《水石闲谈》

Zhangzi said: People often say that studying books takes ten years, and cultivating Qi (vital energy) also takes ten years. This way of speaking treats reading and the cultivation of Qi as two matters separate from each other, and so it does not accord with the learning of the sages and worthies. Reading is for investigating the principles of things; cultivating Qi is for nurturing and tempering the mind and nature. The work of cultivating one’s disposition and understanding principle lies in pursuing study and the cultivation of Qi at the same time, without either hindering the other. Confucius said, “Having learned, one must also review it from time to time.” This is precisely the practice of continually studying and tempering the mind, nature, and principle, so that they grow ever purer.

Zhangzi said: Tao Yuanming once reclined loftily beneath his northern window and called himself “a man of high antiquity before Fuxi” (as if a person living in the age of Fuxi). This is enough to show his pure and lofty character, and the bearing of one who holds fast to his aims and does not change with worldly custom; only his words were so lofty and detached that others may not have perceived the meaning within them.

Zhangzi said: Those who cultivate the Dao (the Way) hope that scholars will early complete their careers of merit and fame, fulfill their responsibilities in the human world, and then let go in good time. If, after success, a person can withdraw with resolve, that counts as having grasped the fitting moment. If one sinks into the arena of merit and fame and lingers there long, unwilling to leave, one is a fool.

Zhangzi said: Within the nurturing of mind and nature there lies profound learning, and in treating others with calm equanimity true disposition is revealed. You must be able to accommodate people and affairs that others find hard to accommodate, and endure situations that others find hard to endure. In this way the mind will be cultivated into greater stillness, and one’s disposition will also become purer.

Zhang Zimen said: Whether fame and official achievement are great or small, what matters is advancing at the right time and yielding at the right time. How does one judge that the moment has come? Reflect calmly on the matter of fame and merit: “My achievements have reached this point, and that is already enough.” Once one can think in this way, it shows that one is able to seize the moment.

There may still be goals not yet attained, but it is better to take a little less than to grasp for too much. The Marquis of Huaiyin, Han Xin, fell short of Zhang Zifang (Zhang Liang), and Yuan Weizhi (Yuan Zhen) fell short of Bai Xiangshan (Bai Juyi), all because they were bent on pursuing fame and achievement to the very end and were instead blinded by that ambition. Had Zhang Zifang and Bai Xiangshan likewise sought only promotion, it would not have been hard for Zhang Zifang to rank once more among the high ministers who assist the emperor, and Bai Xiangshan might well have gone on to become chancellor; yet who could guarantee that they would not, in the end, have met the same unhappy fate as the Marquis of Huaiyin and Yuan Weizhi? Therefore, only those who understand when to advance and when to withdraw may be called wise.

(Six)

This passage restates the point: the key to fame and achievement lies not in pursuing them to the limit, but in knowing when to advance and when to retreat.

Master Zhang said with deep feeling: “Through the long years, people chase after fame and profit, drifting up and down with the affairs of the world. Of those I have seen who seek name and gain, those who rise to office and distinction in a short time, or who amass great family wealth within a few years, can scarcely be counted even among hundreds and thousands. Even if someone does achieve this, high office and great power cannot prevail over King Yama (the deity who presides over judgment in the underworld); gold and white jade cannot buy off the coming of Impermanence (the force that symbolizes death).

“There are also those whose households are prosperous and whose lives are long, or who hold high position and live in security, yet in the end they must still be buried beneath the white-poplar graves, where the autumn wind sighs and all is desolate. If their descendants prove unworthy, the family estate will in a moment fall to ruin—what benefit, then, is such glory? Moreover, those who are greatly rich and noble, or who rise suddenly to fortune, often draw upon themselves others’ groundless harassment, abuse, and blame. If they further fail to do good and incur people’s curses, one person’s single word can bring decline, another’s single word can bring poverty, and onlookers all feel pleased, each one satisfied. In truth, the retribution of Heaven’s Dao (the Way) is clear and distinct, and it does not change because of what people say.

“If a person sees through these things and can let them go, he will naturally not envy the wealth and eminence of others, but will seek the principle of being at peace with one’s lot and hold to the path of cultivating the true. While the crowd contends and clamors, I alone remain still; while the crowd is vexed and restless, I alone am clear and at peace. Why, then, ask whether others prosper or suffer hardship, and feel indignant over the gains and losses of mere onlookers?”

Master Zhang said: As for the human lifespan, people of the upper grade have a fixed allotment, and people of the lower grade also have a fixed allotment; only people of the middle grade have none. Those of the middle grade do not perform many good deeds, nor do they commit many evil deeds. If Heaven would lengthen their lives, it cannot; if Heaven would hasten their early deaths, it cannot either. They are therefore left to live and die naturally between the two. Nurtured well, they live on; nurtured poorly, they die. Cultivating the self is thus of great importance. Beyond self-cultivation, one must also accumulate merit and practice good deeds, seeking changsheng jiushi—to live long and remain clear-minded. This, too, is important.

People of the lower grade have many faults and many evil deeds. Even if they cultivate the self, they cannot attain long life. The Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) in their bodies are weakened and depleted, and in the end they suffer the punishment of death. People of the upper grade are different. If they cultivate the Dao (the Way) of long life, they can realize longevity. Even if they are unwilling to cultivate longevity, their vast upright Qi—a broad, firm, and righteous spiritual force—can uphold Heaven and Earth, so that they are ranked among the immortals. If not, then when they are reborn in the human world, they are certain to be born into humane and kindly families. Such is the principle of Heaven. What in this is hard to understand?

(8)

Master Zhang said: From ancient times, those who were loyal, chaste, and steadfast, and who gave their lives to fulfill benevolence, at the moment they sacrificed their lives displayed a scene like that of the “seven reversions and the returned elixir”—an image, in Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy), of repeatedly refining and condensing Jing and Qi until they form the elixir. At that time their minds and wills were wholly concentrated and unmoved, and a vast upright Qi arose in their breasts. However cruel the punishments of knives and saws, cauldrons and boiling vessels, they regarded them only as petty demons sent to test them, and they did not waver in the least. They merely gathered their righteous Qi, not letting it scatter, and refined it until it was utterly firm. When the firing phase—the grasp of timing and degree in the course of cultivation—reached this point, the hero’s radiant spirit could endure for ten thousand years without being extinguished. When immortal adepts enter the quiet chamber and come before the elixir furnace to refine the elixir, they too must possess this kind of mettle.

(9)

(Here the original text repeats the closing words above, about taking in the righteous Qi so that it gathers and does not scatter and is condensed until utterly firm, together with the words about immortal adepts coming before the furnace to refine the elixir.)

Zhangzi said: While one’s parents are still alive, one ought to fulfill one’s filial duties in good time; otherwise, only when the faces of one’s kin are no longer to be seen does one look back in sorrow, and the grief in the heart is beyond words. Today, in the mountains and woods of autumn, I said to a person observing mourning: “Once again it is the season when the autumn wind sighs bleakly and the mountain paths lie covered with fallen leaves. Azure clouds rest far at the edge of the sky; gazing toward the horizon, the heart that longs for one’s kin remains. Yellow reeds and white grasses gradually wither and age in the frost; tears are shed toward the Terrace of the Springs (that is, the grave in the underworld), and one does not know how deeply they have soaked it.” Try reciting this poem—how could one not feel sorrow?

(10)

Zhangzi said: Everyone ought to practice filial piety according to conscience. The ways of being filial may differ, yet all should come down to this one point: filial piety. If one wishes to spare one’s family from longing and worry, one should return home to care for one’s parents; if one wishes to achieve merit and fame and bring glory to the household, one should set one’s resolve on the path of official service; if one wishes to preserve oneself so as to be filial, one should lessen desire and quiet the mind. Merely speaking of filial piety is of no use.

