《席上腐谈》

Xishang Futan was written by Yu Yan of the Song dynasty and consists of two volumes. It is mainly a collection of notes and miscellaneous discussions.

The first several dozen entries in the upper volume examine names and objects. Many of the interpretations are superficial, and their supporting evidence is unreliable. For example, the author explains the common term “mama” for a woman as deriving from the line “the mare’s perseverance brings good fortune” in the Kun trigram. He says the name “Qusou” is related to “Yinwei,” and interprets the name “Fangyi” as meaning “to step up onto a bed.” These explanations often force connections and speculate beyond the evidence, so they cannot be relied upon. The rest of the volume mainly criticizes the bedchamber techniques of the Rongcheng school and discusses Chu’s Lost Writings on pregnancy.

The lower volume focuses on books about the elixir—the texts that describe alchemical cultivation—and concludes with a warning against the arts of turning ordinary metals into gold and silver. The work as a whole belongs broadly to Daoist writing, and the author’s views are relatively sound among Daoist works. This was also related to his prior knowledge of Confucian principles, which kept him from being misled by the absurd claims of occult practitioners.

Zhu Cunli’s Miscellaneous Writings from a Loft records how the book circulated. Master Shijian wrote commentaries on the Changes as well as Xishang Futan: Explanations of the Changes, and both were printed. The manuscript of this book, however, remained at home. Later, when Magistrate Lin of Huangyan took it away, the family had no copy, and the text was consequently lost from circulation in the Wuzhong region. In the autumn of the gengxu year, Zhu Cunli met Dong Ziren of Haichang at an inn. They happened to mention the book, and Dong said that his family had once owned a copy, but it too had been lost. The two then went together to borrow a copy from Officer Zhu, and thus Xishang Futan was restored to circulation in Wuzhong.

Zhu Cunli also says that the Yu family collection records Futan as originally comprising four volumes, of which only two remain today. Some editions are titled Futan with the character for “assist” instead. An examination of quotations in the Yongle Encyclopedia shows that the title is written one way in some places and another way in others. Zhu’s account indicates that the versions in circulation at the time already used different written forms; this does not mean that there were two separate books.

In the tenth month of the forty-sixth year of the Qianlong reign, the commissioned collation was completed.

Xishang Futan, Upper Volume

Written by Yu Yan of the Yuan dynasty.

Shao Kangjie said, “Animals begin growing from the head, while plants begin growing from the root. The life of an animal centers on its head; the life of a plant centers on its root.” He also said, “Flying animals roost in trees and feed on what grows there, so the feathers of hawks and sparrowhawks are like trees. Running animals live among grasses and feed on grass, so the fur of tigers and leopards is like grass. Flying animals favor the wind and are adept at rising into the air; running animals favor the ground and are adept at moving downward. Aquatic animals do not close their eyes, while animals that live in the wind or on land do. Running animals’ upper eyelids close downward, while flying animals’ lower eyelids close upward; each does so according to its nature. Aquatic animals die when they leave the water, and animals adapted to the wind die when they enter the water. Yet some animals can move in and out of the water, such as turtles, crabs, geese, and ducks.”

Cattle are mild by nature, and travel smoothly when carried along by a favorable wind; horses are vigorous, and appear all the more vigorous when running into a headwind. The Book of Documents, in the “Fei Oath,” says, “The horses and cattle have scattered in the wind”; the Zuo Tradition says, “The wind between horses and cattle does not reach one another.” These passages probably mean that when horses and cattle run and migrate, each follows the direction of the wind.

Among horse herds in the north, there is usually one stallion leading more than ten mares. The mares all follow him and do not enter other herds. The Book of Changes, in the Kun hexagram, says, “It is beneficial to the mare’s steadfastness”—perhaps referring to this behavior. People today call women “mama,” and this is said to be connected with the same idea. Ants, too, do not enter other groups, which is why some people call them “horse ants,” or “dark colts.”

The Records of Miscellany says, “Fish swim upstream against the current, and birds stand facing into the wind, because their scales and feathers lie in that direction. When there is a light breeze but you cannot tell where it is coming from, you can find out by observing which way the birds face.”

Lice belong to Yin and have six legs, corresponding to the northern Kan trigram, which belongs to Water and is associated with the number six. Lice always walk with their heads pointing north; this can indeed be verified. I once saw a book that recorded this too, but I have now forgotten its title.

The Rites of Zhou says that the Mountain Forester, the official in charge of mountain forests, fells Yang wood in the second month of winter and Yin wood in the second month of summer. The south side of a mountain is Yang, and the north side is Yin. The second month of winter is when the sun reaches its southernmost point in its course, while the second month of summer is when it reaches its northernmost point. These are the limits of where sunlight can reach. For this reason, when a piece of wood is placed in water, its south-facing side turns upward.

The Liver belongs to Wood and should naturally rise and move upward, yet instead it sinks. The Lungs belong to Metal and should naturally descend and remain still, yet instead they rise. Why? Because Liver Qi is excessive while Lung Qi is deficient. A stone sinks when placed in water, yet in the South Sea there is a mountain of pumice that floats. Wood normally floats in water, yet the South Sea also has sunken ebony. These are all examples of states of excess and deficiency that run counter to what is usual.

The Erya says that when it is difficult to tell whether a bird is male or female, one can look at its wings: if the left wing covers the right, it is male; if the right covers the left, it is female. The Bowu zhi records the same claim. Master Tao says that birds are not easily distinguished by sex, but according to an old account, a bird with its left wing over its right is male. If its feathers are burned and placed in water, those that sink belong to males, while those that float belong to females.

Wei Boyang’s Cantong qi (Kinship of the Three), a Daoist classic on cultivation and refinement, says that men are born face down and women face up. This posture can be seen not only at birth but also after death. Its underlying cause lies in the bodily arrangement associated with the union of Yin and Yang. Chu Shi’s Yishu says that Yang Qi gathers in the front of the body, making a man’s chest heavier; when he drowns, he therefore sinks face down. Yin Qi gathers in the back, making a woman’s back heavier; when she drowns, she therefore floats face up. After land animals drown, they too may be found either face down or face up.

The Suwen, a section of the medical classic Huangdi Neijing (Yellow Emperor’s Inner Classic), says that the transformations of rising and descending, entering and leaving, occur throughout all things. Its commentary explains that both the inner and outer sides of walls, doors, and windows are struck by the coming and going of Qi. It further says that the face-down or face-up posture of those who drown results from Yin Qi gathering in the back: women have heavier backs, so they float face up. Land animals, too, may be found face down or face up after drowning.

The Suwen says that Qi (vital energy) is everywhere, rising, descending, entering, and leaving. A commentary uses walls and doors as examples: both sides can receive the Qi coming toward them; when it strikes a person, this is Qi entering and leaving. If something is thrown into a well or pit, the air resists it as it falls, slowing its descent. Turn a hollow tube full of water upside down and hang it while pinching its upper end, and the water will not leak out: because no Qi rises, the water cannot descend. If a bottle has a very narrow mouth, water cannot be poured into it quickly, because the Qi inside cannot escape, and so the water cannot enter. Thus every vessel has Qi that rises, descends, enters, and leaves.

When I was young, a Daoist taught me a small experiment. Burn a piece of paper, put it into an empty bottle, and immediately turn the bottle mouth-down into a silver basin of water. The water surges into the bottle, and the basin rings with a metallic sound. This is caused by the Qi of the fire. He also taught me to place a bottle in the same way on the abdomen of a strong adult man; when lifted, the bottle would not fall off. It is like a bronze water dropper: pinch its opening and the water will not drip; release it, and the water drips out.

Those who cultivate themselves keep their mind and spirit focused on the Niwan, the upper Dantian (energy center) in the head. The Qi of the Dantian then rises, because Qi moves and gathers wherever the mind and spirit go. The “bedchamber arts” also describe the essential method: “Press the Weilü, the area near the base of the spine; inhale and swallow the saliva.” This can also keep Jing (essence) and Qi from leaking out.

To know how Yin-Yang changes with the hours, observe the breath in each nostril separately: during Yang hours, the breath moves through the left nostril; during Yin hours, through the right. At the transition between the hours of Hai and Zi, both nostrils are open. Alchemists call this “the Jade Cavern opening on both sides.”

A horse that has died of illness should not be eaten, as its meat can harm people, especially its liver. Medical books say that the horse belongs to Fire and has a liver but no gallbladder; its Wood organ is deficient, so eating horse liver can be fatal. The Records of the Grand Historian recounts that after the horses of Duke Mu of Qin strayed and were found by country folk, more than three hundred people ate them. Officials wanted to punish them according to the law, but Duke Mu said that a gentleman does not harm people over livestock. He had heard that those who eat horse meat are harmed if they do not drink alcohol, so he gave everyone wine and pardoned them.

Recently, I saw a fellow villager, Ge Hengzhai, suffer swelling and pain after eating horse meat. He recovered after drinking wine boiled with salt. This suggests that wine can indeed counteract the poison in horse meat.

The Zuo Commentary says, “When the dogs in a state go mad, none fail to bite people.” Du Yu’s commentary explains that chi means to go mad. The Book of Song records that Zhang Shou was bitten by a rabid dog and recovered after eating minced toad. Zhi, pronounced like che or lie, also means a rabid dog and is also written chi. Some say that apricot kernels can also be used to treat dog bites.

The “Neize” chapter of the Book of Rites says that a wolf’s intestines should be removed, a wildcat’s backbone, a rabbit’s haunches, a fox’s head, a pig’s brain, a fish’s “yi,” and a turtle’s “chou.” Zheng Xuan explains that these parts are all harmful to people.

The Zuo Commentary records that the Marquis of Jin dreamed that the ruler of Chu lay on top of him and sucked out his brain. Zifan said this was an auspicious sign: “I will make him pliant.” Du Yu explains that brain matter can make things soft. Today, when people prepare leather, they often use pig brain precisely to soften it. In the past, someone ate an entire pig’s brain and, a year later, became so weak in the hands and feet that he could not get out of bed; he eventually became paralyzed. This shows that the claims in the “Neize” chapter and the Zuo Commentary are not without basis.

In his commentary on “remove a fish’s yi,” Zheng Xuan says that “yi” is a part of the fish that is harmful to people. In the Eastern Sea there is a kind of yong fish with a bone beside its eye shaped like the seal-script character “yi.” If swallowed, it lodges in the throat and cannot be removed. The Erya, by contrast, says that a fish’s “ding” is its head bone, its “yi” is its intestines, and its “bing” is its tail. The author holds that Zheng Xuan interpreted “yi” as a fish bone and the Erya as the fish’s intestines because both resemble the seal-script character “yi.” But if we reason from the statement that a wolf’s intestines should be removed, then a fish’s “yi” should be a fish bone, not its intestines.

A Tang poem says, “The cuckoo calls out its name; the Ba River flows like a written character.” This means that the cuckoo’s call sounds as though it is saying its own name, while the Ba River’s winding course resembles the character “Ba.” Some also describe the river’s shape as resembling a frog or an earthworm. The author considers these comparisons similar to the claim that a fish bone resembles the character “yi.”

Lu Guimeng says that ducks can speak and even call out their own names. The author argues that ducks are not the only animals that can call their own names: magpies, cats, and dogs can do so as well, and the cuckoo is not unique in this respect.

Phosphorescent fire, commonly called “ghost fire,” is often said to appear where people have been killed in battle or where the blood of oxen and horses has fallen. Fireflies are also called “lin.”

Among ordinary people, phosphorescence is called “ghost fire.” People believe that the blood of those killed in battle and of cattle and horses produces phosphorus. Some also call fireflies “phosphorus.” Though these lights look like fire, they are not actually fire.

My family once had an old servant who had never believed in ghosts. He accompanied my late father to Qingyanghui in Wuxi to collect rent. One night, he saw many ghost fires billowing toward them. Everyone fled in panic, but the old servant, drunk, charged forward and tried to strike them. Only later did they learn that the lights came from damp leaves of the Chinese photinia.

One night, just after the rain had stopped, I was sitting in a waterside pavilion when I saw a light among the grass. I got up to pick it up and found that it was a wet shrimp shell and a leaf. Yuyan said that when he once lived on Mount Wutai, he saw damp pine bark glowing at night. He had his attendants gather a whole bagful, planning to take it back to Jiangnan and give it to friends and relatives so they could see something extraordinary. A few days later, when he looked again, the pine bark had dried and no longer glowed. Laughing, he threw it away.

In ancient times, the “Xiang rite” was like the first course at a banquet today, when food is laid out for guests to view; the “Yan rite” was like the later course, when guests sat down to eat. Du Yu said the Xiang rite emphasized ceremony: tables were set out but no one leaned on them, wine cups were filled but not drunk from, and dishes were displayed but not eaten. At the Yan rite, meat was carved and served, and the guests ate together.

The ancient “suji” was a pleated skirt made from finely woven cloth. Xunzi wrote of “a leather cap and a suji.” Yang Jing explained that the suji was a lower garment made from cloth woven at a count of fifteen sheng, with pleats at the waist. In ancient times, one sheng was counted as eighty warp threads, so fifteen sheng meant 1,200 threads—a very fine cloth.

The “Jade Pendants” chapter of the Book of Rites says, “A shi does not wear zhi.” Zheng Xuan explained that zhi referred to clothing woven from dyed silk. The Shiming glossary marks zhi as pronounced “zhi” with the tone of “will.” Later, the character was corrupted into zhu, and so people came to call silk cloth “zhu silk.” Since zhi and zhu sound similar, and the written form was repeatedly copied incorrectly, the term was sometimes written “zhu silk” with the character for ramie.

In the north, fine, soft woolen fabric is called “zi rong.” Zi means fine hair, while rong describes softness and warmth. The “Canon of Yao” in the Book of Documents says, “The birds and beasts grow soft down,” referring to the fine, soft hair that grows on birds and animals. Over time, the name became corrupted into “purple velvet.”

The “Airs of Bin” says, “Without clothes, without coarse cloth, how will we get through the year?” Zheng Xuan explained that he referred to cloth woven from wool.

The “Seventh Month” poem in the “Bin Feng” section of the Classic of Poetry says, “Without clothes or a coarse, short garment, how can one get through the year?” Zheng’s commentary explains that he was a woolen cloth. How could the wealthy, with no clothes, or the poor, with no coarse garments, make it through the year? I believe that when the Mencius says to regard assassinating the ruler of a state with ten thousand chariots as no different from assassinating an ordinary man in coarse clothing, the contrast between “man in coarse clothing” and “ruler of ten thousand chariots” likewise refers to the distinction between high and low status. The character he is written with the clothing radical and refers to a coarse, short garment woven from hemp-like fibers. The character he written with the hair radical is the one associated with woolen fabric. Zheng mistook the first for the second and therefore said that he meant woolen cloth. Woolen cloth is what is now called xiehe, which costs far more than ramie fabric. How could it have been clothing worn by the poor?

What is now called a mu jacket is the ancient cuiyi, a woolen garment. Mu originally described fine, soft wool fibers, as in the Classic of Poetry’s description of a fox fur’s thick, soft coat. In popular writing, the character came to be written as mu, but it in fact referred to a woolen jacket: mao (“wool”) was corrupted into mu, and later written in that form.

