《沖虚至德真經》

Liezi lived in seclusion in the gardens of the Zheng state for forty years, yet no one truly understood him. Even the ruler and his ministers regarded him as an ordinary commoner. When famine struck Zheng, Liezi prepared to move to the neighboring state of Wei. His disciples asked: "Master, you may not return from this journey. We venture to ask—do you have any final teachings for us? Have you forgotten the instructions of your own teacher, Huqiuzi Lin?" Liezi smiled and replied: "What did Master Huqiu ever say? Though I recall him speaking once to Bohun Maoren—I happened to overhear it, and shall now share it with you."

The essence of his teaching was this: That which gives birth to all things is itself unborn; that which transforms all things is itself unchanging. The unborn gives rise to all births; the unchanging governs all transformations. What is born must undergo birth; what changes must experience change. Thus all things exist in perpetual states of becoming and transformation. This endless process of generation and mutation never ceases—the cyclical movements of yin-yang and the four seasons bear witness. The unborn (Dao) appears solitary and immutable; the unchanging (Dao) revolves in endless cycles. Its boundaries cannot be traced; its principles cannot be exhausted.

The Yellow Emperor's Classic states: "The valley spirit (the mysterious void of Dao) never dies—this is the Dark Feminine (Xuanpin). The gateway of the Dark Feminine is the root of heaven and earth. Subtle yet continuous, seeming absent yet ever-present, its efficacy never wanes." Therefore, the true creator remains uncreated; the true transformer remains unchanged. Though things appear to generate themselves, transform, take form, acquire color, develop wisdom, gain strength, then decline and cease—to claim they accomplish this independently is erroneous.

Liezi continued: The ancient sages mastered yin-yang to govern heaven and earth. All formed things emerge from the formless—but from where do heaven and earth themselves arise? Thus cosmic evolution unfolds through stages: First came the Grand Inception (Taiyi, when even qi was absent), then the Grand Commencement (Taichu, the beginning of qi), followed by the Grand Initiation (Taishi, the beginning of form), and finally the Grand Simplicity (Taisu, the beginning of substance). When qi, form and substance coexisted inseparably, this was called "primordial chaos" (Hunlun)—a state where all things intermingled without distinction. Invisible to the eye, inaudible to the ear, intangible to touch—this is called "Change" (Yi). This "Change" has no concrete form or boundaries.

This scripture elucidates the fundamental patterns of cosmic generation and transformation, along with the distinct roles of the Three Powers—heaven, earth, and humanity.

The primordial transformation begins with "Change" (Yi), sequentially evolving into "One," "Seven," and "Nine"—with Nine representing the culmination of transformation before reverting back to One. This "One" marks the inception of tangible transformation. Within this process, the clear and light Qi ascends to form heaven, while the turbid and heavy Qi descends to coalesce as earth. The harmonious interplay of Yin and Yang gives rise to humanity. Heaven and earth contain the essence (Jing) and Qi, from which all things are born and transformed.

Liezi observed: Heaven-earth, sages, and all beings each possess their unique strengths and limitations. Heaven's function is to canopy and nurture life; earth's role is to bear and support forms; the sage's duty lies in cultivation and instruction; while all things fulfill their purpose by abiding in their inherent nature. Thus, heaven cannot replace earth's supportive function, earth cannot substitute the sage's teachings, and instruction must not violate the intrinsic nature of things. The operation of heaven-earth cannot depart from Yin-Yang; the sage's cultivation cannot deviate from benevolence and righteousness; the nature of all things cannot exist without firmness and flexibility—all must adhere to their fundamental roles.

The text further delineates the hierarchical layers of cosmic generation: there are living beings, and there is the source that generates life; there are physical forms, and there is the root that gives rise to forms; there are phenomena like sound, color, and flavor, and there are the origins that produce these phenomena. Specific living beings may perish, but the source of life never ceases; concrete forms possess materiality, yet the foundation of form is emptiness itself.

This primordial source embodies infinite transformative capacity: it can manifest as Yin or Yang, as soft or hard, as life or death, as cold or heat, as ascending or descending, capable of producing all tones and displaying all colors and flavors. Though appearing devoid of knowledge and ability, it paradoxically knows and accomplishes all.

Finally, Liezi encountered a century-old skull on the road in Wei. Pointing to it, he told his disciples: "Only this skull and I understand the state of 'neither having been born nor having died.'" This represents a realization transcending life-death duality and surpassing sorrow-joy distinctions. Just as frog eggs transform into tadpoles in water, become moss at the water-earth boundary, turn into plantain herbs on hills, and evolve into other plants in fertile soil—demonstrating how life forms adapt to environmental conditions.

This scripture reveals the natural laws of cyclical transformation through a series of marvelous metamorphoses of living forms. For instance, plant roots may transform into insects (grubs), leaves into butterflies; these butterflies then become insects beneath the stove (fire-moths), which after a thousand days turn into birds called "dry-bones." The bird's saliva transforms into tiny insects (silkworms), which then evolve into vinegar insects (vinegar-eaters), ultimately tracing back to a creature called the nine-transformer.

The text enumerates numerous natural phenomena: sheep livers transforming into marsh grasses, horse blood becoming will-o'-the-wisps, human blood turning into wild fires, sparrowhawks changing into kites and reverting to cuckoos, swallows becoming clams, field mice transforming into quails, the claws and teeth of rotten wood turning into fish, old leeks becoming amaranth, and aged ewes transforming into apes. It particularly notes certain creatures capable of self-reproduction (like the self-birthing beast), marsh birds that conceive through mutual gazing (the gaze-breeding bird), giant-waist insects that are all male, and young bees that are all female.