You have neither established achievements and won distinction, nor do you often return home. Better, then, to lessen desire and quiet body and mind, and follow the teachings of the two worthies, Zengzi and Mencius. If one does not clear the mind and reduce desire, one merely dreams in vain of fame yet cannot become famous, dreams in vain of profit yet gains no profit, and wants everything only to obtain nothing in the end. This only wears body and mind to exhaustion. The parents have not yet grown visibly old, yet the children already appear frail and weary. They speak constantly of filial piety, yet I fear they will not be able to remain filial for long; instead they cause their parents to worry over their illness and to grieve because they remain away from home year after year. Should a child unfortunately die young, this only adds sorrow for the parents, even subjecting them to the pain of conducting the funeral. Seen in this light, where is filial piety to be found? Would one not become a sinner for a whole lifetime?

What I speak of takes a clear mind and few desires as its foundation; this is indeed the way to preserve oneself. If one further maintains a gentle countenance and complies with one’s parents, conducting oneself with reverence and with sincere intent, then one can accomplish something in the way of filial piety.

Zhangzi said: After a Confucian scholar is selected as a maocai (an outstanding talent recommended by the local authorities), he often takes the path of teaching in other people’s homes and making a living on guangu (the remuneration earned by teaching). One should know that supporting one’s parents with what teaching brings in may also count as a provisional expedient within Confucianism. Yet when Confucius and Mencius left the Classics of Poetry and Documents to later generations, their original intent was not to teach people to seek profit from them. Later the practice arose of earning a living by teaching; if what is gained is used to provide for one’s parents, this only puts to use a minor function of the Classics. One must not be insatiably greedy, planning for the ease of one’s descendants and treating the Classics as a road to profit; to do so is to become a sinner against the sages.

Zhangzi said: If a person wishes to fulfill loyalty and filial piety to the utmost and hold fast to great integrity, he must first clear the mind and nurture Qi (vital energy). Without a sincere heart and abundant, pure Qi, one cannot fulfill loyalty and filial piety or hold fast to great integrity. Loyalty and filial piety are rooted in the true heart, while great integrity depends upon true Qi. To foster the true heart and true Qi, one should take stillness as the ruling principle; only then can the true heart be preserved and true Qi nourished.

Zhangzi said: A person should seek the joy within and not pursue external pleasure alone. What Confucius called “joy lies therein” is precisely this inner joy. If one only hopes to obtain pleasure from external things, vexation will instead arise from that hope.

Zhangzi said: Among men of learning, many suffer from seminal emission. Although this is connected with the impurity of heart-fire, it is also because they talk and laugh through the night and read deep into the night, so that the Qi of the Dantian (energy center)—the place in the abdomen where breath gathers, as spoken of in Daoism and traditional arts of nourishing life—is entirely dissipated in speech. Jing (essence) and Qi then lose their support, and seminal emission follows. One who is skilled at caring for the body should talk and laugh less, and should also read in a calm and unhurried way.

(15) A young man suffered from an illness of languor and lack of strength.

A young man suffered from sluggishness and lack of strength. Zhangzi said to him, “While the winter days are clear, you may carry some small stones and build a little earthen mound, then take a mountain hoe and clear away the withered grass. When you feel tired, stop. Moving about in this unhurried way each day, just as a gardener goes about his work, will let the Qi (vital energy) and blood of the whole body flow freely and not fall into stagnation.”

(16)

Zhangzi said, “When outstanding people do good, they seek only peace of mind; they do not hold the idea of using good deeds to seek a reward of blessings. Heaven clearly discerns good and evil, and there is indeed a principle by which blessings are granted to the good and misfortune sent upon the wicked. Yet this serves to exhort ordinary people; it is not the point from which heroes set out to act. To do good and receive blessing is what an outstanding person deserves, but it is not something every outstanding person comes to enjoy. Such people act with great vigor and earnestly do good; the deeds they leave behind are handed down for a long time and do not fade over a thousand years. Their spirits, too, endure without perishing, as if in the unseen world they still receive the incense of offerings. How could these things not also be Heaven’s recompense to heroes? When I look at the loyal ministers and filial sons, the righteous scholars and benevolent people of past and present, some met with misfortune amid the hardships of loyalty and righteousness. This stirs one’s feelings, and it also makes one suddenly understand the principle within it.”

(17)

Zhangzi said, “Studying so as to understand principle, and cultivating moral character, are urgent matters for a Confucian. The principles of preserving body and mind already contain within them the cultivation of virtue. To preserve the body one must rid oneself of pride, extravagance, indulgence, and slackness, and sweep away deviant and crooked conduct. Thus it is said that preserving the body also encompasses the establishing of moral character.”

(17)

Zhangzi said, “Studying so as to understand principle, and cultivating moral character, are urgent matters for a Confucian. The principles of preserving body and mind already contain within them the cultivation of virtue. To preserve the body one must rid oneself of pride, extravagance, indulgence, and slackness, and sweep away deviant and crooked conduct. Thus it is said that preserving the body also encompasses the establishing of moral character. The way of preserving the body was handed down from Zengzi and was set forth and carried forward by Mencius. Nourishing the mind and Shen (spirit), reducing desires, steadying one’s resolve, and holding to upright Qi—these are the standards of preserving the body. The way of xiuzhen, the cultivation of body and mind in pursuit of returning to the root and recovering one’s true nature, also takes this as its proper path. It is only that the human heart is often obscured: on hearing of preserving the body, people take it for an ordinary teaching, yet on hearing of xiuzhen they regard it as strange and uncanny. For this reason, wishing to cultivate the true and awaken to the Dao (the Way) becomes all the more difficult.”

(18)

Zhangzi said, “If the world were without the teachings of Confucius and Mencius for a single day, there would be no good people in it; if it were without the teachings of Zhuangzi and Laozi for a single day, heroes and men of outstanding ability would lose any room in which to withdraw and find a place for themselves.”

(19)

Layman Wang said that to eat vegetarian is simply not to eat hun. Master Zhang held that hun and su are not the same thing. The “five hun” forbidden in the Daoist tradition, according to the medical formularies, are scallion, Chinese chive, Chinese onion, garlic, and rapeseed. These five vegetables have a sharp, pungent smell. The ancients believed they disturb the breath and Qi (vital energy), and so they are called hun; those who cultivate the breath avoid eating them.

Buddhists value a vegetarian diet because they keep the precept against killing and seek to protect life, and therefore they do not eat the flesh of any livestock. Some people eat vegetarian food on the first and fifteenth days of the month and on similar occasions, yet in ordinary times they still love rich, sweet, and savory fare. This cannot be counted as truly eating vegetarian.

I have thought of a way for those who wish to eat vegetarian and abstain from hun: rather than being particular only about food and drink, one should first cultivate a good heart. One may follow the ancient teaching that the gentleman keeps away from the kitchen, and thus avoid seeing slaughter with one’s own eyes. In this way one can also nourish body and mind, lessen the cravings of the palate, and observe the precept of those who have attained the Dao (the Way), not to cling to smells and flavors.

Master Zhang said to the two Daoist priests, Renru and Shouru: If a person wishes to accomplish something outwardly, he must also cultivate himself within. When the inner heart is cultivated until it is sincere and substantial, outer blessings increase along with it. If, amid busyness, one can set aside a little leisure, one gains a little restorative care; if, in quiet, one can spend a day reading, one will reap some benefit. If one attends only to rushing about outwardly, one loses the root, and the inner life grows ever more shallow.

Master Zhang said to Zhuo’an: Caring for the body lies chiefly in settling the heart and spirit (Shen) and in nurturing the Qi (vital energy) of the kidneys. When the spirit is settled, the Li fire that symbolizes the heart does not scatter outward; when kidney Qi is nurtured, the Kan water that symbolizes the kidneys does not drain away. If fire does not scatter, the disorder of a restless spirit does not arise, and the heart grows still more calm; if water does not drain away, there is no worry that Jing (essence) and Qi will leak out, and the kidneys grow still more pure and quiet.

