altered under the influence of the phrase “those who resent poverty” (yuan pin qiong zhe) in what follows. The Shiwen records that some versions read “wealth and rank depend on timing” (fu gui zi shi ye), meaning that poverty, wealth, and high or low status each have their own season of fortune.

Those who resent dying young do not understand fate; those who resent being poor do not understand the turn of fortune. The commentary explains that such people fail to grasp the principle of nature (ziran zhi li). Not fearing death when one should die, and not grieving when one is in straits—this is understanding fate and resting in the right moment. The Jie commentary says that to understand fate and be at ease with fortune is a very high virtue. When the season of fortune arrives, it cannot be refused in every case; when fate arrives, it cannot be evaded. Therefore, resting in fortune and yielding to change, sorrow and joy cannot disturb the inner mind. People are confused because they do not see how things resemble one another, and they grieve because they do not understand the turn of fortune.

If the clever person weighs benefit and harm, judges what is empty and what is real, and gauges human motives, then whether the guess is right or wrong, there is half a chance either way. The commentary says that “zhong” (to hit the mark) here means half. The somewhat less clever person does not weigh benefit and harm, does not judge empty and real, and does not gauge human motives—yet still has half a chance of guessing right. What difference is there between weighing and not weighing, judging and not judging, gauging and not gauging? The Jie says: whenever one estimates affairs under heaven, to be right five times out of ten counts as skill in estimation; one who does not estimate can still be right half the time—what difference does that make?

Only when one does not deliberately measure everything— the commentary says this means not letting deliberate thought (zhilü) be driven by external demands—and also does not reject what deliberate thought can know— the commentary says this means letting deliberate thought use what it knows as it will—can one preserve the self without loss.

The Shiwen (Interpretation of Characters) states that wang is to be read as wu (non-being); that sang is read with the fanqie xi-lang (the same below); and that zhi is to be read as zhì (wisdom)—the same for zhi sang below. What is meant here is not wisely preserving oneself, nor wisely bringing about one’s own loss, but preserving and losing in a purely natural way.

【Comment】 Preserving oneself naturally is not something achieved by deliberate intent; perishing naturally is not something that happens only because one’s conduct was at fault.

【Exposition】 Even if one toils with the mind and exhausts thought, one can foresee at most half of what will happen—far less than not foreseeing at all and letting life remain whole of itself. Those who strain the spirit with calculation do not understand Heaven’s decree; those who foresee nothing at all fail to understand their own capacity. Yet not understanding one’s own capacity brings one closer to the Dao—the fundamental pattern by which things run of themselves. Therefore one should set aside the former and take the latter.

Yu Yue held that the three words zi wang ye (“of oneself perishing”) may be interpolations. The preceding passage says: “Only by neither measuring nor measuring the fact that one does not measure can one preserve oneself and avoid loss; this is neither wise preservation nor wise loss.” In that passage quan (wholeness/preservation) and sang (loss) are paired opposites. Here, “of oneself wholly preserved, of oneself lost”—the sense is already complete; adding “of oneself perishing” no longer matches the wording above. He surmised that these three characters were mistakenly inserted during copying because three wang characters appear in close succession in the earlier text; in that earlier passage wang always stands for wu (non-being), not for wang in the sense of ruin or death. The Shiwen also notes that xing is read with the fanqie xia-meng.

Duke Jing of Qi went sightseeing at Mount Niu, which lay in the Linzi region of Qi at the time. Standing on the north side and looking down on the capital, he wept and said: “How beautiful this state is! The plants are lush and the scenery is rich and green. Yet why must I leave this place and die? If no one in the world ever died, could I then leave here and go somewhere else?”

A marginal note explains that qianqian describes thick, flourishing vegetation; the word didi differs among textual versions, and some manuscripts read pangpang, which can describe great, rushing water. Lu Wenchuo noted that in the copy he used the characters for didi at this point were unclear; Ren Dachun examined the pronunciation of these variant readings. After Duke Jing finished speaking, Shi Kong, Liangqiu Ju, and others wept along with him. A note states that “Shi Kong” appears in another version as “Ai Kong.”