A felt mat was also called a “woolen mat,” and a carpet was also called a “woolen mattress,” just as a bamboo hat was also called a “bamboo cloth.” The commentary to the Book of the Later Han, in the “Western Regions” section, calls felt a “woolen mat.” Zhang Heng’s “Four Sorrows” poem says that the beloved gave him a felt carpet, a quyu. Fu Qian’s Popular Dictionary says that a woven woolen mattress is called a quyu, while a fine, closely woven one is called a tadeng. A tadeng was laid on a small footstool in front of a large bed, and people stepped on it to climb onto the bed.

Among lacquerwares, one kind is called “rhinoceros hide.” It originally came from the state of Xipi, but the name was later corrupted to “rhinoceros hide.” Another kind is called guijiang. It originally came from the state of Jijiang, but its name was later corrupted to guijiang. From this, one might infer that quyu was also perhaps a transliteration of the place name Quzhuai, written differently. Xipi may likewise originally have been the place name “woven hides,” later corrupted in writing to Xipi. Quzhuai and woven hides are mentioned in the “Tribute of Yu” chapter of the Book of Documents.

The futou, a headcloth wrapped around the head in ancient times, originated during the reign of Emperor Wu of Zhou. Because a piece of cloth was wrapped around the head, it was called a futou. Fu is pronounced like fu in fubei; today, the word is often mistakenly written as pu.

In Han Yu’s “Poem on the Sagely Virtue of the Yuanhe Reign,” the phrase “covering the head with a red kerchief” means wrapping the head in a red silk cloth. This is what is now called a forehead band. The kerchief and the futou—a cloth used in antiquity to cover the head and bind the hair—were originally one and the same; only later did they become two distinct items. In the Tang dynasty, futou were first made of black gauze. Because the material was soft, pieces of paulownia wood, folded into a mountain shape, were later placed at the front to hold the cloth up. This style was called the “raised-countenance headwrap.” Some believe it originated with Yu Chao’en. The Five Dynasties continued this style; in the Song dynasty, woven rattan was used instead, followed later by gauze, and then by lacquered gauze.

The headwrap made by Emperor Wu of Zhou was roughly like the knot-tied headwrap worn today, with two ends hanging down and, at first, no ties. People of the Tang added four straps: two hanging at the front and two at the back. In the Song dynasty, the two ends were spread out sideways and held in place with wire, so the headwrap would not be knocked askew by chance conversations during court audiences. Recently, a type of cool black gauze headwrap worn in summer has appeared. It has a frame of bamboo strips shaped like a coolie hat and covered with black gauze. It is easy to put on and take off, and especially suitable for summer. This shows that the style of the futou kept changing, so its form differed across periods.

I once saw a courtesan perform the Zhezhi dance, a dance popular in the Tang and Song, wearing a red ornament on her head. It was slender, pointed at the top, and shaped like a boot. I think this is what is now called a “gu gu.” The Suosui lu says that the Zhezhi dance was originally the name of a dance performed by the Tuoba people of the Later Wei. Later, “tuo” was changed to “zhe,” and “ba” to “zhi.”

The pipa is also called “pipo.” In Tang poetry, the character “pa” is always pronounced with a checked tone. When Wang Zhaojun crossed the frontier holding a pipa, the northern peoples imitated it and made a smaller instrument. Zhaojun laughed and said, “It is nothing like it at all.” Later, the name became corrupted into “huposi.”

The two characters in “bili” are written as “bi” in the Book of Odes poem “Bin” and in the Shuowen Jiezi. Zhu Xi says that the bili was originally called “beili,” describing its sound as mournful and forceful. “Bei,” “bi,” and “bi” have similar pronunciations.

Zhang Heng’s “Poem of Four Sorrows” says, “The beauty gives me a gold-inlaid knife.” In ancient books, the character “cuo” is the same as the “cuo” used today, meaning to polish. It is pronounced “qian ge qie.” People in the north pronounce “cuo” with a departing tone, while people in the south pronounce it with a checked tone; in fact, both refer to the same sound.

In the Xunzi, “beard and eyebrows” is written “xu mi.” Yang Liang’s commentary says that “mi” is the same as “mei.” “Mustache and beard” is also written “zi shu.” The Xunzi calls it “long zi,” while Liu Xiang’s Biographies of Exemplary Women calls it “long shu”; both refer to a kind of mat called a “fire mat.” Yang Liang says that “zi” is the same as “zi” in “mustache,” and is also sometimes written “xu.” “Long zi” is the same as “long shu,” and “shu” and “xu” sound similar.

The Liji (“Book of Rites”), in the chapter “Jiaoteseng,” says that although bamboo mats (guandian) lie flat and firm, people esteem mats woven from cattail, thatch, and straw. The Zuo Zhuan records “a great road with a yue mat,” where yue is pronounced kuo. The cattail mats sold today in the markets of Qiantang are what ancient books call yue. The word yue was probably a copying error for he.

A fu is a component of a waterwheel. Yang Liang explained it as a flail, but a flail is used to thresh rice and is not a fu. In ancient times, the implements that caught rainwater from roof eaves were made of wood and used to channel the water. Today they are called downspouts.

Cui Bao’s Gu Jin Zhu (“Notes on Past and Present”) says that Chang’an’s imperial canal was called the “Poplar Canal” because tall poplar trees grew along it. It was also called the “Sheep Canal.” According to legend, sheep liked to butt against walls, so people dug a ditch to keep them away, which gave the canal its name. I think that today people call a water channel hidden from view inside a courtyard a “yin ditch,” and one visible outside the courtyard a “yang ditch.”

People in the Wu region call a pile of firewood a chai ji, pronouncing ji like ji in “sacrifice.” This is the same word as the ji in weiji in the Zhouli (“Rites of Zhou”), “Offices of Heaven.” Zheng Xuan explains that weiji refers to stored provisions of grain, firewood, and fodder. The Shiming (“Explanations of Names”) gives the pronunciation of ji as zi ci qie. Today the word is mispronounced as ji in “sacrifice,” and because weiji means to put things aside for storage, people commonly say ji liu.

The Liji and the Mengzi both say, “Heaven has no two suns.” The Zuo Zhuan, however, says, “Heaven has ten suns,” referring to the ten Heavenly Stems, from Jia to Gui. The Liezi says that in the time of Yao all ten suns appeared together, and the Zhuangzi and Huainanzi repeat and elaborate on this account. Even if these are allegories, isn’t this claim going too far? Some say that official histories also record two suns appearing at once and battling, so the event cannot be said to have been entirely without basis. I do not think so. The account of “two suns appearing together and fighting” in the eleventh month of the sixth year of the Ganfu era of the Tang dynasty must describe the sun just after sunrise, when its reflection in the water rose and fell with the waves, making it look as though two suns were rubbing against each other. How could there really be two suns in the sky?

Among the Twenty-Eight Lunar Mansions—the divisions into which the ancients divided the star regions near the ecliptic—are the “Sun Mansion, Rabbit” and the “Moon Mansion, Crow.” The Book of Elixirs says that the Sun contains a crow and the Moon contains a rabbit. This probably refers to the phenomenon of the Sun and Moon intersecting. The Book of Changes uses the Li trigram to represent the Sun, because Yang contains Yin, and the Kan trigram to represent the Moon, because Yin contains Yang. Zhang Zai said, “The essences of Yin and Yang each conceal the other in their own abode.” This is the principle he meant: the Qi of Yin and Yang each contains an element of the other.

A rabbit has four feet. Zhang Heng of the Han dynasty held that even numbers belong to Yin, so the rabbit belongs to Yin. A crow has three legs; odd numbers belong to Yang, so the crow belongs to Yang. I believe that the rabbit actually belongs to the Sun. The saying “the Moon contains a rabbit” means that the Sun’s radiance shines into the Moon. Practitioners of Neidan (internal alchemy) use this image as a metaphor for Shen entering Qi, like sunlight shining into the Moon, and so place the rabbit within the Moon’s symbolic image. They also say, “The Moon is the medicine,” meaning that the Moon symbolizes the medicine cultivated in practice. Ordinary people then mistakenly came to believe that a rabbit lives in the Moon, pounding medicine.

If we look at people walking on a mountain from several hundred paces away, they are as small as termites; from dozens of miles away, even the mountain disappears from view. How could Shen entering Qi be seen in the way sunlight shines into the Moon? Besides, the ground is tens of thousands of miles below the sky. How could anyone see a rabbit in the Moon? If there really were a rabbit in the Moon, and it could be seen, no one could say how enormous it must be.

Zhang Heng said that Yi sought the elixir of immortality from the Queen Mother of the West, and that Yi’s wife, Heng’e, secretly ate the elixir and flew to the Moon, where she became a toad. Liu Zhao praised Zhang Heng as deeply knowledgeable about astronomy. Yet when Zhang Heng spoke of Heng’e and the toad, he told this sort of story. Was he too merely repeating the errors of those who came before him?

The Treatise on Astronomy in the Book of Jin says that Xihe, the sun deity in ancient mythology, governed the sun’s daily course; Changyi governed the moon; and Quche governed the movements of the stars. Later generations called the moon “Chang’e” and referred to the sun and moon together as “Xihe and Chang’e.” This was a grave misunderstanding. The claim that Chang’e lives on the moon is baseless; the claim that a palace of vast cold and pure emptiness stands there is even further from the truth. The stories that a toad, a jade rabbit, and a cassia tree dwell on the moon are likewise inventions. Yet such legends already existed in the Warring States period. The Songs of Chu asks: “What virtue does the moon possess, dying only to be reborn? What benefit does it offer, that a rabbit should live inside it?” Zhu Xi said that tu and tu were the same word for “rabbit.” Folk tales about the cassia tree, the toad, and moonlight have circulated and misled people for a very long time. Some argue that the sun and moon are like two mirrors facing one another, with the Earth between them. The dark patches on the sun and moon are reflections of the Earth in those mirrors; they merely resemble these shapes and do not actually contain a toad, a rabbit, or a cassia tree. This explanation is reasonable and sufficient to dispel a superstition that has persisted for a thousand years.

The Cangwu King of the Liu Song dynasty once ordered Yang Yufu to keep watch for the Weaving Maid crossing the river. He told him, “If you see her cross, come and report it; if you do not, I will kill you.” Later, the Cangwu King was himself killed by Yang Yufu. The Weaving Maid is a fixed star, unmoved for thousands of years. How could she ever cross a river? The so-called “Yellow River flowing backward” is a term from Daoist alchemical cultivation. It refers to guiding Qi upward from the region of the spinal ridge until it reaches Kunlun at the crown of the head. Practitioners also liken the Conception and Governing vessels to the Celestial River, and use the Cowherd and Weaving Maid as symbols for the union of Yin and Yang within the body.

Du Fu’s poem “The Celestial River” says: “The Cowherd and Weaving Maid cross each year; when have storms ever risen?” Zhang Lei’s “Song of the Seventh Night” describes the Weaving Maid’s night of reunion as better than Chang’e remaining unmarried and sleeping alone each night in the Palace of Vast Cold. Poets and writers, for the most part, sing of wind and moon on a passing whim; how can their words be judged as factual accounts? The Weaving Maid is simply the name of a star. How could she actually have a loom? At the Qixi Festival, Wu Zetian found a golden shuttle in the palace courtyard; it had been made by palace attendants. This was like the so-called celestial books received by Emperor Zhenzong of the Song dynasty. Were there really books in heaven? They too had been forged by Wang Qinruo and others.

The Yellow River originates in the Kunlun Mountains on earth and flows east as far as Qishi. When Yu the Great controlled the floods, the channels he cut for the Yellow River also reached Qishi. The Celestial River, however, lies in the sky. As the heavenly bodies move, its position changes continually from day to night. How could it connect with the Yellow River? When Li Bai wrote, “The waters of the Yellow River come from heaven,” he was probably treating the Kunlun Mountains as part of the sky. The Celestial River is separated from the sea by a great distance and a vast difference in height. How could anyone reach it by riding a raft? Zhang Hua’s Bowu zhi says that someone rafted into the Celestial River and saw the stars Altair and Vega. This is plainly a fanciful tale.

The Liezi says that Nüwa smelted five-colored stones to mend the sky. Confucian scholars mock this as absurd: the sky has never been damaged, and even if it had been, how could smelted stones repair it? Besides, the heavens are in constant motion—where could anyone begin to mend them? This criticism has some merit. What they do not know is that the so-called “five-colored stones” are really a metaphor for the Qi of the five viscera. The practice of nurturing life is to gather the spirit and remain still, turning one’s gaze inward, so that the Qi of the five viscera collects in the Dantian—the part of the body where Jing and Qi are cultivated. The Dantian then warms and nourishes this Qi, which rises to the brain. The brain lies at the top of the body, just as the Kunlun Mountains stand high above the land. That is why this is called “mending the sky.” It is also what the Huangting jing calls “filling the brain,” and what is meant by “If you wish to escape death, cultivate Kunlun.” Around Caishi in Jiangdong, local tradition says that Nüwa once smelted five-colored stones there to mend the sky. The place name “Caishi” (“Stone Gathering”) arose from this tale, which was passed down in error.

Nüwa should have lived after Fuxi governed the realm. Later generations described her as a woman among the ancient sages, saying she was Fuxi’s younger sister and Zhuanxu’s mother. Can this really be believed? “Nüwa” is simply a clan name, just as “Nüzhi” is the name of a people. And what of Nü Ai in the Zuo zhuan, the woman Yu in the Zhuangzi, and Feng Fu mentioned by Gao Mengzi—must they all necessarily have been women?

Classical texts speak of “August Heaven and Sovereign Earth”: “August” conveys vastness, while “Sovereign” is interchangeable with “thick.” Yangzhou has a shrine to Lady Houtu, where Houtu is portrayed as a woman; this is mistaken. The Monthly Ordinances say that Houtu is the deity of the four seasons, and a commentary identifies Houtu as a descendant of Zhuanxu. The Rites of Sacrifice records that when the Gonggong clan ruled the Nine Provinces, his son Houtu was able to govern them. People therefore sacrificed to him and honored him as the god of the soil, who governs the land. The Zuo Tradition also says that the Gonggong clan had a son named Goulong, who served in the office of Houtu. How could the Houtu in these accounts have been a woman? In ancient times, the Son of Heaven was called the “Supreme Sovereign,” and the feudal lords were called the “assembled sovereigns.” If Houtu is said to have been a woman, could Houji, the legendary god of agriculture, also be called a woman?

Zhu Xi said that making statues for the present-day sacrifices to Heaven and Earth, mountains and rivers, was entirely unreasonable. I have examined the Treatise on Suburban Sacrifices in the Former Han History: when sacrifices were offered to Heaven and Earth, their spirit tablets were both set facing south, and they shared the same mat and offerings. Emperor Gaozu of Han and Empress Lü were honored alongside them at the altar, facing west, and likewise shared a mat and offerings. This probably reflected the idea that “Heaven is the father and Earth is the mother.” At the time, no statues had yet been made, so people did not dare to set up divine images. As for the spirits of mountains and rivers, like those of Heaven and Earth, they originally had no concrete form. Yet today the spirit of the Eastern Peak is sculpted to resemble an emperor, and an image of Lady Houtu is made as well, on the assumption that she is his wife or concubine. It is hard to understand which family’s daughter he supposedly married as his wife, and which family’s daughter he took as a concubine.

The local shrine to the soil is called the City God Temple because it stands beneath the walls of the prefectural city. In ancient times, people dug up earth to build city walls. A hollow beneath the walls without water was called a “dry moat”; if it contained water, it was called a “pool.” The Book of Changes says, “The city wall collapses back into the moat.” This means that the wall falls, and its earth returns to the moat. It symbolizes how things reverse once they reach their extreme, like the top line of the Tai hexagram changing and turning into the first line of the Pi hexagram. Since only a walled city has a city moat, why do people also call the local soil shrine in a county town without walls a City God Temple?