When kidney Qi is pure and quiet, the fire of life does not surge upward; when the spirit is settled, the fire of Shen can shine downward. Jing and Shen then blend and gather together, forming “embryonic breathing” (taixi—in the practice of Neidan, or internal alchemy, a state in which the breath is deep, settled, and concentrated), and one may thereby dispel illness and prolong life.

On the third day of the third lunar month, several hermits of the mountains bathed on the banks of the Jin River (Jinshui), rested in the cool shade beneath the green trees, and listened to the calling of the cuckoo. Suddenly a leaf fell to the ground, folded like a letter. When they opened it, they found something resembling the fish-roe orchid wrapped inside.

They asked the local people, who said, “This is a Duyu Pearl.” When asked what it was good for, the locals said, “We do not know.”

Just then Zhangzi, wearing a bamboo hat, came strolling over at his ease and said to them, “Do you wish to know the origin of the Duyu Pearl? After the King of Shu entered the mountains, the people of Shu longed for him, and so the King of Shu ordered the Zigui bird to bestow pearls upon the people of Shu. The Zigui was the King of Shu’s messenger bird; its original name was Xiebao. The King of Shu said, ‘Zigui, return to my kingdom and comfort my people.’ For this reason Xiebao was also called Xiebao—the two names sound alike, and the latter means ‘sent to report’—that is, Duyu had commanded it to go and carry a message.”

The Duyu Pearl appears in red, yellow, blue-green, purple, and other colors, its five hues never fixed. It can drive ghosts, strange beings, and malign hauntings out of a household. When one meets a ghost or strange being, one secretly raises the pearl and casts it toward the creature, and the ghost or strange being will disperse; yet others must not be allowed to notice. In the heart one silently recites: “King of Shu, O King of Shu; radiance of the pearl, O radiance of the pearl. Cast toward the ghost or monster, and the ghost or monster departs; strike and slay the ghost or monster, and the ghost or monster perishes. I hold the numinous pearl, and it sends forth its light. No yin evil but is utterly extinguished; when yin evil is exhausted, Yang Qi (vital energy) returns. I act by command of the Primordial Master of the Nine Heavens. Quickly, quickly, in accordance with the statutes and ordinances—so it is decreed!” It is also said that from the number of pearls one may divine whether the year’s harvest will be abundant or poor, and that this is remarkably efficacious.

(23)

Zhangzi said: One ought to quiet the mind and nurture the body, rest content in one’s own circumstances, attend faithfully to one’s proper duties, and find ease in whatever one meets. In this way the mind and nature will be peaceful, and the spirit (Shen) and the vital breath will likewise be clear, still, and plain.

(24)

Zhangzi said to a person who had suffered insult: In teaching your child you must keep strict discipline; otherwise, once his disposition has turned bad, you will blame him again after he has grown up. That is to love him on the surface while in fact letting him go unchecked toward harm.

(25)

Master Zhang, together with Yunshi, Zhuo’an, and others, went into the mountains in the bitter cold of winter and heard ghosts murmuring in thin voices all around them. They inquired of the local earth deity—the god who presides over a given stretch of land—and learned that these were the souls of people’s ancestors. Yin Qi (vital energy) hung thick and chill; all things were bleak and withered; the graves lay cold and desolate, the coffins already decayed, and the remains, together with the caps and robes of the dead, were beset by the cold. Seeing this, how could one not feel pity, and how could one not shudder to the bone? For this reason the ancients kept the customs of sweeping the tombs and of sending winter clothes—burning paper garments to convey to the departed, that they might ward off the cold.

(26)

Master Zhang said to the people in the mountains: “In summer one should rise early and apply oneself. After the sun has risen, find a somewhat cooler place, gather in the mind and Shen (spirit), and sit quietly to regulate the breath. On no account sleep when the sun is overhead and the heat is at its greatest. If after sleeping one remains clear and not sunk in drowsiness, that may still pass; but if one sleeps into a heavy stupor, the seminal Jing (essence) will turn into sweat and drain away—truly a pity.”

(27)

Master Zhang said: “Yesterday, while roaming Liangjie Mountain, I saw an old woman seated at the edge of a cliff, laughing; when she had finished laughing, she wept. I found it strange and took her for a fox demon. Before long she fell from the cliff and died. I hurried forward to look and found that she had been struck dead by lightning. She was in fact a wildcat demon who had cultivated for a thousand years. Not knowing why this calamity had come upon her, I asked Huoche Lingguan (the Fire-Chariot Spirit Officer, a divine general of the Daoist tradition). He said that she had once eaten human beings, and so had been killed by lightning. Liangjie Mountain lies beneath the clear sky and the bright sun, and yet such a demon was there—how much more so in remote, deep, and desolate mountains!”

(28)

Master Zhang sighed and said: “From morning to night people hurry about, always saying that they have no choice—that things are budeyi, ‘not yet brought to a stop.’ But what is there that is truly impossible to stop? It is only that the heart feels there are matters one cannot leave off, and so the words ‘I have no choice’ are forever on the lips. What seems unavoidable now will in the end come to rest: when one grows old, when one dies—that is what is called yi, ‘already stopped.’ If that is so, what is there that can never be brought to a stop? Should any among you see matters clearly and be able to tell when the time has come, then from this moment set that attachment aside.”

(29)

Master Zhang said to those undergoing treatment for laozhai—chronic illnesses of the depleting, deficient kind: “In treating illness, the heart-mind and Shen (spirit) must be quiet, one’s state of mind peaceful, and one’s manner unhurried. Do not fix all one’s hopes on seeing results at once. If, after the medicine is taken, the condition does not grow worse, that in itself counts as a swift effect. Thereafter there is a slight improvement on the first day, a little more on the second, and a gradual turn for the better on the third. Such progress, though slow, is vastly preferable to a condition that worsens day by day until, in the blink of an eye, one’s life is lost.”

Master Zhang was touring above the clouds of the sacred peaks. He stopped at the Hall of Chanting the Wind and said to his disciples: “Today the mountain colors are clear and bright, the surroundings still, the mind far-reaching, and the place secluded—truly a rare and fine scene. If each of you composes a new poem, and we then invite Hanxuzi (the person referred to here) to play the qin to add to the pleasure, would that not be a great joy?

“Even if one cannot play the qin oneself, one ought to learn to listen to it with a quiet mind, and thereby dispel those confused and turbid selfish desires and muddled delusions. Listening quietly to the sound of the qin, one seems to return to remote antiquity; the noises all around fall silent, the breast opens wide, one’s thoughts range far, one transcends the dust of the world, and the mind grows cool and deep. As one listens on, it is as if one were playing the qin oneself, forgetting the affairs of the mundane world, meeting the sages of Yu and Zhou, and coming face to face with Confucius and Mencius; the story of Bo Ya and Ziqi as kindred spirits seems to come only afterward. Only such a person may be counted a refined and secluded gentleman. Otherwise one is merely a vulgar person of shallow understanding, unworthy of keeping company with me.”

“I dearly love the air of late autumn: clear and solemn. I truly wish to take a pot of wine, a qin, and a flute, climb a high peak, and enjoy heaven, earth, mountains, and rivers. In the distance the mist is hazy and the clouds pale; villages bathe in warm sunlight, and the long river spreads broad and wide. Then the sound of the flute rises from the treetops, the sound of the qin comes from the mountain rocks, and the warmth of the wine melts among crimson springs and emerald peaks; mountain birds call at their ease, and the deep green of the empty mountains seems to spill before one’s eyes. Such a scene is truly exhilarating. I wonder whether you all share this inclination?”

Zhangzi (the speaker here) said to an elderly Daoist: “At your age, you must cultivate all the more steadily and in earnest. Toward the trivial affairs of the world, set these three words upon your heart—‘pay it no mind’—and then all kinds of distracting thoughts will melt away like ice. Everyone has qiao (the vital apertures of the body), and within the apertures there is shengqi (Qi, the vital breath of life’s activity). Without this vital breath, how could the body be sustained? It is only that the breath moves and stirs within the body, while people do not know how to quiet the mind and observe it.