I owe it to Your Majesty’s favor that I can eat coarse grain and ride in a plain wooden carriage. If even I am still unwilling to die, how much more so must Your Majesty be?” Yan Ying laughed by himself. Duke Jing wiped away his tears and turned to ask Yan Ying: “On today’s outing my heart was full of sorrow; Kongzi and Ju wept along with me, yet you alone laughed—why?” Yan Ying answered: “If the worthy could long hold their thrones, then Duke Taigong and Duke Huan would have held them to the end; if the brave could long hold their thrones, then Duke Zhuang and Duke Ling would have held them to the end. Had those rulers all been able to keep their thrones forever, Your Majesty today would probably be wearing a rain cape and bamboo hat, standing in the fields at the plough.”

Our sovereign was about to wear a straw rain cape and bamboo hat and stand working in the fields—how could he spare a thought for what happens after death?

That someone dies and is born again is something everyone treats as a common theme in Buddhist discourse and Daoist classics; people just do not say it plainly. Here, when it says the sovereign will wear cape and hat and stand in the fields, the logic of life and death becomes obvious and can be explained in detail. From this we know that human effort shapes fate, and only after fate takes shape can a person be born; in that way the work of sustaining life also becomes visible.

“Xing jia” should be read as “he xia,” meaning “where is there leisure?” Since even the sovereign can find himself in such a situation, how could he always sit securely on the throne? People’s stations alternate and change, and they also depart. Yet tears were shed only for the sovereign—that was inhumane; seeing an inhumane sovereign and fawning, flattering ministers. When the minister saw both of these situations, the reason he laughed to himself in secret was precisely this.

Duke Jing felt ashamed when he heard this. He raised his cup to penalize himself, and penalized the two ministers with two cups each. The straw cape and bamboo hat are rain gear used when working in the fields; “ju shang zi fa” means raising the cup to penalize oneself with wine.

In the state of Wei there was a man named Dongmen Wu. When his son died, he did not grieve. The steward of his household asked him: “Your beloved son was rare in all the world. Now that he has died, you show no sorrow—why?”

Dongmen Wu replied: “There was a time when I had no son, and I was not troubled then. Now my son is dead; that is simply returning to the state I was in before I had a son. Why should I grieve?”

Farmers work the land according to the seasons, merchants chase profit, craftsmen refine their skills, and officials pursue power—all because circumstances push them that way. Yet farmers meet flood and drought, merchants know gain and loss, and craftsmen sometimes succeed and sometimes fail.

Farmers work according to the seasons, merchants chase profit, artisans refine their crafts, and officials pursue power and influence—all of this is shaped by circumstances. Yet farmers face floods and drought, merchants know gain and loss, artisans meet success and failure, and officials experience fulfillment and disappointment; these outcomes are arranged by fate.

The commentary explains fate as the natural, deep, and hard-to-fathom force at work in the world. The interpretation holds that scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants can, through their own effort, pursue profit, power, and the like; floods and drought, success and failure, rising or falling in office are not things personal striving can decide, so they should be entrusted to fate and accepted calmly, without anxious clinging. People often invoke fate only when matters are beyond recovery; their failure to strive fully is often because they are misled by what looks easy to obtain. Dongmen Wu was merely good at accepting fate peacefully— that does not mean he truly understood fate.

If one acknowledges a power that brings life into being, one may be said to grasp the root of what shapes our fate; but that does not mean one should hand everything over to life itself. Those who understand fate leave uncontrollable outcomes to fate while still doing what lies within their power.

A passage involving corrupted characters (the text is uncertain in the manuscript tradition) is noted by commentators as possibly erroneous, with the precise meaning unclear. The closing line identifies the section as Liezi jishi (Collected Explanations on Liezi), juan 7, “Yang Zhu” chapter 7.

Human life is nothing more than a temporary gathering of primordial Qi, by which individual things briefly manifest an animating spirit. What gathers for a time must eventually disperse; what briefly shows spirit must in the end return to emptiness. To crave ease and shun hardship is the common way of things. Thus what people love in life comes down to fine flavors, splendid dress, beautiful sights, and music. If one cannot follow one’s nature in living at ease and enjoying what the eyes and ears delight in, but instead treats benevolence and righteousness as bars that bind oneself and ritual teaching as straps that constrain oneself—so that one withers in body and spirit throughout the years one is alive, only to leave a name after death—such a person does not understand the joy of being alive.