The Spring and Autumn Annals of Master Lü records that Duke Ai of Lu asked Confucius, “Is it true that Kui had only one leg?” Confucius replied that one music master was enough to harmonize the six pitches and coordinate the eight kinds of musical sound. I think Duke Ai probably took “Kui” to mean a one-legged demon. Others have said that Xuanyuan had four eyes and Tang Yao had eight eyebrows. These are examples of hearsay and street gossip becoming distorted as they spread.

The biography of Cao Bao in the Book of the Later Han says that Emperor Zhang once told Ban Gu, “When Yao composed the Great Pattern, one music master was enough.” This saying probably dates back to ancient times and carries the same meaning as Confucius’s reply to Duke Ai of Lu. Kui was the person in the time of Yu Shun who oversaw music and taught the sons of nobles. Duke Ai, however, mistakenly took Kui for a one-legged demon, which was a great injustice to him. The so-called one-legged demon is a mountain spirit of the shanxiao kind. The Daoist Illustration of Yanluozi depicts it with a single leg attached to its hip, which is why a Tang poem says, “The mountain demon leaps about, using only one foot.” How could this be grounds for calling Kui a demon?

The Kong Congzi says that spirits of earth and stone are called “Kui” and “Wangliang.” The Discourses of the States says that spirits of wood and stone are called “Kui” and “Wangliang.” Neither source says that Kui had only one leg. Yet the Zhuangzi says that Kui had only one leg and hobbled as it walked. A commentary adds that Kui was a hornless beast resembling an ox, whose roar sounded like thunder. The Yellow Emperor killed it and used its hide to cover a drum, whose sound could carry five hundred li. What a strange tale!

In the Eastern Han, one country among the southwestern peoples was said to be descended from the Panhu clan of the Yellow Emperor’s time. The story of Panhu is so bizarre and ridiculous that it cannot possibly be true. Those who tell strange tales often claim that they took place in the age of the Yellow Emperor. The ignorant believe them, while people of discernment know better. There is no need to argue with those who do not understand the facts; these matters are worth discussing only with people who do.

Great Gushan looks like a shoe, and Little Gushan looks like a petal of incense. The two mountains face each other, with Penglang Shoal between them. Nowadays, some people call “Little Gushan” “Little Maiden” and turn “Penglang” into “Young Gentleman,” then invent a story in which Young Gentleman marries Little Maiden. Everyone who passes by boat goes to pay respects at the temple.

In Wenzhou there are two local earth gods: Du Shiyi has no husband, and Lord Five Tufts of Beard has no wife. So the people of the region brought Du Shiyi to be paired with Lord Five Tufts of Beard, and worshipped them together in a single temple. But who was Du Shiyi, really? He was the Tang dynasty poet Du Fu, who had once served as Left Reminder. And who was “Five Tufts of Beard”? Wu Zixu. If Du Fu’s spirit could hear of it, he would probably laugh and say to Zixu, “You are still called ‘Lord,’ while I have become ‘Auntie Shi’—doesn’t that make me sound like a woman?”

Recently, I heard the investigating commissioner Li Yu say that north of Jiangling there is a place called Fengjia Station. At first he could not make sense of the name “Fengjia.” After asking local elders, he learned that it was originally where Lord Chunshen lived. Over time, “Chun” had been corrupted into “Feng,” and “Shen” into “Jia,” giving the place its name.

Someone came from the Central Plains and said that in the north there was a temple to the Ox King, with a hundred oxen painted on its walls and the Ox King depicted among them. When asked who the Ox King was, the answer was that it was Ran Zibo Niu. Alas, Ran Niu had actually been made the Ox King.

Zhenwu is simply Xuanwu. In the Song dynasty, to avoid the tabooed name of an imperial ancestor, “Xuan” was changed to “Zhen.” Xuanwu originally referred collectively to the seven northern lunar lodges—Dou, Niu, Nü, Xu, Wei, Shi, and Bi—as the ancients grouped the constellations into four regions: east, west, south, and north. Xuanwu lay in the north and belonged to Water among the Five Phases. Families south of the Yangtze worshipped Xuanwu to ward off fires. In the reign of Emperor Wu of Han, the Bailiang Hall was decorated with chiwei, a ridge ornament believed to prevent fires. Legend held that it was a water spirit from the sea; because Water overcomes Fire, it was used for fire protection. Similarly, the Yellow Tower in Xuzhou was decorated in the color of yellow earth. Since Earth controls Water, it was used to guard against floods.

Zhu Xi said that Zhenwu was not a divine figure with loose hair, but simply the name of the Xuanwu constellation. Nor were the Azure Dragon, Vermilion Bird, White Tiger, and Black Tortoise four actual creatures. The Horn lodge was the Azure Dragon’s horn, the Heart lodge its heart, and the Tail lodge its tail; together they were called the Azure Dragon. The Xu and Wei lodges resembled a tortoise, and the star Tengshe lay beneath Xu, so they were called Xuanwu. Four stars in the Shen lodge resembled a tiger’s feet, hence the name White Tiger. The Yi lodge resembled a bird’s wing, the Zhen lodge its crop beneath the neck, and the Jing lodge its crest; together they were called the Vermilion Bird. The phrase “wearing the Well lodge as a crown” in Lu Tong’s poem, and Yang Xiong’s reference to dragons, tigers, tortoises, and crows, both describe these images formed by the stars.

Xuanwu is another name for the tortoise. Tortoises belong to the creatures of water; water corresponds to the north, whose color is black, so the creature is called the “Dark Tortoise.” Its shell can ward off injury, hence the word “Martial.” In fact, Xuanwu refers simply to the tortoise. The seven northern lunar mansions are shaped like a tortoise, and beneath them is a star called Tengshe, the “Soaring Serpent,” which belongs to Fire. Practitioners of the elixir arts use the tortoise and serpent as metaphors for the meeting of Water and Fire within the human body, and so depict Xuanwu as a tortoise entwined with a serpent. Ordinary people, unaware of the reason, came to think that Xuanwu was two animals, a tortoise and a snake.

When Jia Qiuhe hosted guests, he served a dish of soft-shelled turtle. One guest refused to eat it. Asked why, he said that he worshipped Zhenwu, the revered Daoist deity Emperor Xuanwu. Qiuhe replied, “Zhenwu’s tortoise can’t be eaten as though it were a soft-shelled turtle. If you can’t even tell a tortoise from a turtle, how can you govern the people?” The guest had hoped to secure an appointment as a regional governor, so Qiuhe did not give him a post. The others at the table also teased him, saying that he could not eat eels, loaches, or swamp eels because they resembled Zhenwu’s serpent; nor could he eat sugarcane or bamboo shoots, because they resembled Zhenwu’s flagpoles. Everyone at the table laughed, and Qiuhe laughed too.

Han Yu, whose courtesy name was Tuizhi, composed a linked poem with Xuanyuan Mim­ing beside a stone tripod. One line reads, “From time to time, a fly-like sound comes from little holes like earthworm burrows.” Later generations therefore called the sound made by a tea cauldron “earthworm cries.”

Han Tuizhi (Han Yu) and Xuanyuan Mimíng composed a linked verse about a stone cauldron, writing, “From time to time, a sound like flies buzzing comes through the openings, which resemble earthworm burrows.” Later writers took this as their cue to write, “The tea cauldron’s sound is called earthworm song; the firelight on the incense burner looks like fireflies darting about.” The lines are clever, but they result from not reading Han Yu’s poem carefully. He was describing water boiling in the cauldron, its sound like flies buzzing; he did not say it sounded like earthworms. “Earthworm openings” refers to the holes in the stone cauldron, like burrows where earthworms hide in the soil.

Cui Bao’s Gujin Zhu says that earthworms, also known as qushan, are skilled at singing underground, and that people in Jiangdong call them “singing girls.” This is mistaken. According to the Monthly Ordinances, when mole crickets chirp, earthworms emerge from the ground. It is the mole crickets, not the earthworms, that chirp alongside them. In the Wu region, people call mole crickets louguo, which is why a popular saying goes: “The louguo chirps until its guts twist, and the qushan gets the name ‘songstress.’”

Hui’an (Zhu Xi) said that people now venerate Xuanwu as a true sage and depict an actual tortoise and snake beneath it, which is already illogical. Calling Tianpeng, Tianyou, and Yisheng the Four Sages is equally untenable.

Physicians hold that the liver belongs to Wood in the east and governs the storage of the hun, while the lungs belong to Metal in the west and govern the storage of the po. Daoists, meanwhile, speak of “three hun and seven po.” Are there really three hun and seven po? No. This is symbolic, based on the number of the Nine Palaces: three is on the left and seven on the right. Bai Yuchan’s phrase “three dragons and four tigers” is similar, since the Taixuan pairs three with Wood and four with Metal.

Su Ziyou said that the ancients held the left kidney to correspond to the urinary bladder, while the right kidney was the Gate of Destiny. The urinary bladder and the Triple Burner (Sanjiao) were the respective organs associated with them. In men, the Gate of Destiny stores Jing (essence); in women, it sustains the womb. By this reasoning, the Triple Burner should have a visible form, like the urinary bladder. Yet Wang Shuhe said that the Triple Burner had a name but no form. Was he not mistaken?

Zeng Huchen cited the “Treatise on Nature and Emotions” in the White Tiger Discussions: “The upper burner is like an aperture, the middle burner like woven fabric, and the lower burner like a channel.” This seems to suggest that the Triple Burner has substance and form. The author believes that Wang Shuhe had not examined the matter carefully, and that Su Ziyou may simply have forgotten this passage for a moment. The author also recounts, however, a recluse’s view that the Triple Burner is the Yellow Court, the site within the body where Jing and Qi are refined and cultivated. A text on the Elixir says that heart Fire, kidney Water, and the Fire of the urinary bladder converge there and are refined with fierce heat; this is why it is called the “Triple Burner.” Here, “burner” refers to the strong fire used in cultivation. Shen Cunzhong also said that the Yellow Court has a name but no form, agreeing with Wang Shuhe. But Shen Cunzhong did not know that the Yellow Court is the Triple Burner, and Wang Shuhe did not know that the Triple Burner is the Yellow Court. Zeng Huchen’s view that the Triple Burner has form also has merit, the author says. But the author considers it mistaken to follow the White Tiger Discussions in interpreting the Triple Burner as three separate regions: upper, middle, and lower.

A text on the Elixir says that among the Eight Extraordinary Vessels, the eight channels not governed by the twelve regular meridians, the Conception Vessel and the Governing Vessel are crucial gathering points for the body’s Yin and Yang Qi. They also preserve the purity of the Five Qi, the five kinds of primordial energy circulating within the body, and are the root of primordial energy. The Conception Vessel begins below the Zhongji point, rises past the pubic region, travels upward inside the abdomen to the Guanyuan point, and then reaches the throat. It is the sea of Yin channels. The Governing Vessel begins at the lower extremity’s Shu point, ascends along the inside of the spine to Fengfu, enters the brain, and then descends from the crown of the head along the forehead to the nose. It is the sea of Yang channels.

It is said that those who can open the Governing Vessel and circulate Qi through the Tail Gate, the region at the base of the spine, can live for five hundred years and become white deer; turtles are said to enjoy the same longevity. Turtles can hold their breath and gather their Qi, it is said, because their Conception Vessel is open. When both the Conception and Governing Vessels are open, Qi can rise from the Tail Gate to the Muddy Pellet, the site of cultivation inside the head, and all the body’s hundred channels open in turn. The Yellow Court Scripture says that the heavenly channels are all within the heart; by keeping them in mind and circulating them day and night, one can attain long life. “Heavenly channels” here means the Yellow Path, the course along which the sun and moon travel. In the human body, it corresponds to the Conception and Governing Vessels, the pathways through which the breath moves back and forth.

I once had a child who died after three days without crying or nursing. At the time, I did not know what was wrong. Only later, after reading medical texts, did I learn that the “Yellow Path” described in the Changsheng Tianjing is the route along which the sun and moon travel. In the human body, it corresponds to the Ren and Du vessels, which are also channels through which Qi flows.

I once had a child who died after three days without crying or nursing. I did not know what was wrong. Later, after reading medical texts such as the Baosheng Fang and the Sanyin Fang, I learned that a newborn who does not cry or nurse is often affected by pathogenic wind entering when the umbilical cord is cut. The wind rises from the navel, passes along the chest and throat, and reaches the space between the lower jaw and gums, where it forms a small sore the size of a yellow millet grain. The pain is unbearable, so the child neither cries nor nurses. If the sore is pricked with a fingernail and a little yellow pus is released, the child will cry and nurse. I later taught people this method, and it saved several children.

The Suwen, Nanjing, and Jiayi Jing all say that the Ren vessel begins below the Zhongji point, rises past the pubic hair, runs upward inside the abdomen to Guanyuan, and continues to the throat. Zhu Gong’s Nei Wai Er Jing Tu also says that the Yinjiao point, at the center where the upper and lower teeth meet, is where the Ren and Du vessels cross. From this, we can see that when a newborn does not cry or nurse, it is because pathogenic wind has entered the Ren vessel.

A man surnamed Wu who worked at a wine shop in Mudu suffered from uncontrollable seminal leakage. None of the medicines he took could cure him. I taught him a very simple method: tighten the flanks and abdomen, draw in the perineum—the area between the anus and the genitals—close the eyes, and hold the head steady, as though it were weighted with stone. Then guide the breath straight up the back into the Niwan, a Daoist term for the interior of the crown of the head, and swallow the breath down to the Dantian, the sea of Qi below the navel. There is no set number of repetitions, and the method can be practiced while walking, sitting, or lying down. I also told him to take Baozhen Pills, but he took no medicine and practiced only this method. When I saw him again less than half a year later, he was cured, and his complexion was rosy as a peach. This method can also treat head wind, a term for conditions such as headaches.

Daoists have a heterodox technique that recommends inhaling through the nose and exhaling through the mouth, claiming that this keeps Jing and Qi from leaking out. At first I did not believe it, but after trying it, I found that it worked. This method can also treat nocturnal emission.

The “Three Peaks” method of sexual extraction and conquest, circulated throughout the world, uses the names of the Yellow Emperor and the Mysterious Maiden as cover. It also claims that this was how Rongcheng Gong and Peng Zu attained longevity. Many members of the scholar-official class have been misled by it and have died as a result. This is truly tragic. Ge Hong compared the practice to placing hot broth in a basin of ice or wrapping fire in feathers. Others likened it to licking honey from a knife’s edge or reaching into a tiger’s den to take its cubs. How could such acts be anything but dangerous?

The Beimeng Suoyan records that after the Tang dynasty chancellor Xiahou Zi acquired the so-called “Peng method,” he became infatuated with a prostitute. She could not withstand the practice, and Xiahou Zi consequently exhausted his Jing and Qi, eventually dying. When my maternal grandfather, Lord Lüqiu, served as a judicial assessor, he also studied this method. At first his complexion was ruddy, but after the age of seventy he too suffered its harm, just as Xiahou Zi had. Practitioners of alchemy say this is like the bottom falling out of a bucket: in middle age, one still has enough strength to draw in, gather, and preserve Jing and Qi; in old age, one’s strength declines, and one can no longer draw them in and hold them fast. As a result, Jing and Qi are almost entirely drained away in a single night.