“Now I will offer you eight casual remarks, to serve as the evening drum and morning bell (an admonition urging one to stay alert and apply oneself): As a person, one should understand something of the key apertures, discern the signs, attend carefully to affairs, and keep one’s composure; only then can one think clearly, see through things, get things done, and cultivate oneself into a true person. These words may seem offhand, yet they are precisely the principles you ought to study with care. When the mind settles, that is ding (stability); when the workings of Shen (spirit) grow clear and still, that is jing (tranquility). Although everyone has apertures in the body, if the mind cannot settle within them, how can one perceive the subtle signs?”

(32)

Zhangzi said to those cultivating the Dao (the Way) in the mountains: “When Huiweng (a personal name) urged people toward the Dao, there was boundless painstaking care in it. People do indeed often fear that cultivating the Dao is hard to accomplish—this has been a difficulty shared by all who seek learning and the Way, from ancient times to the present. Yet so long as one’s aspiration shoots straight up into the clouds, the Dao will not stand in the way of a hero of true resolve. What a person fears most is being weak and despondent, unable to rouse oneself; once one summons one’s spirits, the ancestral masters will surely lend their aid in secret.”

(33)

Zhangzi said to those living in seclusion in the mountains: “To dwell in the mountains and be called a recluse, one must also understand the joy of mountains and forests. The joy of mountains and forests does not lie in the mountains and forests themselves, but in a person’s having a heart capable of feeling joy in them; with such a state of mind, the mountains and forests can help increase one’s joy. To dwell at ease with the mountains and forests, abiding in surroundings that are empty and still, deep and refined, plain and tranquil—this alone is truly to understand the joy of mountains and forests.”

Zhangzi said: Only a person who can settle into ease at once may be counted as someone of true ability. To say, “Wait a while—let me hold my affairs off for a few days, and then slowly seek and inquire,” is the talk of ordinary people and the thinking of the foolish.

Zhangzi said to Yuanyangzi: If you can relinquish bonds of affection and withdraw from worldly entanglements, today I can settle for you a lifelong place of return. Thereafter the road will be smooth, and there will be no further danger. How joyful to reach this point in life! Fine weather, fine mountains and waters, fine pavilions and terraces, fine friends, fine scenery—from today on you may receive them in person, and you may also come to insight through them.

Zhangzi said: The fengshui and lay of the land by which the immortals choose a dwelling must be grasped together with the cultivation of Neidan (internal alchemy). Take Yuanyangzi’s Yiyun Mountain Estate: the whole residence sits between two mountains, the ground neither leaning nor askew, as if opening and yet as if closing. Built, by the method of resting against and linking the terrain, into a secure dwelling, it lies just below the Huangting (the important site of cultivation in the middle of the body) and just above Guanyuan (an acupoint of the lower abdomen)—precisely the central pivot. Who understands a heavenly secret such as this?

Zhangzi said: The seclusion of the mountains is just suited to speaking of the supreme Dao (the Way); when the mind is clear, one loves only to burn precious incense. This is precisely the fine scene before one’s eyes. These two lines came to me by chance; I ask Yuanyang to continue them for me.

Zhangzi said to followers of the Dao (those who cultivate the Way): Even at home, one should hold the mind of leaving home to cultivate the Dao; even amid the dust of the world, one should rise above the world. Set among affairs, the heart is not caught by affairs; facing external things, one does not cling to them. Only then may one be counted a cultivator of the Dao. One need not be bound to doing nothing at all, nor cling to thinking of affairs at every moment.

Master Zhang, wearing a cloak made of cool leaves, wandered at ease beyond the clouds. One day he heard a stamping-song drifting through the mist. His students, hearing it, sighed that the great Dao (the Way) is hard to transmit, and that those who cultivate the Dao so often let their days slip by in vain. The song said:

“Time flies swiftly, yet learning the Dao is slow. Streams wind about the empty mountains; I walk alone and ponder. I fear only that the scene before my eyes will pass in the blink of an eye; when the breath in the throat is cut off, a person grows dazed and knows nothing. While alive one is muddled and dull; after waking, one is still like a corpse that walks. I fear that impermanence—death—will suddenly arrive; then the bones grow cold, and grief follows. By then, through lifetime after lifetime of rebirth, one knows nothing at all of the world’s changes, fleeting as rain upon flowering branches.”

(40)

Master Zhang took up the fisherman’s drum of Immortal Han—the percussion instrument used in Daoist storytelling and song—and, keeping the beat, gave voice to his feelings, singing the “Song of the Bleak Sea of Dust”:

“Feilongzi roams the reaches of the sky. Whenever he speaks, he never strays from loyalty and filial piety, and the places he comes and goes all seem to be Yingzhou, the legendary mountain of the immortals. Wishing to transmit the Dao, he searches everywhere for someone fit to receive it, yet he sighs that nowhere do the affinities accord, and sighs as well: in a human life, how many turn back toward the Dao? Human life is like a candle before the wind, a boat upon the water—easily extinguished, and easily swept away.

“How long can a household of power and profit endure? Children and grandchildren begin in closeness and affection, and in the end may turn against one another as enemies. In the blink of an eye one falls into the hands of impermanence—death—and withered bones lie buried amid wild mist and tangled weeds. Woodcutters come and go cutting firewood; herd-boys wear the gravestone down until it is ruined. Ask the country folk whose family’s grave this is, and they only say they do not know; the ghost within the tomb weeps without end.

“Alas—immortal who rides the crane, you had better return.”

Master Zhang came forth from the Qingwei Heaven, one of the celestial realms spoken of in Daoism, and arrived amid the quiet, far-off mountains. There he boiled spring water and sat in easy conversation with several disciples. The master said, “Today I take The Immortal Melody of Hunyuan, the Primordial Origin, as a gift offered in jest, and present it to Yuanyang. Sing it through for me, and leave a fine tale among these mountains, woods, springs, and stones.”

At that time Li Shanqiao struck a bamboo instrument that could summon turtles, Yang Jieshi played a zither that could call the wind, and Liu Yeren beat the accompanying clappers, and they sang for the master:

“The Daoist Yuanyang is truly free and at ease. In seeking the Great Dao (the Way), he looks on official rank as a worn-out shoe and clings to it not at all. Eight years have passed since he lost his companion; in dreams he always dwells alone. Deep in the night the air turns cold; the iron pillow is icy, and even the mandarin-duck quilt feels chill. Look at your face: the beard has already whitened. Yet as for your years, a spark of life still remains. I urge you to go soon and seek a Huangpo—in Neidan (internal alchemy), the medium that harmonizes Yin-Yang—and take a lovely wife. Let male and female join, above and below, so that Kan and Li (water and fire) unite; let the firm and the yielding temper one another, so that Shen (spirit) and Qi (vital energy) blend in harmony. Be the tender husband of the immortal maiden of Tiantai, and be as well the beautiful wife of Zhang Guolao. Even though the features are fair, vitality still remains.

I urge you to go soon and seek a Huangpo, and take a lovely wife. Let male and female join and Kan and Li unite; let the firm and the yielding come into harmony, and Shen and Qi blend. Be the tender husband of the immortal maiden of Tiantai, and be as well the beautiful wife of Zhang Guolao. The beautiful wife and the tender husband, within the bridal chamber, seem to forget heaven and earth. Nature and feeling answer one another; nature and life join in harmony as one. Only in the moment when all fuses into one is your true heart seen; only in the vague and elusive instant is your true intent seen. This feeling of the Dao is the first step by which you ascend the path of the immortals. Smiling, I pass these words on to you; the Daoist Zhang Sanfeng takes up his brush and writes them down.”

When the song came to an end, the moonlight before the pavilion was bright, and the sky beyond the tower was a clear blue-green. Everyone sat gathered beside the stone altar, looking at one another and smiling.