The gentleman dies for reputation; the petty person scurries after profit. Fame and gain are desires people easily sink into, and what people of the world compete for. Therefore, one who has awakened to the Dao may act with goodness yet not chase reputation, and does not contend for what worldly people race after; in acting, one does not run afoul of punishments, and does not do what worldly people deem one ought not to do. To betray the Dao in pursuit of fame, or to indulge desires and let the nature run wild—both miss the proper measure, so a person of the Dao does not rest in such ways.

These words read like paradoxical doctrine, and literati often wonder at them: then how do the views in the “Yang Zhu” chapter differ from those in the “Robber Zhi” chapter? The commentary holds that the Yang Zhu in the “Yang Zhu” chapter—some say his style name was Ziju—was a figure of the Warring States period, later than Mozi. He debated with Qin Guli and advocated cherishing one’s own person, not plucking even a single hair to benefit the empire, in opposition to Mozi’s position.

Whether Yang Zhu and Yang Ziju were the same person has long been disputed. Commentators such as Lu Deming once linked Yang Zhu with Yang Ziju; Liang Yuheng and Bo Jun have pointed out that the ancient records are uncertain and that the two may not have been one person.

Yang Zhu traveled in the state of Lu and lodged with the Meng family. Meng asked him, “Being alive is enough—why chase after fame?” Yang Zhu replied, “One seeks fame in order to become rich.” Meng asked again, “Once you are rich, why not stop?” Yang Zhu said, “For the sake of rank and honor.” Meng pressed on, “Once you are honored, why still not stop?” Yang Zhu answered, “To leave a name after death.” Meng asked, “After a person dies, what is there left to do?” Yang Zhu said, “For the sake of one’s descendants.”

Commentators explain that human striving has no fixed limit, so desire never finds a point of satisfaction.

Meng asked further, “What good does fame do for one’s descendants?” Yang Zhu said, “The pursuit of fame wears out the body and burns the mind with anxiety; yet once one uses fame to win favor and support, the whole clan can benefit and the neighborhood can gain as well—not to mention one’s descendants.”

Commentator Tao Hongqing argued that the eight characters meaning “fame indeed torments the body and scorches the mind” should be moved to immediately after Meng’s question, “Being alive is enough—why seek fame?”—to spell out the harm of fame. On that reading, the lines “Once rich, why not stop? Once honored, why not stop?” would mean that even when people have exhausted body and mind for fame, they still refuse to stop. In the received text, placing these sentences later makes the argument feel disjointed.

Someone objected as follows: “Those who pursue fame are necessarily upright; uprightness leads to poverty. Those who pursue fame are necessarily modest; modesty leads to low status.” Commentators take this as the objector’s point: today there are people with a reputation for uprightness and modesty who still cannot escape poverty and low rank, because they practice goodness without seeking profit. The commentary adds that in life what people chase is nothing beyond fame and profit.

Some people enjoy a reputation for integrity and humility, yet they still cannot escape poverty and low standing—because they do good without seeking gain.

In human life, what people chase is nothing beyond fame and profit. Sages weigh fame and profit on the same scale: petty people stake their lives on profit, noble people stake their lives on fame—no one fails to pursue with full force. What they seek may differ in moral quality, but in each case there is something sought. When the pursuit of fame succeeds, however, what is gained is not merely personal wealth and rank. Glory can reach one’s descendants, and benefit can spread through one’s neighborhood. Those who wear themselves out in body and mind, practicing integrity and humility, often still harbor expectations in their hearts, yet forget why they act as they do—and in that way they too lose the mean.

Someone asked: “When Guan Zhong served Qi, if the ruler indulged himself, Guan Zhong indulged too; if the ruler lived lavishly, Guan Zhong lived lavishly as well.” The point is that Guan Zhong did not take all praise and blame onto himself. The ruler of Qi had three residences; officials each had their duties and did not hold multiple posts; and a screen was set up before the gate—and Guan Zhong did the same. When the ruler held a banquet for a meeting of two rulers and used ritual stands for the cups, Guan Zhong provided the same kind of equipment. These are examples of his matching the ruler’s indulgence and extravagance. Guan Zhong’s aims aligned with the ruler’s, his words were heeded, and he was able to carry out his plans and make Qi hegemonic. After Guan Zhong died, what people remembered was Guan Zhong alone. What is meant here is that benefit tied to a genuine reputation is limited.