The Yijian Zhi records that the Daoist Wu violated the wife of a county clerk and was later killed by the clerk. Wu’s death was hardly enough to atone for the harm he had done to dozens of women. Yet the clerk himself was also skilled in this method and had violated other men’s wives. When Wu nearly harmed his own wife, she escaped death only because she was restored with “lamb soup”—a fortunate outcome.

The Xiantian Daxue Xingming Shu, written by Du Anren of Mount Jiuhua, consists of nine chapters. Its arguments are interconnected, and its contents show considerable sophistication. Some say the book was presented to the Gao Emperor. In the memorial accompanying it, I find the words: “Those who give themselves to one another in excess can surely relieve decline.” This clearly refers to the principle in the Great Excess hexagram of the Book of Changes that “the withered poplar puts forth shoots.” It plainly belongs to the art of the bedchamber. The author is merely using the Book of Changes to dress up his claims; this is not the Dao of stillness and Wuwei (non-action).

Fushan Zi Yugu explains “wondrous vessel” in his commentary on the Yinfu Jing as an untouched young woman. This claim seriously distorts the truth. In his commentary on the Cantongqi, he also forces connections where none exist, making him almost a culprit against Wei Boyang, the text’s author. Zhen Xishan, a Confucian scholar of the Southern Song, wrote a preface for his book. Confucians probably regarded Daoism as heterodox and did not examine its claims closely, so they were misled.

The thirty-eighth question in San Guzi’s One Hundred Questions on the Golden Elixir asks how human life comes to be divided into male and female. The book answers that when the man’s Qi stirs first and the woman responds afterward, a boy is born; when the woman stirs first and the man responds afterward, a girl is born. When the spirits of the man and woman unite, their breathing is in harmony, and their Jing and Qi are abundant, they will have a child with pleasing features and a full measure of good fortune and longevity. If their spirits are impaired, their strength weakened, and their Jing and Qi depleted, they will have a child with an unusual appearance and an ill-starred fate. San Guzi’s surname was Qiu, his given name Shan, and his courtesy name Andao. He came from Nancheng in Jiangyou. “San Gu” was the name of the place where he lived. In the early years of the Qiandao era, he met the Elder of Jinhua and learned the art of the Golden Elixir, later writing this book.

Chu Huagu of Yunjiang says in On Dispelling Doubts that the opening of Qi belongs to Yang and gives rise to boys, while its closing belongs to Yin and gives rise to girls; this opening and closing distinguish male from female. Li Yuxi of Yichun, in his commentary on the Jade Emperor’s Heart-Seal Scripture, says that men and women receive the same underlying nature, and that only the order in which they respond to one another differentiates Yin and Yang.

The Lost Book of the Chu Family says that if Yin blood arrives first and Yang essence enters afterward, the blood opens around and encloses the essence. The essence then enters and forms the bones, resulting in a male. If Yang essence enters first and Yin blood arrives afterward, the essence opens around and encloses the blood. The blood then enters its proper place, resulting in a female.

Shi Jianwu says in the Zhong-Lü Transmission of the Dao that when the father’s essence enters first and the mother’s blood flows afterward, the blood encloses the essence and a female is formed. When the mother’s blood enters first and the father’s essence flows afterward, the essence encloses the blood and a male is formed. Shi Jianwu probably adopted the account in the Lost Book of the Chu Family, but this account directly contradicts San Guzi’s, so it must be examined carefully.

Thirty years ago, I once spoke late into the night with Wen Cixiao, a steward from the Yan Mountains, about the differences in conceiving boys and girls. Cixiao strongly agreed with the views of San Guzi and Chu Huagu. He said Sun Simiao’s account of the first and second days of menstruation was not worth following. As for Bai Yuchan’s comparison between the waxing and waning of Qi and blood and the phases of the moon, it could be corroborated by the Suwen: “When the moon first appears, Qi and blood in the human body begin to flourish; when the moon is full, Qi and blood are abundant; when the moon wanes, the body’s channels and collaterals grow weak.” Qi and blood also change with the phases of the moon: they gradually grow vigorous from the first quarter to the full moon, then gradually weaken from the last quarter to the end of the month. When the moon is full, the brains of fish are full; when it wanes, they diminish. Clams and crabs undergo similar changes. The accounts of these things in the Lüshi Chunqiu and the Huainanzi are not baseless. I once shared these ideas with scholar-officials who had long been childless, and quite a few later had children. Yet whether a child will live to adulthood ultimately depends on Heaven’s decree; it is not something human effort can determine.

Most methods for conceiving a boy recorded in medical books cite the claims of the Chushi yishu, and have misled many people. In my hometown there was a young nobleman who had two daughters in succession. Later, when his concubine became pregnant again, he happily told me, “This time it will certainly be a boy. I used the Chushi method.” I laughed and said, “If you used the Chushi method, you should get ready to play with another clay doll.” Sure enough, he had another daughter. I then told him the views of Qiu Sangu and Chu Huagu. A year later, he finally had a son.

Recently, during a conversation, I heard Guo Boying of Chengjiang speak of the Central Plains elders Hu Zishan, Wen Cixiao, and Hao Jifu, as well as the claims in the Chushi yishu. Guo sighed and said, “I was misled by what this book says.” It turned out that he too had used the Chushi method and had six daughters in a row, yet had never realized his mistake. Later, he even passed these claims on to the son of Zhang Shilong of Songjiang. He had truly taken mistaken ideas and used them to mislead others. I told him he should correct himself at once: if the man’s Jing arrives first and the woman’s blood then enfolds it, with Yang within, a male embryo forms. This is what the Zhouyi means by “the Way of Qian seeks union with Kun and forms a male”—Qian is Yang, Kun is Yin, and the Way of Qian seeks union with Kun to form a male. If the woman’s blood arrives first and the man’s Jing then enfolds it, with Yin within, a female embryo forms. This is what is meant by “the Way of Kun seeks union with Qian and forms a female.” Guo Boying smiled, thanked me, and left.

Some people wonder why noblemen, despite having many concubines around them, have few children, while fishermen, with just one wife, have many. The reason is clear and easy to understand: those with few desires often have more offspring, while those whose desires are excessive may have difficulty having children. It is like seasoning a bowl of soup: the right amount of salt brings out its flavor, but too much makes it unpleasant. If scholar-officials wish to have children, they should restrain their desires. Otherwise, seeking offspring is like trying to draw oil from a withered pine or sap from dry bamboo: success is hard to expect.

The Classic of Filial Piety (Xiaojing) says, “For parents to raise their children and continue the family line is the greatest matter.” Those without children should understand this.

There is another way of explaining it: a man is like Heaven, and a woman is like Earth. The rain and dew sent down by Heaven always nourish the Earth, but soil may be fertile or barren; some can bring forth all manner of things, while others cannot. If soil is thin and poor, hard and alkaline, or strewn with rubble, yet is blamed for failing to grow crops, that is like trying to alter it by chiseling ice, or seeking the color red from the juice of indigo plants: one hopes in vain and ultimately gains nothing.

The Book of the Later Han (Hou Hanshu), in the “Biography of Ma Le,” records that Ma Le’s grandfather, Ma Yan, was less than seven chi tall. He often blamed himself for his short stature and worried that his descendants would be like him, so he found his son, Ma Kang, a tall wife. Ma Le, born to Ma Kang, grew to eight chi and three cun tall.

In an age when customs had grown corrupt, scholar-officials south of the Yangtze often indulged in sensual pleasures and chose young, delicate women as wives and concubines. As a result, their children were often frail and sickly, and prone to dying young. Worse still, some had sex while drunk and mentally clouded. Even if they had children, those children might not be intelligent.

When Yin-Yang Qi acts evenly on the fetus, it may form a body that is neither male nor female. If Jing and blood disperse, twins or multiple births may result. This is what the Book of Master Chu says. Some fetuses are also born without an anus or birth canal. Why does this happen? Xu Xun’s Treatise on the Influence of Pregnancy says it may occur when conception takes place while the parents are urgently needing to urinate or defecate. This account comes from the Classic of Health Preservation.

The Book of Master Chu also says that some fetuses have snow-white hair and white skin and flesh. Some people believe this is caused by conception on the day of the Earth God’s festival, when the land deity is worshipped; they call a boy born this way “Earth Lord” and a girl “Earth Lady.” Is this account correct? No. Xu Xun’s Treatise on the Influence of Pregnancy says that if the mother is menstruating when conception occurs, blood may flow outward, causing the fetus to have pale skin. Master Chu’s statement that “when blood nourishes the skin and flesh, the body becomes white” refers to the same idea.

What causes hair to be entirely white and vision to be blurred? The classics say that hair is the surplus of blood, and that the liver must receive nourishment from blood in order to see. If the mother is menstruating when conception occurs, her blood and Qi are depleted and her liver Qi is insufficient. The hair then loses its nourishment, and the eyes receive too little as well.

The study of nourishing life takes Laozi as its guiding authority. Laozi wrote the Daodejing. There is also a work by Cheng Ben, a disciple of Laozi. Confucius once met him, and the two stopped their vehicles and talked. Cheng Ben’s work is called the Zihuazi. Wenzi and Yin Xi, Keeper of the Pass, were also disciples of Laozi. Wenzi’s work is called the Tongxuan Zhenjing, and Yin Xi’s is called the Guanyinzi.

Later, Liezi wrote the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing, and Zhuangzi wrote the Nanhua Zhenjing. Both drew their teachings from Laozi. These titles were established in honorific edicts by Emperor Huizong of the Song dynasty.

Laozi’s writings have received many commentaries. In the Han dynasty there was the commentary by Heshang Gong; in the Wei dynasty, Wang Bi’s; in the Tang dynasty, Ye Fashan’s; and in the Song dynasty, those by Su Ziyou and Wang Pang. The modern Laozi Yinxun, written by You of Wuxi, says that the phrase “the king is also great, and the human being is also great” in an ancient version makes good sense. I believe that a passage in the Lingshu Jing quotes a saying from the Zihuazi.

Wenzi’s work has a commentary by Mo Xizi. In the first chapter of the Wenzi, I read the line, “The Dao cannot be spoken of if one does not possess it; what cannot be spoken of is the Dao.” Its meaning agrees completely with Laozi’s statement, “A Dao that can be spoken of is not the constant Dao.” The Guanyinzi has a commentary by Chen Baoyi, the Liezi one by Zhang Zhan, and the Zhuangzi commentaries by Guo Xiang and Cheng Xuanying. More recently, Lin Yanzhai wrote the Oral Interpretations of the Three Masters Laozi, Liezi, and Zhuangzi.

The Liezi, citing the Book of the Yellow Emperor, says, “The valley spirit never dies; this is called the Mysterious Female.” I believe this saying comes from the Book of the Yellow Emperor, and that some of Laozi’s teachings also originated in that book. Zhuangzi’s writings are based on the Liezi and chiefly elaborate on Liezi’s teachings.

Shao Yong considered the Huangdi Yinfu Jing and the Huangdi Suwen to be works from the Age of the Beast Kingdoms, written under the borrowed name of the Yellow Emperor. I think the Jinbi Longhu Jing and the Huangting Jing may likewise be works of the Wei and Jin periods, composed under the borrowed name of Laozi.

The Yinfu Jing has commentaries by Li Quan, the Old Mother of Mount Li, Zhang Guo, Lian Gaojiao, Tang Chun of Jinling, Li Yunfeng, and Chu Huagu, among others. Zhu Xi also wrote a commentary. Zhu Xi thought the Yinfu Jing was probably written by Li Quan in the Tang dynasty, who deliberately imitated ancient prose. If so, why did the book circulate simply because Li Quan began explaining it? I once shared this view with Lü Bogong, and he agreed. The Mayi Yi is similar: it is merely a text Dai wrote to explain his own ideas, and its authorship can be identified in the same way.

The Longhu Jing has commentaries by Wang Dao, Huang Tong, and Taixuzi, among others. Zhu Xi thought that it was compiled by excerpting material from the Cantong Qi. Someone at the time mistook an old note in the Cantong Qi for the title Longhu Jing, and the book was then compiled accordingly. The Cantong Qi says, “The two functions have no fixed line positions; they circulate through the six voids.” This means that the two line values, nine and six, operate among the six lines without fixed positions. The Longhu Jing, however, says, “The two functions have no fixed line positions; spread wings and fly through Xu and Wei.” This departs from the original meaning and turns toward an outlandish interpretation.

The Cantong Qi was written by Wei Boyang in the Eastern Han dynasty. Ge Hong says that Wei Boyang wrote it to explain the principles of alchemical practice using the line figures of the Zhouyi. Confucian scholars, unfamiliar with the cultivation of immortals, instead interpreted “the two functions have no fixed line positions; spread wings and fly through Xu and Wei” to mean something else, making the explanation stranger and stranger.

The Cantong qi was written by Wei Boyang of the Eastern Han. Ge Hong says that Wei Boyang borrowed the line figures of the Zhouyi to explain the principles of alchemy. Confucian scholars, unfamiliar with the cultivation of immortals, interpreted it through the theory of Yin-Yang and thus departed from the work’s central meaning. This shows that people were already writing commentaries on the Cantong qi before the Jin dynasty, including commentaries by Yu Fan and Yin Changsheng, though unfortunately neither has survived.

During the Five Dynasties, Zhenyizi Peng Xiao of the Former Shu wrote the Tongzhen yi. He explained the “Three Things That Resemble One Another” through the Five Phases, which was mistaken. The “Three Things That Resemble One Another” are the Great Changes (Zhouyi), the teachings of Huang-Lao, and alchemical work with the furnace: the Yin-Yang transformations in all three resemble one another. “Can” means “three,” “tong” means “the same,” and “qi” means “resembling one another.” These terms explain the meaning of the title Cantong qi.

In the line “Yield to the time, leave harm behind, and be near the ghosts,” the word “ghosts” is a hidden reference to “Wei.” Zheng Huan’s substitution of “immortal” for “ghosts” is incorrect. In “Below one hundred and one, roaming freely among humankind,” “below one hundred and one” covertly points to the character “Bo” through a wordplay involving its components: adding the “person” radical to “hundred” produces “Bo.” In “Tang met adversity; drought and flood came together,” “Tang suffered drought and had no water” covertly points to the character “Yi”; combining the lower part of “adversity” with “Yi” then covertly points to “Yang.” These are all cryptic ways of explaining the three characters in “Wei Boyang.”

Peng Xiao’s Zhenyi Commentary survives in several editions: the Shu edition, the Yuan edition, the Ji edition, Zheng Huan’s edition under the name Xuyizi, and the edition printed by Wang Gang and placed beneath the Penglai Pavilion in Yuezhou. After Peng Xiao’s commentary, the Cantong qi was also annotated by Zhang Sui and Li Baosu; both commentaries are relatively brief. The commentaries by Chen Baoyi and Chu Huagu, by contrast, offer considerable elaboration.

Zhu Huian (Zhu Xi) once wrote a commentary on the Cantong qi under the name of Zou Fang, a Daoist from Mount Kongtong, and also composed a Textual Examination. Zou was a name Zhu Xi assumed. “Zhu” was the name of a feudal state during the Spring and Autumn period. Tao Yinjü (Tao Hongjing’s) Zhengao records many poems said to have been composed when female immortals descended. Learned readers did not accept these accounts, believing that Tao Hongjing had probably written the poems himself. Zhu Huian said that the Daoshou pian at the end of the Zhengao was simply written by borrowing ideas from the Buddhist Sutra in Forty-Two Sections.