Talks on Poetry

(1)

Zhangzi said: The Shangshu (Classic of Documents) states that “poetry expresses a person’s intent.” The commentary explains: “Intent is held within the heart; once it is expressed, it becomes poetry.” From this we can see that what is called “intent” is the spiritual nature within the human heart, and that what is called “poetry” is nothing more than the outflow of that spiritual nature.

Through the “seven reversions and nine returns” (a saying in the practice of Daoist Neidan [internal alchemy] concerning repeated transformation and the refining and nurturing of Jing [essence] and Qi [vital energy]), the immortals cultivate this empty and wondrous spiritual nature, making it into the everlasting, never-perishing “Valley Spirit” (the Shen [spirit] that Daoism describes as obscure and subtle yet ceaselessly generative). When it appears outside the light and Qi of the sun and moon, it has form and image; when it is hidden within the light and Qi of the sun and moon, it is without form or trace. Wherever spiritual intent reaches, it turns into poetry; poems differ from one another because each person’s spiritual nature also differs.

I once came and went with the immortals across the open wilds, moving in and out amid mist and roseate clouds. Whenever I saw the marvelous lines written by the immortals, I carefully committed them to memory, then took up the brush to record them, compiling them into books of the kind represented by Idle Talks of Water and Stone (Shuishi Xiantan).

Master Lü (Lü Dongbin) wrote with marvelous skill, and when he chanted his voice was clear, bright, and full. The lines in which he describes his wanderings are especially beautiful; one may read them and still never come to the end of looking or of savoring. A few are copied here to show that the master’s spiritual nature was indeed unlike that of ordinary people.

“Roaming the Yueyun Immortal Cloister on the Double Seventh” reads: “The banquet on Mount Gou had just ended when I came to visit this ancient temple. A clear breeze passing through the trees of the courtyard brings a moment of insight; fine rain falling on the bean blossoms deepens the feel of autumn. On the distant ridges the clouds have only just dispersed; across the vast sky the mist has only just cleared. The cool autumn mood is just right, so I lean against the high tower and play the jade flute.”

“Passing the City Tower of Wuchang” reads: “The city of Wuchang remains broad and magnificent; the households of Chu live beside the water. Beyond the railings the great river rushes day and night; within the tower a long sword points straight into the clouds. The lyric poet sits in the southern tower and, facing the moonlight, gives a long whistle; a fisherman’s song comes from the mist of Xisai Mountain. The old man playing the flute is even more at ease, chanting his verses aloud—a single tune seems able to echo for a thousand years.”

“Six Quatrains Written While Roaming Mount Kuanglu with Han Qingfu” reads: “Beyond the clouds, Mount Lu rises in layer upon layer of green; I push open the window and, facing the peaks, read the Huangting Jing (a Daoist scripture). Who amid this scenery can truly understand? I set the scroll aside, turn, and plunge into the green of the mountains.”

“After the rain, the fresh green seems to soak into one; I follow the path straight into the secluded depths, away from the dusty world. Han’s sheng and Lü’s flute sound together like the music of immortals, as if both had been transformed into immortal tones.”

“Wherever one may be, one can be happily content; roaming free upon the earth is like dwelling in the heavens. The waterfall seems to flow backward for three hundred zhang, and for a moment a cool freshness fills the cliffs.”

“I sing a poem as the words come, and with a casual hand inscribe it on the moss scattered high and low. Suddenly a Buddhist temple drum is heard from deep within the mist; among the lush trees it is as if I had crossed Tiger Stream.”

“I finish chanting a poem threaded throughout by the character ‘one,’ and in the blink of an eye it flies to the edge of the sky; a yellow crane carries me home. Before the altar only one guest remains, and that is I; my heart, like an idle cloud, drifts among the deep green mountains.”

“The sleeping flood-dragon is awakened and sent forth from the sea gate; in an instant a torrential rain falls at the edge of the sky. A sword flies once more through the vast heavens; looking back toward the southeast, the shadows of the trees have already grown dim.”

All these poems are fresh and lucid, and a delight to read.

(III)

If one looks for someone whose temperament most nearly resembles that of “Huiweng” (a Daoist figure), none comes closer than Mr. Han Qingfu. He has a poem titled “Idle Chant”: “Quietly he cradles a zither without strings, and softly plays a flute without finger holes. When the zither sounds, heaven and earth grow clear and bright; when the flute is blown, heaven and earth open wide. With every breath and every pluck, what is played is nothing but the music of the immortals.”

He also has two poems titled “Harmonizing with Patriarch Lü” (written in response to the poetic sense of Patriarch Lü, that is, Lü Dongbin). One reads: “A tiger keeps watch before the gate, and an immortal crane roosts within the house; the jade sheng winds in graceful turns, and the notes of the flute are clear and lofty. I come to this place not as a guest roaming the cloudy mountains; the Xiang River bends and flows, as if it had been written out in passages.” The closing lines of the other poem read, “The current of the Xiang writes in winding strokes,” a meaning close to that of the poem before it. The lines are broad in sweep and vigorous in force.

(IV)

Lan Caihe styled himself “Master of the Long Whistle.” He has a seven-character quatrain, “Reply to One Who Asked Where the Immortals Dwell”: “He goes forward to the step of the song, and when the song is sung out he ascends and departs; this ancient master sends long whistles among the mountains. Someone asks where I have been living of late; I dwell in the Jade Capital, the immortal realm of heaven.”

(V)

The author once read a linked verse, “Linked Lines on Treading Songs in Guanzhong,” jointly composed by Han Qingfu, Lan Caihe, Cao Guojiu, and He Xiangu: “Heaven and earth are vast, like a pot wrought of fine jade; a man at leisure strikes the clappers and chants as he pleases. In the wind and rain of Chang’an, spring draws near its end; fallen blossoms carpet the ground, and one walks on, free and unhurried.”

This linked verse conveys the pleasure of roaming hand in hand, at ease and carefree, and it also carries the sense of a song voiced once and sighed over thrice, with a lingering resonance that does not soon fade.

Kunlun Magu styled herself the “Immortal Maiden of Bicheng.” Her poems move the reader by their grace. In the “Three Quatrains Inscribed at Yueyun Altar” she wrote: “I ride a phoenix and drive a luan, descending from Bicheng, and smile as I watch the clear moonlight beyond the clouds. Kunlun lies ten thousand li away, and the celestial wind escorts me the whole way; the jade rings and jade pendants on my person sway in the wind and give off a clear, crisp sound.”

“I tread the blue-green clouds and cross seas and mountains, a yaosheng in hand (a sheng made of jade, often imagined among the immortals), my manner at ease. From amid the clouds appears a golden xiapei (the colored shoulder-cape worn by immortals); chanting poems all the way, I arrive here.”

“I come to Yueyun Altar to visit Elder Hui, while several disciples strike the daotong (a ritual implement used in Daoist ceremony). The sound of the wind rises and falls, the sound of the clouds is faint and fine, and the bright lamps in the towers and galleries redden the night.”

She also has three “Buxu” (hymns chanted to music in Daoist ritual). In them she writes: “I was originally a wandering female immortal of Kunlun, and with my own eyes I have watched the blue sea turn into mulberry fields. By my spiritual powers I roam freely through the eight directions, and the rings and pendants on my person chime at the edge of the azure sky.”

“I set a beautiful golden hairpin high in my coiffure and take leave of Mother of the Western Pool (the Queen Mother of the West). The celestial wind gently stirs my sleeves and streamers; I ride a carriage of purple cloud and pace along to the tune of Buxu.”

“Brewing the wine of long life is not difficult, so long as the numinous elixir is in one’s hand. I am a celestial immortal to begin with; once drunk, I lodge with Chang’e in the Guanghan Palace.”