Later, when the Tian clan served Qi, if the ruler’s income was ample the Tian clan reduced what they took; if the ruler levied goods, the Tian clan gave them away in charity. That was shifting a bad reputation onto the ruler. The people all turned to the Tian clan, and the Tian clan thereby took possession of Qi; their descendants held Qi and, down to the present, the line has not been cut off. What is meant here is that benefit tied to a false reputation runs deep.

Thus a genuine reputation often goes with poverty, while a false reputation goes with wealth. “Genuine reputation” means doing good without aiming to win a name—the name forms of itself. “False reputation” means using a name to seek profit while keeping the world from noticing. It is for this reason that empty reputation can in fact bring gain.

Yu Yue held that after ruo shi ming pin, wei ming fu (“if real name means poverty, false name means wealth”) there should also be two further lines, shi ming jian, wei ming gui (“real name means low status, false name means high status”). Wei ming means benefiting from a hollow or borrowed reputation. In the line ming zi sheng zhe (“name that arises of itself”), the Zang manuscript reads zi er sheng zhe (“that arises of itself”) instead.

The passage above states that anyone who seeks reputation must be incorruptible, and incorruptibility leads to poverty; anyone who seeks reputation must be yielding, and yielding leads to low status. The discussion of Guan Zhong and the Chen (Tian) clan is meant to show that those who rely on genuine reputation become poor and lowly, while those who rely on false reputation become rich and honored.

Tao Hongqing agreed that Yu Yue’s restoration of the two lines shi ming jian, wei ming gui was correct, but disagreed with treating this passage and the earlier examples of Guan Zhong and the Tian clan as utterances by the same speaker. Zhang Zhan’s gloss on the earlier lines fan wei ming zhe bi lian, lian si pin; wei ming zhe bi rang, rang si jian (“all who seek name must be incorruptible, hence poor; all who seek name must be yielding, hence lowly”)—that these are objections put forward by opponents—is right. The lines ruo shi ming pin, wei ming fu; shi ming jian, wei ming gui here are the same kind of objection from the other side. Ruo here is equivalent to “in that case” or “thus”; the text may originally have had the character ran (“so”) immediately after ruo. Later Meng Sunyang says ruo ran, su wang yu yu jiu sheng (“if so, quick death is better than long life”), and the Shuofu (Signs and Tokens) chapter likewise has ruo ran, si zhe xi wei bu neng yan sheng shu zai (“if so, why cannot the dead speak the art of life?”)—parallel usages.

The point of the argument is this: Guan Zhong’s descendants, through real reputation, were poor and lowly; the Tian clan’s descendants, through false reputation, were rich and honored. That seems to show that reputation really does invite poverty and low status. The objectors maintain that only what is real counts as real name, and what is false cannot count as name at all. The reply below runs shi wu ming, ming wu shi, ming zhe wei er yi yi (“the real has no name, name has no reality; name is nothing but pretense”). Reality and name cannot both hold at once; whatever we call “name” is empty pretense, without real substance. On that view, reputation can indeed bring wealth and honor. The one answering holds that only the false is “name,” while what is truly real falls outside the category of name altogether.

Someone asked: “Names in fact have no real substance; name and reality often do not match. What we call a ‘name’ is merely something people construct. Unless one resorts to artifice, it is hard to attract benefit.” The commentary says that genuine virtue may not bring fame, while those who chase fame may lack real virtue—so without artifice, benefit is not easily seen. “Artifice” (wei) here means deliberate pretense and show.

In the past, Yao and Shun pretended to yield the realm to Xu You and Shan Juan, yet in the end they did not lose the realm and enjoyed long lives of a hundred years. The commentary explains that the appearance of artifice and authenticity shifts with the situation; later people imitated Yao and Shun’s conduct, which is why this trace of “artifice” exists—the sages themselves were not hypocrites. The story of Yao yielding the realm to Xu You appears in Zhuangzi, “Free and Easy Wandering”; the story of Shun yielding to Shan Juan appears in Zhuangzi, “Letting Be, Having Integrity” and “Robber Zhi.”

Bo Yi and Shu Qi, by contrast, sincerely yielded the lordship of Guzhu, lost their state in the end, and starved to death on Mount Shouyang. The commentary explains that “discern” (xing) means to examine and distinguish. Those who put on a show seek reputation without real virtue; those who are sincere practice virtue without seeking a name. The difference between Yao and Shun on one side and Bo Yi and Shu Qi on the other is thus plain to see.