Other Tang works include Wu Zhenjie’s Xuangang lun, Sima Ziwei’s Zuowang lun, Wang Changyu’s Yixuanzi shi, and Han Xiaoyao’s Neizhi tongxuan pian.

In his Preface to Tianyinzi, Sima Ziwei says that the mystery of cultivating the Dao lies in responding to and resonating with the true Qi between Heaven and Earth, and bringing one’s own movements into step with theirs. He also says that when one senses the Qi of Heaven and Earth arriving, one should set one’s own Qi in motion so that it moves in unison with it. This is an exceptionally subtle method of cultivation. If, over the three hundred and sixty days of a year, one’s own Qi can coincide with the Qi of Heaven and Earth two or three times, one will feel clear and at ease in body, unlike in one’s usual state. If this condition can be maintained over a long period, the path to becoming an immortal will not be difficult to attain.

Huashu was written by Tan Qiao. Tan Qiao, whose courtesy name was Jingsheng, once took the book to Qiu for a preface. Qiu killed Tan Qiao, then stole the book and put his own name on it.

Rujingjing was written by Cui Daifan of White Crane Mountain. A poem by Lü Dongbin contains the line, “For I read Master Cui’s Rujingjing.” Xia Yunfeng, Chu Huagu, and Xiao Liaozhen all wrote commentaries on this book. The author argues that the line “Heaven answers to the stars; Earth answers to the tides” refers simply to the movements and interactions of Heaven above and Earth below. If one clings to a literal reading, the handle of the Big Dipper shifts to a different position each month, while the sea tides rise and fall twice a day in a recurring pattern. How, then, could both be said to correspond?

The book also speaks of “exhausting Wu and Ji.” Some people mistakenly change this to “exhausting Wu and Gui,” then explain Gui as “Heavenly Gui,” a term related to human physiology. This is like the line in Wuzhenpian, “When you suddenly see a sprout emerge, gather it at once,” which some people explain as “when Gui emerges.” The author argues that such claims are textual alterations made by practitioners of the Three Peaks method, a form of sexual cultivation, to lend support to heretical doctrines. Chu Huagu’s account of “Wu and Gui transforming into Fire,” and Li Yuxi’s discussion of “Kun Gui,” are, in the author’s view, forced explanations intended to draw heretical doctrines back toward the orthodox path.

During the Five Dynasties period, works included the thirty-nine chapters of Zhixuan by Zhongli Jidao, poems by Lü Dongbin, Shi Jianwu’s Jingzhongyin and Sanzhuming, Xishan’s Wuzhenji, and Zhong-Lü Chuandaoji.

In the Song dynasty, Chen Xiyi wrote Zhixuanpian and Bashi lun. The author argues that these works, too, are forced explanations intended to draw heretical doctrines back toward the orthodox path.

In the Song dynasty, Chen Xiyi wrote the Zhi Xuan Pian, a collection of eighty-one poems; Liu Haichan wrote the Huan Jin Pian, with fourteen poems; Chen Chaoyuan wrote the Yu Zhi Shi; Yang Xu wrote the Chun Cui Lun; Liu Xihe wrote the Lang Ran Zi Shi; Ning Xuanzi wrote poems; Zhang Hongmeng wrote the Huan Yuan Pian and the Yu Ding Wu Jie Pian; Zhang Pingshu wrote the Wu Zhen Pian; Xue Dao wrote the Fu Ming Pian; Liu Gaoshang wrote the Fa Yu; Liu Xugu wrote the Huan Dan Pian; Chen Mo wrote the Chong Zheng Pian; and Li Changyuan wrote the Hun Yuan Pian. Of these works, only the Wu Zhen Pian and the Fu Ming Pian have commentaries.

Zhang Junfang compiled works from the Daoist Canon into the Yunji Qiqian. Its contents are diverse, including talismans and spells, methods of cultivation, and accounts of karmic retribution. In compiling the Dao Shu, Zeng Zao listed many poems and formulas on the alchemical methods of the immortals. Liu Haichan’s Huan Jin Pian and Chen Chaoyuan’s Yu Zhi Shi, for example, are both included in it.

Liu Xiang compiled the Lie Xian Zhuan, Ge Hong the Shen Xian Zhuan, Shen Fen the Xu Xian Zhuan, and Zeng Zao the Ji Xian Zhuan. Yi Rugang compiled the Xian Zhuan Shi Yi, and Chen Baoguang the San Dong Shen Xian Lu. There are also the Dong Xian Zhuan, the Shen Xian Gan Yu Zhuan, and other works. Though their accounts are varied and complicated, they record the names of most of the immortals from ancient times to the present.

Poems and formulas in works on alchemical methods include Yuan Yangzi’s Da Dao Ge, Master Zeng’s Ling Yuan Ge, Zhang Xujing’s Da Dao Ge, Gao Xiangxian’s Po Mi Ge, Wu Zhenjie’s Xue Xian Ge, Yuding’s Po Mi Ge, the Zheng Dao Ge by 【the original text is missing here】, Liu Gaoshang’s Qiao Yao Ge, and Jinhua Zi’s Zhu Dong Wei Zi Shi. Some works were also written under the names of ancient figures, such as the Yin Jun Huan Dan Ge, the San Mao Jun Da Dao Ge, the Ge Xian Weng Liu Zhu Ge, the Xu Jingyang Zui Si Xian Ge, and the Lü Gong Xuan Pin Ge. Many passages in these works explain their ideas clearly.

Liu Xugu’s Yi Zhuan merely borrows the language of the Book of Changes to dress up his own ideas; he did not truly understand the Book of Changes. Zhu Huian (Zhu Xi) therefore criticized it severely.

Chen Gushen’s Liao Ran Lun, Zhan Tianxi’s Da Yi Nei Jie, Wang Xubaí’s San Jiao Guan Yi Lun, and Yang Penglou’s San Wu Gui Yi Shuo contain a great deal, and some of their material is worth reading.

Bai Yuchan wrote the Wuyi Shi … Zhu Huian therefore criticized it severely.

Chen Gushen wrote Treatise on Understanding Clearly, Zhan Tianxi wrote The Inner Explanation of the Great Changes, Wang Xubai wrote On the Unity of the Three Teachings, and Yang Penglou wrote On the Three and Five Returning to Unity. Though these works range widely in subject matter, each has something worth appreciating.

Bai Yuchan wrote Collected Works from Wuyi, Collected Works of Shangqing, Collected Works of Yulong, Collected Works of Hailing, and Collected Works of the Golden Pass and Jade Key, among others. His disciples compiled Collected Questions on the Dao from Liu Ziyuan and Questions on the Dao from Peng Helin. Collected Gems of the Immortals includes Zhang Ziyang’s Four Hundred Words on the Golden Elixir and Shi Xinglin’s Treatise on Returning to the Source. Yet their literary style is indistinguishable from Bai Yuchan’s, so they were probably written by him under the names of Zhang Ziyang and Shi Xinglin. Chen Nini’s Cui Xu Chapters should also be Bai Yuchan’s work: the first few poems are by Yuanyangzi, while the later pieces, The Scripture of the Purple Court, Song of Luofu, and Treatise on Returning to Unity, seem to have come from the same hand as Collected Works from Wuyi and the other books.

Bai Yuchan’s letters to Chen Nini and Zhang Ziyang do little more than promote his own teachings in the strongest terms. In them, phrases such as “evening clouds over green mountains,” “the moon at night over a clear pool,” “the workings of spring wind through the plantain,” and “the secrets of autumn rain on the parasol tree” describe the rising and sinking, floating and settling of Qi with great subtlety. He probably used other people’s names in this roundabout way because he wanted scholars of his time to place greater trust in these works.

Yuchan transmitted the methods of the Elixir to Peng Helin, who in turn passed them on to Xiao Liaozhen. Xiao Liaozhen’s Collected Works on the Great Accomplishment of the Golden Elixir explains Yuchan’s teaching. The Treatise on Returning to the Source says, “Three jin of aged mercury are white; a single point of true lead is red.” The Four Hundred Characters says instead, “Three jin of aged mercury are white; a single point of true lead is black.” The “forty-eight” here refers to three jin of mercury; one portion of it is true lead. Since a jin contains sixteen liang, “two-eight” means half a jin of gold and half a jin of water. This is what the Awakening to Reality means when it says, “The medicinal substances weigh one jin, and must be two-eight; regulate the fire’s timing by relying on Yin-Yang.”

Xiao Liaozhen made a diagram placing the doubled Kan hexagram at the zi position and the doubled Li hexagram at the wu position. The Kan hexagram changes first into Jie, at the chou position, and then into Tun, at the yin position. The Li hexagram changes first into Lü, at the wei position, and then into Ding, at the shen position. It changes a third time into Weiji, at the you position, and a fourth time into Huan, at the xu position. This is what is called “Tun at dawn, Meng at dusk.” The Tun hexagram has Zhen below and Kan above; the Meng hexagram has Kan above and Gen below. Zhen symbolizes movement, while Gen symbolizes stillness, corresponding to the saying that morning is for movement and evening for stillness.

Liao Chanhui wrote the Inner Chapters on the Three Vehicles, and Shen Baichan wrote the Treatise on the Golden Elixir. Both were disciples of Yuchan. Xu Zhiwei’s Secrets of Cultivation in the Orthodox Lineage of the Primordial Heaven uses the transitions between the twelve double-hours as a method for determining the right moment. In his preface, he says that during the Chunxi era he received the instructions from Peng Mengqu of Hanzhou. The later works Preface to Xiao Guanfou’s Elixir, Precious Mirror, and Essentials of the Inner Image Elixir all contain the same teachings as those transmitted by Xu Zhiwei.

A man who called himself “Nantuzi of the Hermitage,” but left no surname, wrote the Treatise on Reaching the Source. In the ji-hai year of the Jiaxi era, Wei Xian of Shouchun wrote a preface to the book. Chen Guan, the Master of Suyang on Mount Lu, wrote the Treatise on the Orthodox Way. In the second year of the Chunyou era, both Meng Gong of Handong and Liu Yuangang of Luling wrote prefaces to it.

Zhou Wusuo of Yongjia wrote the Direct Guide to the Golden Elixir. In the jia-yin year of the Baoyou era, Yang Zizheng of Shu wrote a postscript to it. Mei Shi’s Miscellaneous Sayings explains the subject through the teachings of the Lianxi and Luoyang schools of Neo-Confucianism, and contains some especially subtle insights.

Zhang Yongchang wrote the Treatise on Suchness and the Fulfillment of Destiny. In the wu-wu year of the Qingyuan era, Zhao Yanzui, the Master of Returning Yang, had it printed. Huo Shanggu of Biling wrote a Manual of Elixir Instructions, which discusses the “mystery of the single character” and raises questions about the matter of the seventh month; You Mushí of Wuxi wrote a preface to it. Huo Shanggu’s son Juchuan later wrote the Oral Instructions on the Golden Elixir, interpreting them through the teachings of the Lianxi and Luoyang schools of Neo-Confucianism.

Publication and Circulation of “The Treatise on True Suchness and the Fulfillment of Destiny”: In the Wuwu year of the Qingyuan era (1198), Zhaoyan, the Master of Returning Yang, printed Huo Shanggu’s Instructions on the Elixir in Piling, around present-day Changzhou, Jiangsu. A single character in the book held a subtle, crucial meaning, so he sought others’ advice about it. In the seventh month, You Mushi of Wuxi wrote a preface to the book. Shanggu’s son Juchuan separately wrote Direct Pointers to the Oral Instructions on the Golden Elixir, focusing in particular on how the “times of Wu and Ji” in heaven correspond to Wu and Ji within the human body. In heaven, Wu and Ji refer to Kan and Li—that is, the moon and sun. In the human body, they correspond to the breath meeting and joining, and to nourishing the body.

In my native place there was a prefect named Mi, whose personal name has been lost. He was known as the Recluse Studio and rose to the rank of Gentleman for Manifest Service. He had a Treatise on Illuminating Reality by Master Dongyang, which he printed at home in the Dingsi year of the Bao You era (1257).

In Yun Jian, around present-day Songjiang, Shanghai, there was the Treatise on Pervading the Numinous, written by Wang Kui, the Master of Toad Valley. Chu Yong, the Master of Flower Valley, annotated four books: the Jing of the Hidden Talisman, the Token of the Three in Accordance, the Mirror of the Medicine, and the Treatise on Awakening to Reality. He also compiled the Collected Works on the Three in Accordance, which was printed in Songjiang.

Feng Shoujing, a Daoist from Kuocang, around present-day Lishui, Zhejiang, wrote the Treatise on the Correct Way, which was never printed. Both he and Wang Yian Studio studied the Dao under Cao Mo’an.

Li Jianyi of Yichun, known as the Master of Jade Stream, wrote such books as Explanation of the Jing of the Mind Seal, Essentials for Pointing to the Truth of Awakening, and The Workings of Fuxi. He also drew the Ten Diagrams of the Compass, which he gave to Peng Shi of Changsha. Its content is concise, and it was printed in Hunan. Recently, a reprint was made in Jiangxi. There are also Peng Shi’s Secret Words and Song on Sitting Cross-Legged in Great Stillness and Regulating the Primordial Qi, with its commentary; their explanations are exceptionally clear. The final line says, “Write these things down, then hand them over to Bing and Ding.” This is the genuine oral formula for beginning cultivation. Peng Shi received the book in his day and could not bear to destroy it, so it circulated among the rivers and lakes. Anyone who obtains it can understand its contents, even without seeking instruction from another.

In the Wuxu year of the Dade era (1298), a Daoist friend came from Xiangtan and showed me Zhao Guchan’s Book on the Chaos of Nature and Life. Although its annotations are mixed with Chan Buddhist terminology, the overall meaning is still clear.

In the summer of the Gengzi year of the Dade era (1300), Hu Yin showed me the Further Mysteries of the Golden Elixir, saying it was written by Liang Jiuyang. The preface, written by the author himself, says that the book came from Wang Shanbin. Wang Shanbin was from Tiantai and was known as the Master of True Constancy. He exchanged poems with Xia Yunfeng, Chen Liaokong, and Yu Lu’an, and wrote the Collected Meanings of the Many Mysteries. In the Xinsi year of the Zhiyuan era (1281), Grand Tutor Wen Ruxin brought me this book to see; it was a handwritten manuscript.

Xia Yuanding of Yongjia, in the area of present-day Wenzhou, Zhejiang, was known as Yunfeng. He wrote commentaries on three books, the Yinfu, the Yaojing, and the Wuzhen. Zhen Xishan wrote prefaces for these books.

Yu Lu’an of Luchuan, in the area of present-day Luzhou, Sichuan, once had four books on cultivating the Dao printed at Yangjiao Grotto-Heaven. The first was Han Xiaoyao’s Neizhi Tongxuan Jue; the second, Chen Liaokong’s Fuyi Pian; the third, Wang Daiche’s Juyi Pian; and the fourth, a work by  titled Danfang Deyi Pian. In the gengwu year of the Xianchun era (1270), He Fengji of Shu wrote a preface to them.

Chen Yu of Weiyang, in the area of present-day Yangzhou, Jiangsu, had the Daoist name Baoyizi and wrote the Liming Pian. In the gengyin year of the Shaoding era (1230), Bai Yuchan wrote an afterword for it. Chen also annotated the Guanyinzi and the Cantongqi, and Chancellor Dong Jutang wrote an afterword at the end of the book.