(7)

The Immortal Maiden of Bicheng once took the divine person Miaogu as her teacher. One day, master and disciple chanted Buxu and came to the bank of the Jin River. The divine person inscribed a lyric, saying: “See the river tide surging, vast and boundless in force, rocking the mountain clouds until they unfurl and drift. Across the river the lamp-shadows are dim and hard to make out; a new lyric has already been set down on the page. The heart lingers, unsettled; I push open the window and look into the distance—this pavilion is truly secluded, clear, and refreshing.”

The immortal maiden answered with a matching lyric: “The river stretches vast and hazy, the mountains rise dark and boundless, and before the pavilion the landscape spreads in one great sweep. After the rain the frogs call in wave after wave, sounding lively; the sound of the tide comes all the way, and the moon has just risen. Walking through the moonlight, I gaze toward the edge of the clouds; the evening wind carries a coolness that leaves one feeling fresh and clear.”

(8)

The Immortal of Pure Ease was a famous poet of the Tang dynasty, lively and unrestrained in temperament, and often descended into the human world.

The Immortal Qingyi (a legendary immortal of free, unrestrained grace who often comes among humankind) was known in the Tang dynasty as a great master of the world of poetry. Lively and ethereal in temperament, he often descended into the human realm.

In “Descending upon Shuangqing Pavilion on the Xiuxi Festival,” he wrote: “My reading far surpasses that of the ancients across a thousand ages, and I once bore a sword to pay my respects to the feudal lords. The petty affairs of the world were all uncongenial to me, so I drank myself into a great drunkenness and withdrew to dwell in the land of wine. The age of the Yellow Emperor and Tang Yao was not in truth remote, yet the rise and fall of Qin and Han passed in an instant, like a rushing torrent. Things before my eyes shift in hurried succession, while my heart remains wholly free of care. I set out with the mountains behind me, chanting poems all the way into old age, and I am very fond of Xiexuan Tower. I write a hundred thousand poems and leave them to Heaven and Earth. I possess in myself the true and original Dao (the Way) that governs the myriad things; my mind is vast and boundless, and I would return to Yingzhou (a legendary immortal mountain in the sea). Today, as we speak of xiuxi (the traditional festival custom of washing beside the water to expel ill fortune), every feeling is entrusted to this single cup of wine. Immortals of the sea, holding documents, summon me, and I ride the wind across the Ten Continents. Eastward I go to the Three Divine Mountains (legendary immortal mountains in the sea) and roam together with the host of immortals; at one draught I drink five thousand dou, and my belly is filled with surging poems and prose. Then, with a long whistle, I leave the seashore and make for the Village Where Nothing Whatsoever Exists (the Daoist realm of having nothing to depend on, transcendent and at ease).”

In the “Song of the Grotto-Heaven” it is written: “I went to the immortal mountains of the sea in search of numinous medicines, yet in truth such medicines need not be sought among the mountains of the sea. The workings of Heaven and Earth are like a bellows stirring breath, but the bellows is not the blower of Heaven and Earth. The Golden Elixir (jindan)—the state in which Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit) are refined and condensed, as pursued in Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy)—is something I inherently possess, and becoming an immortal likewise depends on people of aspiration and responsibility to cultivate it. Last night I drank wine before the Queen Mother (Xiwangmu, the Queen Mother of the West, a legendary female immortal), and she said the peaches of immortality were already ripe. Taibai (the courtesy name of Li Bai) gave a long whistle, and Anqi (Anqi Sheng, a legendary immortal) sang aloud; for a moment none of the immortals could do anything with me! I would ride a qiu-dragon (a legendary horned dragon) and roam the four quarters of Heaven and Earth, leaving no trace in the vast void. A great wind blows from the north and scatters layer upon layer of cold cloud. Where might there be wine falling from the sky like rain, so that I could drink my fill without end? Where might there be wine gushing forth like a spring, so that I could sit on the ground, look up to Heaven, and drink deep? I sing madly and chant aloud, clapping my hands and raising my shoulders—ask who I am? I am Li Qinglian (the literary name of Li Bai)!”

Master Su Dongpo possessed an immortal-like genius and stands alongside Li Bai. Riding the wind, he chanted and whistled; facing the moon, he gave voice to what he felt. His spiritual nature endures.

“Sending Off Autumn at Jiangshang” reads: “Patch after patch of autumn cloud drifts into the distance, and the vast autumn waters stretch beyond sight. Beyond green mountains and red trees, the wild geese on their long journey vanish at the far end of passes and rivers. The cold of Jibei grows still more biting, while the weather of Jiangnan has already turned warm. The little spring has only just arrived, and farewell and welcome happen to take each other’s place.”

“Inscribed on a Small Portrait of Han Qingfu” reads: “He once served in the palace as an attendant in charge of incense, and came from a family of officials in the Ministry of Personnel. Even in youth he longed for a life of leisure like clouds and rosy mists, and he set no store by wealth and rank. In his bowl he planted fruit that symbolizes long life, and in his garden he grew flowers that never fade. May he share longevity with the Eight Immortals, and through myriad kalpas still cradle cinnabar in his arms. His brow seems as if he once checked his horse at Languan; within his breast he keeps the red fire-crow. Worthy uncle and nephew leave their names for a thousand autumns, and both Confucian learning and the learning of the Dao (the Way) are unfathomably deep.”

“Inscribed by Himself on the Picture in Bamboo Hat and Clogs” reads: “The mountain recluse’s old temperament was from the start that of a wild, unbridled man. After drinking, he painted himself in the fields, wearing a bamboo hat and clogs. A fine poem can at times reflect a person’s bearing, and in idle moments he never forgets to lift the pot and drink. Climbing a tower to enjoy the moon, he invites a Chan monk to keep him company; reaching the mouth of the valley, he passes through the mist to visit the fisherman. He comes and goes freely, content as his heart desires; with one long whistle he enters the deep seclusion of the woods.”

“Passing East Peak” reads: “It has been a long time since I came to East Peak, yet the rivers and mountains remain as they were. Banana leaves lie fallen all over the ground, and the feeling of coming snow grows thicker—just the time for quieting the mind and meditating in Chan.”

Two impromptu verses, “Touring the Lake,” read: “A pale mist rises and the ripples stir gently; beyond the Heart-of-the-Waters Pavilion many painted boats lie moored. Music of the sheng carries from ten li away, and one cannot tell whose boat it is; at the sound of singing, the oars come to rest.” “In slanting wind and fine rain the kudzu-cloth robe feels thin; on the water a few silver fish flash like knives. I love the fragrance of water-caltrop leaves and lotus that keeps drifting over; deep in the bamboo grove it seems as if someone is walking.”

“On the Blade-Whetting Rain” reads: “Sweet rain falls all over Jingzhou, nourishing like rich ointment. Heroes take the occasion to hone their treasured blades. Most unforgettable is the river beneath the walls of Wuchang: for a thousand autumns it still sobs in the depths, rolling up waves like thunder.”

“On Chinese Cabbage” reads: “Chinese cabbage is purer than snow water and whiter than frost; in the cold season the vegetables grown by the old gardener still have a fragrance all their own. How amusing that the mountain monk eats only vegetarian fare all year—if the cabbage is cooked with fat, he cannot eat it after all.”

“Presented to Himself” reads: “All my life I have never done anything to make people knit their brows in sorrow; now Dongpo has become a wandering immortal. I would leave the finest scenes of mountains and waters in the world, and let my own name hang long among clouds and mist.”

The six-character poem “Visiting the Qingdaoxin Mountain Lodge” reads: “When mind and Qi (vital energy) are keen and the spirit is clear and bright, the Dao is present within; the mountains are empty and still, the person grows quiet, and the sound of the qin seems remote. On a single couch the steam of tea curls upward; there is a touch of wine, and the mood is easy and unhurried.”

The ci lyric “A Few Words” reads: “Secluded shade encircles the fallen blossoms, and outside the window the birds call softly. The birdsong gradually fades; a single tall bamboo grows aslant, its posture just right. Kingfishers cry until dawn, and I have only just awakened.”