People chase fame and profit and lose their true selves; yet if they do not chase fame and profit, they may sink into lust and forget the Way. There are few good people in the world and many who are not good, so few pursue reputation and many indulge desire. Even the clever can do nothing about it, because everyone has lost moderation.

Yang Zhu said: A human life, at its longest, does not exceed a hundred years. Among a thousand people, perhaps not one lives to a hundred. Even when someone does, from infancy to old age nearly half of that span is already gone. Sleep at night consumes a portion; waking hours by day slip away in another portion—together those two nearly take half again. Illness, grief, pain, loss of kin, worry, and fear consume almost half of what remains.

When you reckon it finely, in a dozen or more years there may not be even one day of ease with not a trace of care. Seen this way, what are people alive for, and where is joy? They merely seek rich food, thick comfort, and the pleasures of color and sound. Yet fine food and comfort cannot satisfy for long, nor can color and sound be enjoyed or heard forever. People are also bound and driven by punishment and reward, promoted or lowered by reputation and law; they bustle for hollow praise before their eyes and strive for glory after death; and they minutely defer to what eye and ear like.

Qin Enfu said that the two ancient graphs shun and shen could be used interchangeably. The Yijing says, “When one treads on hoarfrost, one knows that solid ice is about to form”; here shun means shen. The Shiwen writes shun as shen, and notes that yi is read with the qiu-yu fanqie; another manuscript writes shen er as shun er.

Ren Dachun said that in the “Xiushen” chapter of the Xunzi, shun Mo is explained by Yang Liang as shen Mo; the “Junzi” chapter says, “The loyal are sincere—shen is such a person,” and Yang Liang glosses shen as read shun. In the commentary on the “Lie Yuke” chapter of the Zhuangzi, shen yu bing also appears in a version as shun yu bing; in “there are those who shun and reach,” shun also appears as shen in some versions. The Da Dai Liji, “Baofu” chapter, says “because of what they do, shen toward people”; Lu Bian’s note cites Yang Liang that shen is read shun, meaning “all can win the people’s hearts”—so shen is shun. The Zengzi, “Daxiao” chapter, says “when parents are gone, shen in conducting oneself”; shen appears as shun in some versions. The “Shende” chapter says “with shen to Heaven’s law”; the comment says Heaven’s way cannot be violated, only followed—so here shen is shun. The “Wenwang guanren” chapter says “without discrimination yet zi shen”; here shen is also read shun. The spelling shun er preserves the ancient graph.

Cherish body and mind, yet get entangled in whether affairs are right or wrong—you only lose the joy life originally offered and cannot fully unfold in a brief lifetime. Even if you live to a hundred, subtract the worry and pain of day and night, and the time when you can truly rest content is not much. What people call “having one’s heart’s desire” is mostly enjoying music, beauty, and fine food; yet these wishes are bound by punishment, reward, and ritual teaching, and cannot be fully realized. How is that different from a heavy prisoner in shackles? These are all ways of speaking that cling to worldly feeling.

In zhong qiu lei gao, lei is read lei (to accumulate), and gu is read with the gu-wo fanqie, meaning manacles and similar restraints. Under he yi zai, yi is an ancient graph for yi (different); the Shiwen also says this is the ancient form of yi.

The people of highest antiquity understood that life is only a temporary arrival and death only a temporary departure. It is commonly said that life is brief and death long; at first glance, treating birth and death as momentary coming and going may seem odd. Yet Liezi’s point is that birth and death, being and passing away, are all phases in reciprocal change—form and vital energy keep transforming and continuing rather than being cut off forever.

So they acted from the heart, did not go against what is naturally pleasing, and did not renounce the joys of the present life; nor did they practice goodness to win a name after death. Aligning with their nature, they moved with each thing’s own inclinations without forcing against them; because they did not chase posthumous reputation, they were not subject to punitive sanction. Commentators read this as saying they did not do good merely to be praised, nor harm others—and therefore did not incur punishment.

Zhang Zhan’s commentary is not detailed enough. The Shiwen (Textual Explanation) glosses it thus: jin is read in the departing tone (the same applies below); xing means to harm or injure. Whether fame or honor comes first or second, and how long one’s lifespan will be—none of this can be measured.

[Explanation] For example, people in remote antiquity were simple and honest in conduct and did not harm others; by not harming others…