The prefaces to works such as the Sanguzi and Qiushan’s Jindan Baiwen say that, around the beginning of the Qiandao era (circa 1165), their authors received the Dao from the Elder of Jinhua.

The preface written by Weiyuzi to his Zhizhen Pian says that the book was composed in the gengyin year of the Shaoding era (1230), but gives no surname for its author. The Chengzhen Pian, written by his disciple, likewise gives no surname.

Wang Chongyang of the Jinzhen school wrote the Jinzhen Ji; Ma Danyang, the Weiyu Ji and Jinyu Ji; Tan Changzhen, the Shuiyun Ji; Liu Changsheng, the Xianle Ji; Qiu Changchun, the Panxi Ji and Mingdao Ji; Wang Yuyang, the Lingguang Ji; and Hao Guangning, the Taigu Ji. In the north, one printed edition grouped these works under the title Qizhen Yaoxun. The area around Yanshan lies close to the main roads, and many alchemical books were printed there. In the jihai year of the Dade era (1299), someone brought me a collection of Ding Lingyang’s writings. He also asked me to write a preface for Ma Danyang’s recorded sayings, so I placed a preface at the beginning of the volume.

Someone said, “Huo Shanggu, Yuchan Gu, Chu Huagu, and Mi Dongyang all understood the practice of the Dao, but never truly put it into practice. Although they left writings behind, they amount to nothing more than empty talk.” I replied, “That is not so. Have you not heard what the Liezi says?” The Liezi records that the ancients once discussed the way to long life and immortality…

Someone said, “Huo Shanggu, Yuchan, Gu Chu, Hua Gu, and Mi Dongyang all understood the way to long life, yet none of them put it into practice. Though they left books behind, what they wrote was only empty talk.”

I replied, “That is not so. Have you never heard the story told in the Liezi? Long ago, someone taught the way of immortality. A man in the state of Yan sent a messenger from his home to learn it. Before the messenger had mastered it, the teacher died. The man of Yan was furious and planned to kill the messenger. Fortunately, someone persuaded him: ‘Nothing troubles people more urgently than death, and nothing matters more to them than their own lives. If that man could not even preserve his own life, how could he teach you to live forever?’ At this, the man of Yan spared the messenger.

“A man from the state of Qi also wanted to learn this art. When he heard that the teacher had died, he beat his breast and sighed in frustration. Fuzi heard of this and laughed: ‘He wanted to learn the way of immortality, yet the teacher has died and he still sighs in grief. That shows he does not understand the principles of learning at all.’

“Huzi said, ‘Fuzi is wrong. Some people know a method but cannot put it into practice; others can put a method into practice without understanding its principles. In the state of Wei there was a man skilled in arithmetic who, on his deathbed, told his son the secret of his technique. The son remembered his father’s words but could not use them. Later, someone asked him about it. He passed on the secret his father had told him, and the other person was able to follow it successfully, using the method exactly as his father had. If so, can the dead really not teach the art of nourishing life?’”

Zhu Huian (Zhu Xi, courtesy name Huian) said to Jitong (Cai Yuanding, courtesy name Jitong): “The Yin Jun Elixir Instructions mention a poem by Lianxi (Zhou Dunyi); I imagine they mean this very book. People who practice its methods and live long are like people who have eaten their fill of pork. We know for certain that such people exist.” Yet there is more than one such example, while we ourselves still cannot escape aging and illness. Is this like sitting around talking about dragon meat without ever having tasted it?

More than forty years ago, while annotating the Cantong Qi (a Daoist classic on cultivation and alchemy), I saw Lü Sixing practicing the Eight Brocades (a health exercise based on guiding and stretching the body). I was astonished that he was old yet robust, and I often laughed to myself about it. Now I think the learning of the Cantong Qi is much like the art of slaying dragons: it is less practical than slaughtering pigs in Siping. To know but not put it into practice is what Huian called “sitting around talking about dragon meat.”

However, to practice methods of this kind, one must leave one’s wife and children behind. We who read the books of the sages still have our parents with us. How could we defy the natural order and abandon our family just to seek longevity for ourselves? Yet I once tried this kind of cultivation by sitting quietly at night, and had a rough taste of “dragon meat.” That is better than merely sitting around talking about it, without knowing its taste at all. In my youth I was often ill and so frail that my clothes seemed to wear me; now I can just manage to prolong my life, and have not yet died. I owe this, too, to the effects of the Cantong Qi.

Since the years of the Deyou era, I felt that the literary world had fallen into decline. I had no desire to do anything else, so I shut myself away to sit quietly, entertain myself by playing the qin, and study the Book of Changes, along with books on internal and external alchemy. Gradually, I developed four consuming passions.

First, I became absorbed in the qin. I wanted to use the Six Pitch Standards—the ancient system for establishing musical pitches—to set the Five Tones, but even after asking every qin master I could find, I received no answer. Later, I read the Ziyang Qin Manual, the Nanxi Qin Compendium, and the Jade Notation of Subtle Sounds, and learned how to shift the modes according to a fixed pattern. I then set poems such as “Zhou Nan,” “Shao Nan,” “Deer Call,” and “Imperial Envoy” to music, accompanying them on the strings as I sang. I also composed music for “Encountering Sorrow,” “Nine Songs,” the Preface to the Poems from the Orchid Pavilion, “Returning Home,” the Record of the Old Drunkard’s Pavilion, and the Rhapsody on the Red Cliff. Once I had mastered these things, my passion for the qin came to an end.

Next, I became absorbed in the Book of Changes. I gathered interpretations by Confucian scholars from different schools and compiled them into 120 volumes, titled A Comprehensive Collection on the Great Changes. The work centered on the views of the Masters Cheng Yi and Zhu Xi, while also drawing on the best ideas from other schools. I also supplemented it with things I had heard over the years from teachers and friends, compiling these into the forty-volume Collected Explanations of the Zhou Changes. Once the work was complete, my passion for the Book of Changes came to an end.

After that, I became absorbed in Neidan (internal alchemy). I collected alchemical poems and oral instructions dating from the Han and Tang dynasties onward and compiled them into 100 volumes, titled A Broad Survey of Penetrating the Mystery. In the guiyou year of the Yuan dynasty (1283), I met an extraordinary master and learned from him the utmost mysteries of the primordial state. I then wrote works such as Expounding the Meaning of the Cantong qi and Extending the Meaning of Awakening to Reality. This passion, too, came to an end.

As for Waidan (external alchemy), I used cinnabar, arsenic, and mercury to compound elixirs, and countless times the furnace smoked and the danger seemed imminent. Then one night I suddenly understood: when the Cantong qi says, “Take gold as the chief ingredient and combine it with mercury,” it is speaking of the Golden Elixir. In the world there is only the Golden Elixir; there is no Silver Elixir. So I smashed the furnace, tongs, and other alchemical tools, and from then on I stopped practicing external alchemy. I once wrote A Record of Warnings from the Furnace and Fire. Here I will briefly recount one incident from it.

In the third year of the Xiande era of Later Zhou (956), Emperor Shizong summoned the hermit Chen Tuan of Mount Hua and asked him how to make gold and silver. Chen Tuan replied, “Your Majesty is the Son of Heaven. Your foremost duty should be to govern the realm. Why devote your attention to this?” The emperor then sent him back to the mountain and issued an edict ordering the local officials to visit him regularly.

During the Jingde era of Emperor Zhenzong of Song, the emperor went to pay respects at the imperial mausoleums. Hearing that an extraordinary man named Helan Guizhen was among his attendants, he summoned him and asked, “I have heard that you possess the art of transformation. Can you tell me about it?” Helan Guizhen replied, “I would be glad to speak of the way emperors can bring about transformation: I hope Your Majesty will use the ways of Yao and Shun to educate the people and bring peace to the realm. Your Majesty need only put these into practice.”

Wang Jie was from Shaxian in Tingzhou and made his living as a merchant, traveling through the Huai and Yangtze regions. He met an unusual man and learned the art of alchemy from him. The man warned him, “You must not reveal this art casually unless you encounter a ruler.” Eager to present it to the emperor, Wang Jie instead came under pressure from the authorities. At the time, he feigned madness, was convicted, tattooed, and exiled beyond the mountain passes to the south. Before long, he escaped to the capital and went to the Dengwen Office, which received memorials from officials and commoners. There he claimed to be Xie Congquan, a Secretariat Drafter in the Bureau of Military Affairs, and said that he had once served as an official in Lingnan and knew the art of alchemy. Xie Congquan submitted a memorial on his behalf, and Wang Jie was released from military service.

The palace eunuch Liu Chenggui reported Wang Jie’s story to the emperor. The emperor summoned Wang Jie and, pleased after speaking with him, appointed him as a military adviser in Xuzhou, changed his name to Wang Zhongzheng, and had him remain in the capital. The gold Wang Jie presented over the years was worth an enormous sum. He rose to the rank of Senior General of the Right Divine Martial Army and Commissioner for Military Affairs in Tangzhou.

The old alchemist Bi Sheng once refined gold for Wang Jie in the palace. Bi Sheng said that during the process a furnace had to be built, with people pumping air from outside the wall so that no one could see the furnace being opened and closed. What was called gold was actually made from iron: each ingot weighed a little over one hundred liang, and was then chiseled into eight pieces known as “crow’s-beak gold.” The emperor ordered the Directorate of Palace Manufactures to cast it into several hundred golden tortoises and golden plaques. The tortoises were given to favored courtiers, one to each, while the rest were stored at the Jade Clarity and Auspicious Response Palace. One golden plaque was sent to each prefecture, prefectural headquarters, army, and inspection office. The golden treasure plaques used at the Temple of the Celestial Celebration were also made from this gold.

In the refining process, herbs from the Shegang area were often used to prepare realgar; it was said that many snakes were killed as a result. Later, while Wang Jie was building a residence, he saw a large snake when the earth was being dug. Its head was as big as a kaolao, a bamboo vessel for carrying things. Frightened, he fell ill and eventually died at the age of fifty-five. His wife, Lady Shi, was granted the title Lady of Wu Commandery, and several of his sons were appointed as palace guards. When Wang Jie first obtained this magical art, he did not pass it on lightly for the sake of power or profit. Later, in addition to supporting his wife and serving the Buddhist and Daoist traditions with his salary, gifts, and the gold he refined, he often presented gold to the court during major ceremonies and construction or renovation projects to help cover the costs.

The “Biography of Wang Zhongzheng” in the official dynastic history was written by the Grand Historian Zeng Gong. The Collected Biographies of Eminent Ministers, in its account, records that during the Xianping era Wang Jie went to Nankang Military Command, where he met an unusual man who gave his surname as Zhao. Much later, he encountered this man again on Maoshan. The man told him to seek lead and mercury, and taught him how to refine gold. The Gazetteer of Guangling, by contrast, says that Wang Jie met a Daoist in Weiyang. The Daoist took him to the Five Spirits Temple, showed him a kind of numinous herb, and passed on the secret of how to combine the ingredients. During the Dazhong Xiangfu era, Wang Jie wrote a text of thanks to the temple deity. The temple once had a stone inscription bearing a prayer, but it was later destroyed in the fires of war. It is said that even today, herbs used for refining gold can still be found in the area.

Lord Zhang Wending, Zhang Yong, whose courtesy name was Fuzhi and whose sobriquet was Guaiya, was in Shu when an alchemist came to see him, claiming he could refine mercury into silver. Zhang Yong bought one hundred liang of mercury and had the man refine it in a furnace. When the process was complete, the weight had not decreased at all. Zhang Yong then ordered a craftsman to cast the silver into a large incense burner, engraving on its body: “For the hall of the Great Compassion Temple.” He presented the burner to the temple and gave the alchemist a drinking vessel, politely declining his offer.

Fan Zhongyan, the Duke of Wenxian, whose courtesy name was Xiwen, was a close friend of a man surnamed Zhu from the Southern Commandery. When Zhu fell gravely ill, Fan went to visit him. Zhu told him, “I once met an extraordinary man and learned how to turn mercury into silver. My son is still young and not yet ready to learn this art, so I am passing it on to you.” With that, he gave Fan both the secret formula and the ingredients.

Fan refused to accept them, but Zhu insisted again and again, so Fan finally took them. He never opened the sealed ingredients. When Zhu’s son, Cai, grew up, Fan taught him the principles of proper conduct and treated him as he would his own children. Later, Cai passed the Presented Scholar examination, and Fan returned to him the sealed ingredients along with the method for preparing them.

When Hu Wengong (Hu Su, courtesy name Wuping) was young, he befriended a monk. Before dying, the monk told him, “I have a secret art that can turn tiles and stones into gold.” Lord Hu replied, “How could I fail to do all I can to take care of what needs to be done after your death? But this secret art is not what I seek.” The monk sighed and said, “Your aspirations will one day know no bounds.”

Ju Silang, father of Ju Shiying, a compiler in the Privy Council, met an extraordinary man when he was young and learned how to smelt gold using cinnabar prepared by the subduing-fire method. Gold and mercury were mixed in equal amounts and congealed into sand; then they were wrapped in subduing-fire cinnabar and heated until they became purple-gold. He never spoke of this method to anyone and used only one qian of gold. As he lay dying, he called Shiying to him and said, “I told my method of smelting gold only to Han Wei Gong (Han Qi). His virtue and achievements were profound, so he was worthy of receiving it. I should not pass it on to you. If you are destined to obtain it, someone will naturally teach it to you. But I know you have long known that I possess this art, and I fear this may lead people to make unreasonable demands of you and bring trouble. So I will tell you a few methods that cannot produce precious substances. Several others have brought disaster upon themselves over this matter; take them as a warning.”

A servant tended the furnace for refining elixirs for many years without ever slacking. Ju Silang judged that he was fit to leave lay life and had him become a monk. The monk later lived at Dingli Monastery in the capital. Zeng Zixuan (Zeng Bu, who then held power at court) had a household officer suffering from consumption whom the imperial physicians could not cure. After examining him, Ju Silang said, “He must take my divine elixir.” He gave the officer a small amount to swallow, and the man recovered. Zixuan was greatly astonished. The officer told him that he had been fortunate to obtain Ju Silang’s elixir and had thereby escaped death.

Zixuan sent someone to invite Ju Silang, but he did not come. Zixuan then had his attendants find a way to persuade the monk, offering him a very generous stipend. One day, the monk paid a visit to the chancellor and agreed to present him with the elixir. Zixuan was delighted and escorted the monk down the steps. As the monk withdrew and bowed, he fell beside the mounting block and broke his leg on the spot. People carried him back in a sedan chair, and a few days later he died.

Master Yin Hejing (Yin Tun, courtesy name Yanming) told his disciple Qi Kuan: “On one occasion, Yichuan (Cheng Yi) was traveling far from home. At dusk, he stopped to rest at an old temple and spread out his bedding before a Buddha statue. Before he had gone to sleep, he heard what sounded like a mouse. He looked closely and indeed saw a mouse in a small hole in the statue’s belly, carrying a scroll of writing. It tried to come out, then retreated. Yichuan got up to investigate and found a scroll hidden inside the statue. He took it out and read it. It turned out to be an elixir recipe. At the beginning it said, ‘A technique beyond compare in the world.’ Yichuan read it once and grasped its meaning. He made a copy, then put the original scroll back in the hole.