These poems and lyrics are clear, lovely, gentle, and graceful, their talent long and sustained, in no way inferior to what came before. A spiritual nature such as this seems something only a true immortal could possess.

Bamboo leans aslant to one side, its posture the most endearing of all; kingfishers chirp on and on until daybreak, just long enough for me to sleep a while. The writing is fresh and graceful, fine-textured and gently supple, no less inspired than in former years. A poem like this could only have been written by a true immortal.

(10)

Shao Yaofu (Shao Yong, whose sobriquet was Yaofu) was an immortal among Confucian scholars. I once saw him manifest among the literati. In his “Chant on Contemplating the Changes” he wrote: “Fuxi was a great sage; he first drew the Bagua (Eight Trigrams), handed down through myriad ages. The workings of Yin-Yang transformation are the root by which Qian and Kun became the Changes. I live in seclusion in the Nest of Peace and Joy, keeping company with heaven and earth. See through the minds of the sages, and one may be tranquil and content.” The poem’s manner is rich and vast; set in the Collection of Beating the Earth, it would be in no way inferior.

(11)

Bai Yuchan was a literary genius among the immortals. He left poems on stone inscriptions at many famous mountains. Whenever he met a person of lofty character and refined taste, he would present a poem. His “Inscribed for the Hall of Living at Ease” says: “In the woods the clear wind sighs; before the window the bamboo shadows lie thick. How rare to meet one of a kindred mind, and together pass a night in early autumn. We raise our cups and drink our fill in the thatched hut; we burn incense and read the Zhouyi. I have come here from Qiongshan; host and guest are gathered, and our pleasure is endless.”

He also wrote in “Presented to the Mountain Recluse Yuanyang”: “Withdrawing to the mountains, we speak of the Dao (the Way) of long life; each day we wander freely, following the idle clouds. Everywhere we turn the light back to shine within; at every moment, facing the scene, we forget emotional clinging. Sweep away the vexations of the dusty world, and cast aside worldly fame. Do not say that secluded cultivation is a bitter task; when mind and Shen (spirit) roam in a deep and silent realm, they become of themselves empty, clear, and still.” Here, “turning the light back to shine within” is a term of Daoist cultivation, meaning to gather in the mind and Shen and turn one’s contemplation inward.

(12)

Zhang Ziqiong was a native of Raozhou. He attained the Dao in the early Yuan dynasty, and his poems are mostly lucid, graceful, and vigorous. His poem in six-character lines, “For Myself,” says: “The mind is as clear as a bell on a snowy night; one’s bearing is as lofty as plum blossoms under a frosty sky. Strolling at leisure deep among the white clouds—how could one know the boundless ease of an immortal’s life!”

His “On Embryonic Breathing” says: “The breath is neither deliberately forced nor deliberately let go; the subtlety lies in regulating it naturally. The essentials of cultivation require that one understand this practice. Harmonize the two breaths to form embryonic breathing; then, within it, set up the cauldron and furnace.” Embryonic breathing is a state of respiration in Daoist Neidan (internal alchemy) cultivation. In the poem, the “cauldron and furnace” figuratively designate the body and mind in which Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy) are refined and nourished.

Qiu Changchun (Qiu Chuji, a Daoist priest of the Quanzhen [Complete Perfection] school) wrote in “Passing Yueyun Tower in Clear Autumn”: “A mighty wind from heaven fills the towers and galleries; between the peaks, clouds and vapors surge toward the woods and hills. When the sound of rain rises, the bells beneath the eaves ring in interwoven tones; the fangzhang (the place where a Daoist dwells or cultivates) is pure, still, and desolate, and the whole courtyard is filled with the feeling of autumn.” The poem has a distinctly elegant and unrestrained charm.

Zhang Ziyang (Zhang Boduan, a figure of the Daoist Neidan [internal alchemy] tradition) wrote in the poem “On My Own Longevity”: “Reckoning through the ages, I look up at the stars; since attaining the Dao (the Way), eight hundred years have already passed. A child is brought forth and rides a crane away; only when the void is shattered does the complete true body appear.” The so-called “child” here refers to the bodily form achieved through cultivation; “riding a crane” is often used to describe ascending in flight after attaining the Dao. A realm such as this can be reached only by a shangzhen (a high-ranking perfected being who has attained the Dao).

The venerable patriarch Xiyi (Chen Tuan, whose Daoist name was Xiyi), in whom primordial Qi (vital energy) was whole and undifferentiated, once composed the five-character quatrain “Replying to Someone Who Asked My Surname”: “The One Qi passes through past and present; the creative transformations of Yin-Yang are wondrous. You ask what I am called, and what my surname is? I am the slumbering old man Xiyi.” My teacher, Master Fire Dragon (Huolong), was not fond of writing poetry, for he was indifferent to fame. I now record a quatrain he happened to chant: “My Daoist name happens to be the same as Zheng Huolong’s; my name and surname lie hidden within the Taixu (the fundamental substance of the cosmos). Ever since I delivered and transformed Zhang Sanfeng, I have withdrawn into seclusion east of Penglai and the Weak Waters.”

The immortal maiden Feixia was the daughter of Yu Shishe. After swallowing a divine elixir, she ascended into the sky. She once descended to the Zixiao Abbey in Yunnan, left an inscribed poem, signed it “Feixia,” and departed. The poem says: “Long have I lived in the green-jade towers of the Jasper Pool; suddenly I rode a multicolored crane and came down to Lingqiu. Should people of the world wish to ask my surname, I once embraced the Golden Elixir (Jindan) and served Lord Mu.” The sense of the poem is that the immortal maiden Feixia originally dwelt in the realm of the immortals, had cultivated the Golden Elixir, and had served Lord Mu.

Lu Qianxu was a native of Huaihai. During the Jiajing reign he met Patriarch Lü (Lü Dongbin) and attained the Dao (the Way). He wrote a great deal in his lifetime: two juan of Laozi Yuanlan (A Primordial Survey of the Laozi), one juan of Yinfu Jing Ceshu (A Fathoming Subcommentary on the Yinfu Jing, scripture/classic of the Hidden Talisman), one juan of Cantong Qi Ceshu (A Fathoming Subcommentary on the Cantong Qi, the Seal of the Unity of the Three), one juan of Jindan Jiuzheng Pian (An Essay on Rectifying the Golden Elixir), one juan of Ziyang Sibai Zi Ceshu (A Fathoming Subcommentary on Ziyang’s Four Hundred Characters), eight juan of Fanghu Waishi (Outer Records of Fanghu), and eight juan of Nanhua Fumo (Auxiliary Ink on the Nanhua).

Recently, among those of the same lineage, there was a Baibaizi who wrote a commentary on the Daode Jing (the classic of the Dao and of De, Virtue/Power), entitled Donglai Zhengyi (The Correct Meaning Come from the East). Lu Qianxu inscribed a poem for it, saying: “A single commentary can lay open the profound meaning of the great Dao; read again, it is as if purple Qi (vital energy) comes from the east. At the qin and the flute, he is truly a celebrated scholar; in expounding the classics and discoursing on the Dao, he is also most eloquent. I sit on Mount Fanghu gazing at the vast sea; you ascend Mount Yuanqiao, surpassing Penglai. Today we sit together in the riverside pavilion, reciting the Nanhua Jing aloud, and cannot help laughing at our own foolishness.” Fanghu, Yuanqiao, and Penglai mentioned here are all legendary immortal mountains in the sea. Baibaizi also wrote Yuanqiao Waishi (Outer Records of Yuanqiao), Daoqiao Tan (Talks on the Aperture of the Dao), Wuzhen Cantong Zajie (Miscellaneous Explanations of the Wuzhen Pian and the Cantong Qi), and other works, and the poem therefore borrows these titles and the imagery of the immortal mountains to praise him.

Planchette Conversations

(1)

Someone asked: Spirit-writing and sand-tray divination are only minor arts, yet many people are fond of them, and those who discuss them are often persons of considerable standing. Where does this technique actually come from? Can everything it says be trusted?