“Later, while living on the outskirts of the city, Yichuan made an elixir according to this recipe. It had to be nurtured by fire for forty-nine days before it was complete. When nearly thirty days had passed, people from the surrounding countryside came at night to ask why the house was on fire. We all saw the flames rise like that, on several occasions. Worried that it would alarm everyone, Yichuan took out the elixir and placed a grain-sized piece of it in a silver bowl as a test. Wherever the elixir touched, the silver turned to gold. During the Chongning era, the bowl was still there. The gold left on it resembled fine threads winding around it several times, marking every place the elixir had touched.

“The elixirs that had been only partly refined were sealed away in a clothes chest. Yichuan considered the matter close to the uncanny and never told anyone. I once found an opportunity to ask him about it. Yichuan said, ‘This is Waidan (external alchemy). If someone’s Neidan (internal alchemy) is complete, taking it can prolong life; by then, transmuting the five metals is nothing remarkable.’ I asked, ‘Why didn’t you take it?’ He said, ‘How could my belly hold such a thing?’ In his later years, he agreed to pass the recipe on to a Daoist, but died before he could teach it to him. The Daoist arrived more than a month later, when it was already too late.”

Su Zhe records in Brief Notes from Longchuan:

My elder brother, Su Shi, once held a post at Kaiyuan Temple in Fufeng. The temple had many old paintings, and Su Shi loved looking at them. He would often ride there alone and spend the whole day admiring the paintings along the walls.

An old monk came out, bowed with his hands joined, and said, “There is a small courtyard nearby. Would you be willing to come by?” Su Shi gladly went with him. The monk said, “I am skilled in making elixirs. I have a formula for using cinnabar to turn pale gold into pure gold. I am old now and wish to pass the formula on, but I have never found a suitable person. I know you can pass it on, so I wanted to meet you.” Su Shi replied, “I have no interest in this kind of art. Even if I learned it, I would not practice it.” The monk answered, “This formula is meant to be known, not put into practice. Since you will not use it, you are just the right person to receive it.”

At the time, Chen Xiliang, whose courtesy name was Gongbi and who held the rank of Junior Palace Attendant, was prefect of Fufeng. He was usually absorbed in making gold and silver, and had once asked this monk for the formula, but had not received it. Su Shi asked, “You refused to give it to Lord Chen, yet you have given it to me without my asking. Why?” The monk said, “It is not that I dislike Lord Chen. I fear he would not be able to resist using the formula once he had it. I passed it on to others before: one person died after following it, another suffered a bereavement, and another lost his official post. So I dare not give it out lightly.”

The monk brought out a scroll and said it contained many formulas, one of which was for making gold. He cautioned Su Shi: “You certainly will not use it lightly, but do not pass it on to anyone casually. Above all, do not give it to Lord Chen.” Su Shi agreed, then returned and examined the formula. It said: For each liang of pale gold, first determine how much actual gold it contains. If the amount is less than one fen, try adding one qian of cinnabar, mix it with the other ingredients, and place the mixture in a dry crucible to be fired. When it melts, pour it out. Neither the gold nor the cinnabar will have diminished, but their colors will be uneven and mottled. Fire it again until the color is uniform.

Later, Su Shi happened to mention the monk to Chen Xiliang. Chen immediately asked, “Have you recently obtained his formula?” Su Shi told him why the monk had been reluctant to pass it on, but did not give him the formula. Chen pleaded repeatedly, and Su Shi found it impossible to refuse any longer. In the end, he gave it to him. After reading it, Chen thought it seemed effective. Su Shi regretted it and said, “It is not that I begrudge you the formula. I only fear that I have let the monk down.” Chen casually replied, “All right.”

Not long afterward, Chen Xiliang was dismissed from office for accepting gifts during a banquet in a neighboring prefecture, an offense of corruption. Su Shi suspected this might have had something to do with making gold. Later, when Su Shi was living in exile in Huangzhou, Chen Xiliang’s son, Chen Zao, was there too. Su Shi asked him, “Did your father ever practice this art of making gold?” Chen Zao said, “After losing his post, my father went to Luoyang. He had no money to buy a house, so he began making gold on a large scale. Later, he died of a festering sore on his finger. That was when I realized the monk had been right.”

More than ten years later, while Su Shi was living in exile in Junzhou, he met a monk from Shu named Yijie. Yijie had studied under Chan Master Kewen. Wherever Kewen went, Yijie would provide the money to build a temple. The expense was great, yet no one knew where the money came from. He also kept his gold making technique secret. Yijie was close to Chan Master Shengcong and privately shared the formula with him. It was broadly the same as the one the monk at Kaiyuan Temple in Fufeng had passed on to Su Shi. However, Yijie never used the proceeds of his gold making for his own benefit, and so he was able to preserve the art and remain safe himself.

Su Shi also wrote:

At the end of the Zhiping era, I traveled by boat along the Wei River on my way back to Shu and moored beneath Xiandu Mountain. A Daoist showed me a rubbing of a stone inscription bearing the “Elixir Instructions” of the Perfected Yin. I took the opportunity to ask him about making elixirs. He replied, “Until the internal elixir has been completed, there is no foundation within a person to govern them. Most people who take external elixirs at that point die. It is like lighting a fire beneath dry grass and worn-out cotton: nothing placed there can avoid being burned up.”

More than ten years later, when I was serving as an official in Nanjing, I stayed at the home of Zhang Gong An Dao. A Daoist there was making a nourishing Golden Elixir. He used purple gold and cinnabar, and the process took a whole year. When the elixir was ready, Zhang Gong An Dao told me, “The medicine is finished and can be taken.” I asked him, “How do you know it is ready?” He replied, “The Baopuzi says that once the medicine is finished, if you grasp it in your hand and it squeezes out between your fingers like mud, then it has truly been made. My medicine does just that, so I know it is ready.”

I told Zhang Gong An Dao what I had heard at Xiandu Mountain and said, “I think this medicine should be taken only after the internal elixir has been completed. If the internal elixir is not yet complete, would it not be better to wait for now?” Zhang Gong An Dao smiled and said, “Then I will wait for a while.”

When Master Dongpo was twenty-six, he first took office in Qixia. An unusual monk insisted on teaching him a method for transforming metals into gold. After learning it, Dongpo sealed the recipe away and later handed it to his younger brother, Master Yingbin (Su Zhe). Su Zhe put it away as well.

While Su Zhe was living in Wuchang, a friend or relative heard about the matter and asked him about the alchemical method. Su Zhe said, “After my late elder brother gave it to me, I kept it safe for many years. When I have time, I’ll look for it in the trunks.” Much later, he summoned the man and showed him a scroll. It was the recipe Dongpo had sealed away in Qixia. Su Zhe opened the seal, looked over the text, and said, “I suppose this is the one?” The man replied happily, “That’s right.” Su Zhe immediately put the book into a stove and burned it. “Poverty can be endured,” he told the man. “Could anyone really do such a thing?” The man was so ashamed he could hardly face him, and hurried away in disarray.

Mr. Zha of Gusu (present-day Suzhou) knew a method for calcining saltpeter. He and Lord Zhang Shen were close friends, but Mr. Zha did not pass the method on to him.

Once, Mr. Zha came across a sick monk and took pity on him. He used saltpeter to make a bowl and told the monk to boil water in it and drink it every day. After taking it for more than a month, the monk recovered. Later, someone who had known the monk asked why his health had improved. The monk said he had been drinking water boiled in the bowl. Since the man already knew of Mr. Zha’s alchemical method, he recognized that the bowl had been made from “processed saltpeter.” He put mercury into it and tested it over a fire. Sure enough, the mercury was ruined by the treatment.

The monk regarded this as a rare opportunity. He went to thank Mr. Zha, told him about the bowl’s unusual properties, and begged him to teach him the method. Mr. Zha said, “This method is not easy to pass on, and the bowl made earlier has nearly exhausted its power. Bring it to me and I’ll replenish the ingredients and work on it.” The monk handed him the bowl. But Mr. Zha smashed it and melted the material anew. Then he went to the great river in front of the gate. When the saltpeter had melted into liquid, he lifted it with tongs and threw it into the river, saying, “At first I only wanted to cure your illness. I never imagined you would become so greedy.” The monk could only return in frustration.

The Daoist Master Fang Ziming once lived at Shousheng Temple in Ruizhou. Su Luancheng (Su Zhe) wrote him a poem: “Mercury refined into silver yields tenfold profit; cinnabar refined into gold—no one in the world can manage it. This man keeps his methods close and will not pass them on; he seals the furnace with clay behind closed doors, perhaps fearing Heaven’s warning.”

Su Zhe also once tried the art of refining yellow and white metals—that is, the alchemical method for making gold and silver—and first made one room thoroughly secure.

When the Daoist Fang Ziming lived at Shousheng Temple in Ruizhou, Su Xun (courtesy name Mingyun, sobriquet Laoquan) presented him with a poem that said: “Refine mercury into silver, and the profit can be tenfold; refine cinnabar into gold, and no one in the world can compare. This man keeps the art of alchemy to himself and refuses to pass it on. Behind closed doors, he fires his clay furnace, perhaps for fear of violating Heaven’s decree.”

Su Zhe (courtesy name Ziyou) once practiced the arts of refining yellow and white metals—that is, gold and silver. He first carefully prepared a room, setting a furnace inside. Just as he was about to light the fire, he saw a large cat squatting on the furnace and urinating on it. Before long, the cat vanished. Su Zhe believed that the arts of the immortals were bestowed by Heaven to relieve the poor, and would be passed on when the right person appeared. Since he was not such a person, he should not privately pursue these arts. He never dared to try again.

Zhang Yifang spent many years refining the Return Elixir, a Daoist medicinal elixir, but still did not succeed. Later, gravely ill and near death, he regretted that he had not achieved the efficacy of the Nine-Turn Elixir. He ordered his disciples to uncover the furnace. Beneath it lay an enormous venomous snake, its mouth blazing red and its body covered in patterned scales, coiled there as if a spirit creature were guarding the elixir. Zhang Yifang swallowed one pill of the elixir, immediately lost his voice, and eventually died.

Su Shi wrote in a poem: “In my later years, fortunately, my eyesight is still fairly good; only illness troubles me, and my hair has been slow to turn white. So I write small characters by a bright window, and open my secluded chamber to tend and refine cinnabar.” Huang Tingjian’s note explains that, according to a letter Su Shi wrote to Wang Dingguo, someone had recently given him a little cinnabar of unusual brilliance. He naturally dared not take it, but the giver taught him to tend it with fire and observe how it changed. For the time being, he could use this to enjoy himself and pass the time.

Su Shi also wrote in a poem: “The gentleman Liu of Cao’nan is renowned, his name on a par with Liu Xiang’s. His home holds the Hongbao Book, a text on alchemy, yet he will not melt down the whole golden horseshoe into an elixir. When we sit close and discuss the Dao, he shares a little of his elixir with me. Unable to bear attaining long life alone, he is willing to write and point me toward the way.” Zhao Ciweng’s note asks whether this gentleman Liu might be Liu Yiweng. While in Huizhou, Su Shi wrote to Liu Yiweng that if he succeeded in refining a Waidan elixir—one made by combining ingredients and heating them in a furnace—it could help people prolong their lives. He hoped Liu would not keep it to himself, but would share some with him. The relevant letters are included in the Later Collection from Piling.

Zhao Yaoqing’s note says that the gentleman Liu was Liu Anshi, a Hanlin Academician with the courtesy name Qizhi, from Cao’nan. He understood the arts of health cultivation and alchemy, and Su Shi had once studied under him.

In the soil and beside the streams around Mount Bagong in Shouzhou, people often dig up small gold cakes. Local tradition says they are the gold used by the Prince of Huainan to make elixirs. Since the cakes bear an imprint, they are called “imprinted gold.”

In the areas around Dengyang, including Chongling and Baishui, digging in the earth also often turns up a kind of gold shaped like a dried persimmon, known as “persimmon gold.” One account holds that the linzhi gold and niaoti gold were medicinal gold made by Lou Jing. Those who make elixirs say Lou Jing’s gold is especially suitable for preparing medicines; the commentary to the Book of Han also says that this gold differs from other gold.

In the section on plants in Su Dongpo’s Record of Correspondences among Things, he mentions herbs called “boiling gang” and “boiling ci,” which people often use in smelting, though they have not mastered the method of boiling and refining them. I once read in volume seventy-eight of the Avatamsaka Sutra about a medicinal liquid called “hezhajia”: someone who obtains it can use one liang to turn ten liang of copper into true gold. A monk brought this up, and I told him, “Ask the person who wrote the Avatamsaka Sutra, and you will find out.” The monk laughed and left.

I once rubbed a little gall alum, a copper-bearing mineral, on a knife’s edge, and the metal took on a golden color. I suspect that gall alum may be what hezhajia refers to. When coins were cast in the xin-hai year of the Zhida era, I saw in Raozhou how gall water turned iron into copper. Since Raozhou produces copper-bearing gall ore, it could only transform the iron into copper. The gall water in Puzhou comes from gold mines; perhaps it can turn copper and iron into gold. The hezhajia mentioned in the Avatamsaka Sutra may be this substance, which people today do not recognize. The words in Buddhist scriptures are probably not mistaken.

Can tiles, stones, sand, and earth all be turned into gold? The works Spring Shoots: Notes on What I Have Heard, Dream Pool Essays, Records of Strange Things, and A Record of Moving through the World all describe tiles, stones, and sand being turned into gold. A Record of Adding a Fetter mentions “ginger gold”; Records of the Pure and Strange mentions “fern-leaf gold.” In addition, Notes on the Old Affairs of the Book of Documents records “bamboo-leaf gold”; Records of the Yi Jian tells of “river-tea gold”; Records of Unusual People of the Jiang and Huai Regions mentions “snow-in-the-hand gold”; The Record of the Xuanshi mentions “urine gold”; and Records of Strange Things also describes a fruit that produces silver when spat upon. Are these accounts true?

Answer: They are illusions. “Illusion” means something uncanny and bizarre, and therefore not to be believed.

The Idle Conversations from the Secret Pavilion claims that iron nails can be refined into silver; the Biographies of Encounters with Immortals claims that pig iron can be refined into silver; the Conversations of Guests at the Thatched Pavilion claims that copper coins can be refined into silver; and the Kunshan Collection claims that lead can be refined into silver. In a poem, Shao Kangjie, a Neo-Confucian scholar of the Northern Song, said, “Lead, tin, mercury, and gold are all false in the end.” I believe that lead and tin, like copper and iron, belong among the five metals. Although refining them into something else would still be illusory, such a transformation may be possible in principle. But tiles and stones, sand and earth, surely cannot become metal. And if ginger, bracken, bamboo leaves, or river tea could turn into metals such as tin, copper, or iron, that would be even less plausible. Ginger and bracken at least have substance—so what are we to make of snow, saliva, and urine? This claim is truly absurd.

The Record of Outsiders at Qingyuan Manor, Compiled by Nianzu relates that a merchant surnamed Sun from western Shu went to Chang’an to sell mercury. His porter stumbled on the plank road and broke the pottery jar that held the mercury. Sun quickly pulled up some grass by the roadside and used it to plug the hole. By evening, when they reached an inn, he discovered that all the mercury in the jar had solidified. Sun realized this must have been caused by some kind of magical herb. Intending to gather more, he urged his servant to eat and prepare the donkey, then retraced their route. After dark, as they crossed the plank road, the donkey was startled, lost its footing, and fell into the Jialing River.

The Record of Things Heard at Chunzhubu, written by Han Qinglao, relates that the Lin’an monk Fajian told of a merchant from Shezhou who, while passing through the mountains of Yuqian, saw a snake with a swollen belly, slithering and lying among the grass. The snake slowly came upon a certain herb, bit through its leaves, and rubbed its belly against them. Before long, the swelling subsided, and the snake went away. The merchant thought the herb must be able to cure abdominal swelling and poisoning, so he gathered some and put it in a box.

That night, he stayed at an inn, where someone in the next room was groaning. After asking about it, the merchant learned that the person was suffering from severe abdominal swelling. He took out the herb, boiled it into a decoction, and gave it to him to drink. After a while, the groaning stopped. At dawn, the merchant heard only the sound of dripping water; when he called out, there was no reply. He got up to investigate and found that the person’s flesh and blood had dissolved into water. He hurriedly picked up his belongings and fled. After daybreak, the innkeeper went to wash the pot and prepare a meal, only to find that the entire pot had turned to gold. He secretly buried the person’s bones. Much later, when an amnesty was proclaimed, the merchant returned to the inn and told the innkeeper about what had happened.

The account in Guo Yunyi’s The River’s Sound says the same: when the merchant called to the person and received no reply, he got up to investigate, saw that the person’s flesh and blood had dissolved into water, and hurried away with his belongings. At daybreak, the innkeeper washed the pot to prepare a meal and found that the whole pot had turned to gold, so he secretly buried the bones. Later, when an amnesty was proclaimed, the merchant returned to the inn and told the innkeeper what had happened.

The Records of Jianghu by Guo Yunyi recounts that during the Jiatai era, a monk at Heshan Temple in Hezhou, Jizhou, saw a snake that had been beaten and injured, with only its head and tail still moving slightly. Another snake then appeared, circled the wounded snake several times, and left. Before long, it returned with wild grass in its mouth and laid it over the wound. After a while, the two snakes left together.

Later, a young temple servant fell from a tree and broke his leg. The monk applied this grass to the injury, then boiled some of it into a wash for the wound and let the boy rest in a quiet room. When he checked the next morning, only a dry skeleton remained; all the flesh and blood had rotted away. Yet the pot used to boil the grass had turned into gold. The monk concluded that the grass could turn iron into gold and kept the matter closely guarded.

Zhang, the prefect of Zhaozhou, heard about this and visited the monk with generous gifts, hoping to learn where the grass could be found. The monk refused to tell him. Zhang then incited the young servant’s parents to bring a complaint before the authorities. He had the monk imprisoned and sent someone to tell him, “Unless you reveal where this grass is, you will never get out of prison.” The monk refused to disclose it and eventually died in jail.

The account says, “The prefect of Zhaozhou was cruel and mean, but the monk was truly foolish as well.” The Bowuzhi records that when Liu De investigated the case of the Prince of Huainan, he obtained the Hongbao Yuan Secret Book, which had been hidden inside a pillow. Liu Xiang and the others regarded it as extraordinary and believed that the method it described for turning stone into gold could work. In the end, however, they failed to prove it, and instead brought trouble upon themselves.

The Extensive Records of the Taiping Era (Taiping Guangji) recounts that near the end of the Sui dynasty, a Daoist practitioner lived on Mount Taibai, refining elixirs. He succeeded in making the Great Reversion Elixir. A man named Bi served him for more than ten years. Later, Bi asked to leave because of a death in his family. The practitioner said, “You have followed me for many years, and now your family has suffered a loss. I have nothing else to give you, so I will give you ten pills. Each one can turn a pound of copper into gold, enough to cover the funeral expenses.” Bi did as he was told and indeed produced gold. After the funeral, he returned to the mountain to ask the practitioner for more elixirs.

The practitioner refused. Bi first threatened him with a knife, but got nowhere. He then cut off the practitioner’s hand, still without obtaining the elixirs, and went on to cut off his feet. The practitioner’s expression did not change. Enraged, Bi cut off his head and then slashed open his right elbow. Later, he opened a red pouch and discovered that it contained elixirs. Bi took a good number of them and turned them into gold. Someone reported him for making gold without authorization. Bi defended himself by claiming that he had already possessed the ability to produce gold.

When Emperor Taizong of the Tang heard of this, he summoned Bi and ordered him to make gold. The emperor was delighted and appointed him to an official post of the fifth rank. After Bi had produced tens of thousands of pounds of gold, the elixirs ran out and he could no longer continue. He therefore asked to leave. The emperor said he could go only after explaining how he made gold. Bi described what had happened, but the emperor thought he was lying and sent soldiers to force him. Bi still refused to explain, so the guards cut off his hand. He continued to say nothing, and they cut off his feet. Bi recounted the whole story, but the emperor did not believe him and ultimately ordered his execution.

The Tales from the Thatched Pavilion (Maoting Kehua), written by Huang Xiufu of Jiangxia, recounts that during the Five Dynasties period, in Chengdu in the state of Former Shu, there was a tavern called “Liutiao” (“Willow Branch”). At the time, taverns were often named after their proprietors. Liutiao had been ill for years. A Daoist frequently came by to drink on credit. Liutiao always welcomed him warmly, so the Daoist left him several elixir pills, saying they would pay for the wine. Liutiao took the pills as instructed, quickly recovered, and regained his strength.

Wang Daobin, a man from Han (Jintang County), was then serving as an official at the Imperial Ancestral Temple. When he learned of this, he begged Liutiao to give him the remaining pills. He put them into an iron pot and added mercury to refine them. Before long, the mercury had turned into gold. Wang Daobin took the pills and the gold to see the King of Shu, who asked him how he had made the gold. Wang replied that a certain herb grew on Mount Sanxue and asked to be appointed magistrate of Jintang County so that he could gather it more easily. The King of Shu therefore appointed him magistrate. The following year, Wang Daobin had failed to make the elixir. When the king discovered that Wang had obtained the pills from Liutiao, he had him executed.

Liu Changguan, whose given name was Chan, once lived in a thatched hut on Mount Qingcheng. Some people said he knew the “Yellow and White Method,” a technique for refining gold and silver. One night, three men arrived with wine and fruit and asked to stay. As they talked, the conversation turned to the fire of the alchemical furnace. Everyone was laughing and enjoying themselves when the guests said, “We hear that you know the Yellow and White Method, sir. Please tell us a little about it.”

At first, Liu Changguan firmly refused, but the guests pressed him again and again. His expression changed, and he said, “You must teach it to us tonight.” Liu Changguan replied, “I was hoping to find like-minded companions. I never imagined you would force me like this.” The three men rolled up their sleeves and glared at him. “We are no gentlemen,” they said. “We are bandits. If you refuse to teach us, we will harm you.” As they spoke, they drew gleaming blades and threatened him.

Terrified, Liu Changguan and his wife had no choice but to pass on the method and give the men some of the medicine they had left. The three bowed and took their leave.

At daybreak, Liu Changguan went down the mountain. He never returned, and he handed his dwelling over to the recluse Li Chen, a scholar who had withdrawn from the world to pursue the Dao.

Fakong, a Chan Buddhist monk, was the younger brother of Shen Daizhi of Zhouchuan. Once, at Jiaoshan, he spoke with the monk Faquan about the transmutation of copper vessels. Faquan said, “I have a method for turning copper into gold.” He took seven coins from his bag and had Fakong put them in a pot to boil overnight, but they never melted into copper liquid. Fakong called Faquan over to inspect them. Faquan smiled and said, “People who see these would think they were sand and stones from a stream. How would they know they were actually copper?” He then added a little white powder to the pot, and the copper grains melted. When the fire had gone out, they looked inside and, sure enough, the result was genuine gold.

From then on, Fakong grew more and more attentive in serving Faquan. He laid out an elaborate feast and asked him to teach him the art. Faquan said, “I am not unwilling to share this art. But there is something from my past that I fear might stir greed in you if you heard it. You would waste your efforts and bring disaster upon yourself. This art is truly of no benefit to anyone. Let me tell you how it came about.

“When I was twenty, I was homeless and joined three Daoist masters to study the refining of elixirs. On the fifteenth day of the seventh month in the first year of the Shaosheng era, we agreed: ‘We have not yet tested what we have learned in distant places. Let us set out separately and meet here again in ten years. A Daoist master should have no attachments; if one of us fails to return on the appointed day, we will count him as having died on the road.’ We sealed the pact over wine. The other three went to the Sichuan gorges and the region around the capital, while I stayed in the two Zhejiang regions.

“When the ten years were up, all three returned in turn. Each brought out the secret methods he had learned, and we compared them. One of them had a Maoshan method that was quite simple, so we tried refining the material, but the copper never changed color completely. Another said, ‘At a medicine market in Chengdu, I met an extraordinary man and got from him a drug that removes copper’s color. He said it was marvelous, though I have not tried it yet.’ So we refined the material together with the drug, and the copper did indeed turn more yellow. We thought the fire had not been hot enough, so we refined it once more. When we took it out, the copper had become genuine gold.

“We agreed: ‘The Man family’s gold shop in the capital is the finest in the world. If we take it there to sell, we should have no trouble; if it really sells, then this must be an immortal art.’ We went to the capital with ten taels of gold, and it fetched a high price. At the time, we were staying at an inn east of the Xiangguo Temple. The three of us refined a hundred taels of gold together and decided to celebrate before parting. We bought lamb and wine brewed in the palace, then ate our fill and drank heavily.

“We never imagined that, while we were refining the copper, some of the molten metal would splash out and the fire would spread through the room. All three of us were drunk. One was too drunk to stand and burned to death; another was arrested, beaten with a staff, and died a few days later. I was the only one who was somewhat sober. I dashed through the smoke and flames and escaped. Afraid the authorities would catch me, and knowing I was a good swimmer, I plunged into the Bian River and let the current carry me downstream. I swam past the city gate before climbing ashore. There in the water, I regretted what I had done and swore to Heaven that I would become a monk and never refine anything again. Even if a grave need arose and something could not be accomplished, I could only report it to Heaven; I would not dare perform the art on my own, much less pass it on to someone else.”

After hearing this, Fakong stopped pressing him. One day, Faquan left without saying goodbye, and no one knew where he went.

The Han Daizhi, Zicang, also told another story. A Daoist master on Mount Qingcheng sent a young servant to buy wine for a benefactor. On the way, the boy needed to relieve himself, so he hung the iron wine flask on a tree. The flask was heavy and the branch slender, and it swayed in the wind. As the iron flask rubbed against the leaves, every place it touched turned golden. The boy became convinced that the tree could turn things to gold. He went off searching for it and was never heard from again.

Han Zicang also said that at Tianqing Abbey in Huazhou there was a Daoist master who was old and ill, and had not left his room for nearly ten years. He wanted to pass on the art of transmuting metals into gold, but could not find a suitable person. After observing people discreetly for a long time, he chose an old man in front of the abbey who earned his living selling rice. No matter whether the harvest was good or bad, the old man charged only one coin in interest each year and always conducted himself with restraint and moderation. The Daoist master thought he might be someone worthy of receiving the art.

One day, the Daoist master invited the old man to a wine shop and secretly told him that he wished to teach him the art of transmuting metals into gold. The old man replied, “I have known how to do that for a long time.” The Daoist master said, “Come to my place tomorrow, and we’ll try it together.” The next morning, the old man arrived. The Daoist master shut the door, and the two of them began refining the substances over a fire. A Daoist in the adjoining room heard the noise and bored a hole in the wall to spy on them. He saw the two men each heating substances over a fire, then pouring the results onto the ground. They were gleaming red gold. The two took turns handling it and exclaimed in admiration.

The man in the adjoining room immediately shoved down the wall and burst in. The two men had no time to gather anything up. Everyone began shouting and fighting over the gold, and both men were crushed to death. All the Daoists at the abbey were sentenced to prison as a result.

Among scholar-officials and people who study the Dao in mountain retreats, seven or eight out of ten enjoy discussing and seeking out alchemical practices. Yet they do not know that most of these so-called arts of alchemy are techniques involving elixir substances and alchemical agents. It is said that Lord Sanmao once encountered a famine in Danyang, where many people were dying of hunger along the roads. He took some alchemical agents and turned mercury into gold and iron into silver to provide relief to the starving. Later, the art of calcining powders to turn copper into silver came to be called the “Danyang Method,” while the art of using arsenic to turn copper into silver was called the “Maoshan Method.”

From Wang Yang and Lou Jing in the Han dynasty, to Cheng Bi in the Tang, and Wang Jie in more recent times, accounts all suggest that such techniques were not entirely unknown in the world. But those who managed to obtain them were exceedingly rare, as hard to find as fur on a tortoise or horns on a hare; by contrast, ten out of ten people who brought calamity upon themselves through practicing them suffered the consequences. Su Dongpo and the palace secretary Yang Yuansu both privately received such oral instructions and understood their workings, but neither put them into practice. Zhang Shengong and Huang Bazuo Daofu spent their entire lives seeking them and squandered enormous sums of money, yet never encountered a genuine transmission.

When Xiahou Jiazheng held a post at the Imperial Academy, he had long been fond of refining silver. He often said, “If only I could get my hands on mercury, I wouldn’t think twice about a tael of silver or the office of Hanlin academician.” Neither wish came true, and he eventually died.

During the Shaoxing era, a Daoist beggar in the Huai River region carried an iron ox and loudly called himself the “Iron Ox Daoist.” He stayed in Fuguang for several months. One day, he went to beg for money at a wealthy household’s pawnshop. The owner asked what use the iron ox had. He replied, “It can produce gold nuggets the size of melon seeds.” The owner thought he was asking too much. In the end, they reached no agreement, and the Daoist later died.

Here, “alchemical agent” refers to the materials and substances used in alchemical techniques to make elixirs or transmute metals. Claims such as “turning mercury into gold and iron into silver” were forms of alchemy circulating at the time.

During the Shaoxing era, a Daoist lived in the Huai region. He begged along the streets, carrying an iron ox and loudly calling himself the “Iron Ox Daoist.” After staying in Fuguang for several months, he went one day to a wealthy household’s storeroom to ask for money. The master asked what the iron ox was for. The Daoist said it could produce gold nuggets the size of melon seeds. The master wanted to trade money for the ox, but the Daoist firmly refused. Eventually they agreed that the master would rent it for one night and have it placed in a locked room. The next morning, when the door was opened, there were indeed several gold pieces the size of melon seeds.

After the Daoist took the iron ox away, greed took hold of the master. He searched everywhere for the Daoist, hoping to buy the ox. At first the Daoist refused. The master negotiated with him repeatedly, and at last they reached an agreement: the master would pay him a year’s worth of gold, calculated according to how much the ox produced each day. The ox stayed in the master’s house for several days and continued to “produce” gold as before. Then it stopped. When the master inspected the ox’s tail, he found a small opening at the rear; otherwise, there was nothing unusual about it.

Just then, a maid in the household suddenly fell ill, and the master summoned her husband to redeem her and take her home. Looking into where she had gone revealed that she was a woman the Daoist had bribed in advance, who had been secretly hiding gold in the master’s house. The gold the iron ox had supposedly “produced” had all been slipped in by her. When the agreed date arrived, she took it away. When the master went looking for the Daoist again, he had already fled.

Wearing tattered clothes, he went around telling everyone he could smelt silver. If you really know how to refine silver, why not make some to support yourself? Xu Qing recorded these words in his Record of Moving Through the World to warn his younger brothers: foolish people are easily deceived by swindlers who claim to practice alchemy and smelt silver, so you must take this as a warning.