Master Zhang replied: Some time ago Huiweng wished to explain this matter clearly to Hansan and the others, but he never finished. I shall now set it out on purpose. What is called ji means to investigate and to verify. The phrase “to examine so as to test credibility” means using it to check whether the matter asked about can be believed. The Shuowen says: “Bu is used to inquire into what is doubtful.” Thus the component zhan signifies divinatory inquiry, while the element yi was in antiquity the character yin, “hidden.” According to the Erya, yin has the sense of prognosticating and inferring. That is to say, the one who divines must first infer, and then observe the signs in order to judge good or ill fortune.

In my view, once the words of a divination have been spoken, if one must still labor to guess at them, it is little different from not having divined at all. Yet oracular language does indeed contain a reserved and veiled meaning. Celestial immortals and divine immortals are unwilling to tell people directly of calamity and blessing. They only urge them to cultivate themselves and nurture De (Virtue/Power), and to await their destiny with composure. When they admonish or expound the Dao (the Way) of the elixir, their meaning is entirely plain. When they treat illness and write prescriptions, they do not deliberately speak obscurely either. Apart from these cases, if someone asks about fortune and misfortune, success and failure, the reply is often held back. In fact this is a refusal: they are unwilling to speak outright.

This is because, if one clearly states that a certain person will meet with disaster, it may lead someone who was meant to receive blessing to mistake calamity for something welcome and, grown smug and reckless, turn that blessing into disaster. It may also cause someone who was meant to suffer calamity to become unsettled in heart and spirit through fear, and instead fix their whole mind on seeking blessing and fleeing disaster. How can blessing be seized by force through prayer? Only the practice of good can invite auspiciousness. The general sense of such veiled words is this: even without speaking the matter through to the end, one can still make the principle within it understood.

Yin has yet another meaning. After the immortals attain the Dao, they move between sun and moon without casting a shadow, and they pass through metal and stone without making a sound. Ordinary people cannot see them. They therefore write upon the spirit-writing board and the sand tray characters twisting like dragons and serpents, transforming in endless ways, in order to show that they have not perished.

Spirit-writing remains, however, a method that relies on technical arts. From ancient times the perfected have condemned it as the work of fangshi. Why, then, do immortals still descend and give instruction through the planchette? Because in recent times this art has flourished, and among high officials, scholars, and common people alike many believe in it and delight in it. Divine immortals take the guidance of the world and the awakening of people as their essential task. They therefore use spirit-writing to aid the world in a hidden way, accomplishing genuine instruction by means of an expedient guise.

Those who study spirit-writing are of two kinds, and the outcomes are one success and one failure. Superior persons prevail through virtuous conduct, sincerity, and good affinity. Even if they are not skilled at spirit-writing, the immortals are willing to come and guide them—how much more so if they understand the art? The immortals will take that occasion to lead them. Without Fulu (talismans and registers) or ritual memorials, exalted perfected ones will still descend to the place of spirit-writing.

Inferior persons fail through cunning, falsity, and craving. Even if they are skilled at spirit-writing, the immortals will not draw near—how much less when they also offend the divinities? Ghosts and spirits may manipulate them through the planchette. If they recklessly employ talismanic spells, they will instead attract deviant spirits.

We immortals who have stepped beyond the bonds of the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) cannot be constrained even by Heaven and Earth, nor fashioned by Yin-Yang. If people wish to invite us to descend, they must still receive us with propriety. What need is there of talismanic spells? This is precisely why practitioners of techniques deceive the ignorant, and why immortals detest such practitioners. I now use spirit-writing itself to speak of spirit-writing, and I offer these words as an admonition for the practice.

Someone asked further: “The principle of inviting the planchette—that is, inviting spirits to descend for spirit-writing—ought properly to rest on De (Virtue/Power) in one’s conduct, on the resonant response of a sincere heart, and on karmic affinity, and ought not to rest on talismans and incantations. Yet the immortal Way of the Southern Palace, one school within Daoism, also has the practice of using talismans and incantations to command spirits. Why is this?”

The reply was: “Although the Southern Palace school uses talismans and incantations, these are methods transmitted by exalted perfected ones, immortals of high station, and are meant to meet emergencies, relieve difficulties, and dispel disaster and harm. Manuals of this secretly transmitted art are not ordinary books carved, printed, and circulated in the world. Even if someone obtains them, one must keep an impartial mind and sincerely aid all living beings before profound merit can be accumulated. If they are used recklessly from selfish motives, the Celestial Emperor will likewise send down thunder, taking the person’s life and stripping away the methods. Therefore, even the talismans and incantations of the Southern Palace prove efficacious only when reverence and sincerity are kept in the heart. As for the talismans and incantations used by those who practice spirit-writing, they cannot be spoken of in the same terms—how much less so when such people are neither reverent nor sincere! From this, all of you may understand.”

Master Zhang said: Heaven originally has no intention of favoring the good or punishing the wicked. Whether blessings or calamities descend, they are all brought upon people by themselves. Even if one holds that Heaven deliberately bestows fortune or sends down misfortune, one ought still to understand that good and ill fortune are brought about by one’s own conduct. To do good in ordinary times and receive the reward of blessing is a necessary principle; even if one meets with calamity, it is only temporary. To do evil in ordinary times and suffer calamity is a necessary result; even if one gains fortune for a time, it will not last. Why abandon one’s own conduct and turn outward to seek answers?

I have seen many muddled common people who, when they pray to the gods, draw lots and consult the hexagrams, and when they pray to the immortals, practice planchette writing and spirit writing (inviting immortals to descend and give instruction by supporting a phoenix brush and similar means), as if the gods and immortals were certain to foresee fortune and misfortune. If events later come true, they believe; if they do not come true, doubt arises in their hearts. Whether they believe or doubt, they remain just as foolish as before.

Gods and immortals can indeed know fortune and misfortune, yet for principles the human heart already understands, why say them over and over? When an appeal to the gods or an inquiry of the immortals happens to be fulfilled, there is a reason of its own: the good ask about blessing, and the reward of blessing arrives; the wicked fear calamity, and calamity descends. It looks as though this accords with the result of the divination, but it is not that the lots, the hexagrams, the phoenix brush, or the spirit writing are especially efficacious. When one asks and it is not fulfilled, there is also a reason: the good ask about calamity, and there is no calamity to send down; the wicked ask about blessing, and there is no reward of blessing to bestow. It looks as though this runs contrary to the outcome, but one cannot therefore say that the lots, the hexagrams, the phoenix brush, or the spirit writing are inefficacious. Throughout the world, divining fortune and misfortune with tortoise shells, casting yarrow stalks, or calculating by the mantic arts is, for the most part, just like this. Why can people not understand these principles by relying on themselves?

I have always disliked people’s drawing lots, consulting hexagrams, and practicing planchette and spirit writing. I only hope that everyone will cultivate De (Virtue/Power) and constantly examine themselves.

Master Zhang said: The immortals wish to transform and guide the people of the world, and so they sometimes use fuji (spirit writing—writing with a brush upon a sand tray, traditionally said to be the means by which spirits descend and give revelations) to discourse on principles and on profound and subtle truths. The immortals also cherish the people of the world, and so they sometimes use fuji to urge people to do good and to admonish them against evil deeds. The immortals further intend to aid the people of the world, and so they sometimes use fuji to issue medicinal prescriptions and help in treating illness.

As for judging fortune and misfortune by means of fuji, that depends on a person’s own goodness or evil; the previous chapter has already made this quite clear, and it will not be repeated here. What is especially strange is that there are people in the world who set up altars for fuji in order to inquire about fengshui and the geomancy of a site, or who ask the planchette to pronounce upon the will of Heaven. All such practices are customs left behind by the fangshi (those who make a living by the occult arts). The orthodox deities of the upper realm see through the deceit in these matters, and not one of these people can escape the punishment of Heaven.