It also records extraordinary reproductive phenomena: yearning men can conceive children without marriage through spiritual resonance, yearning women can become pregnant without taking husbands; Houji (Lord Millet) was born from a giant's footprint, while Yi Yin emerged from a hollow mulberry tree. The text then describes various chains of biological generation: the dawn-mist insect is born from dampness, vinegar-flies emerge from wine, the sheep-why grass grows alongside bamboo that never sprouts shoots, until finally the azure-tranquil insect gives birth to the Cheng beast, the Cheng beast produces horses, and horses give birth to humans.

Finally, it quotes the Yellow Emperor's Classic with this philosophical insight: "When form moves, it does not produce new form but shadow; when sound moves, it does not produce new sound but echo." It declares that all formed things will ultimately perish, heaven and earth will end together with humanity, yet this ending is not true annihilation. The Dao (cosmic origin) fundamentally has no beginning, nor will it persist forever. Living beings ultimately return to the lifeless state, formed things return to the formless. What is called "non-generation" is not absolute non-existence, nor is "formlessness" sheer nothingness—rather, it is a return to the primordial source-state.

This passage explores the natural cycle of life from birth to death, examining the distinctive characteristics of each life stage. It posits that where there is life, death inevitably follows—an immutable law of existence. Just as life must begin, death remains its certain conclusion. The desire for eternal life or complete avoidance of mortality is but a delusion that defies natural principles.

In Daoist cosmology, human consciousness and spirit (Shen) belong to Heaven (representing the ethereal, formless realm), while the physical body and bones belong to Earth (symbolizing the dense, material plane). At life's end, spirit and form separate, each returning to its origin—the spirit ascending to Heaven, the corporeal form descending to Earth. This return to source is termed "ghost" (gui), etymologically meaning "to return," signifying reunion with one's true abode. The Yellow Emperor observed: "When the spirit enters the celestial gate and bones return to earth, what remains of 'me'?"

Human life unfolds through four distinct phases: infancy, prime adulthood, old age, and death, each with defining attributes:

During infancy, one's Qi remains concentrated and the mind perfectly unified—a state of supreme harmony. External forces cannot harm such purity, and one's Virtue (De) manifests most completely. In adulthood, while blood and Qi flourish, desires and intellectual calculations multiply, making one vulnerable to external disturbances as Virtue begins its gradual decline. The elderly experience waning desires and mental activity; the body enters gradual repose as external stimuli lose their dominance. Though not matching the perfection of infancy, this state surpasses the turbulence of middle age. Death then represents ultimate rest—the return to one's primordial condition.

The text recounts a parable: While traveling to Mount Tai, Confucius encountered the hermit Rong Qiqi in the wilderness of Cheng, clad in crude deerskin with a grass belt, playing his zither and singing joyfully. When questioned about his happiness, Rong cited three blessings: First, among all beings, humans hold supreme dignity—and he was fortunate to be born human. Second, while gender distinctions exist, males are honored—and he was privileged to be male. Third, while many die young, he had reached ninety years. Poverty, he asserted, is the scholar's constant companion; death, life's inevitable destination. To abide peacefully in these constants while harmonizing with nature constitutes the greatest joy.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of Perfect Virtue in the Grand Void) records a dialogue between Confucius and the recluse Lin Lei, a centenarian hermit. While traveling through the outskirts of the state of Wei, Confucius saw this hundred-year-old man gathering wheat ears in a harvested field during late spring, still wearing a fur coat and singing as he walked.

Confucius sent his disciple Zigong to inquire. Zigong intercepted the old man at the field's edge and asked, "Do you have no regrets about living this way?" Lin Lei continued gathering wheat and singing until pressed further, then finally looked up and replied, "What is there to regret?"

Perplexed, Zigong pressed on: "In your youth, you were not diligent; in your prime, you sought no achievement; now in old age, you have neither wife nor children, and death approaches. How can you find joy in gathering wheat and singing like this?" Lin Lei laughed and said, "Precisely because of this, I am happy! In youth, I avoided struggle; in my prime, I avoided fame—that is why I’ve lived so long. Now in old age, I am free from attachments, and death is near—that is why I can be joyful."

Zigong persisted: "Long life is a common human desire, while death is universally dreaded. Why do you rejoice in death?" Lin Lei explained, "Life and death are like a cycle of coming and going. Dying here, how do I know I won’t be reborn elsewhere? How do I know that clinging to life isn’t delusion? Perhaps this death is better than past existence."

When Zigong reported this to Confucius, the sage sighed and said, "I knew I could speak deeply with him. He truly understands the Dao, though his words are not yet fully expressed."

Later, Zigong grew weary of study and told Confucius he wished to rest. Confucius replied, "In life, there is no rest." Zigong asked, "Then will I never find rest?" Confucius pointed to distant burial mounds and said, "See those graves—raised high like ancient cauldrons—that is where final rest is found."

This passage explores perspectives on life, death, and spiritual attainment through dialogues among various sages. Zigong (a disciple of Confucius) laments that death marks the boundary where noble persons find rest while petty men submit. Confucius (Zhongni) responds: People all know the joy of living, yet fail to understand life's suffering; they recognize the weariness of aging, but remain unaware of old age's tranquility; they fear death's terror, never realizing it represents liberation.

Master Yan further elaborates: Death is actually the homecoming of De (Virtue). The ancients called the deceased "returnees," while the living were "wayfarers." To journey onward without knowing one's destination is like losing one's homeland. Some abandon family and native land to wander recklessly - such people are deemed madmen. Others obsess over worldly fame and flaunt cleverness unwittingly - yet these are paradoxically considered wise. Both have lost their authentic nature, though the world only condemns the former. Only sages understand what to embrace and what to relinquish.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) presents the philosophy of "emptiness and stillness": Genuine stillness requires no deliberate display - maintaining serene emptiness allows one to dwell in original nature, while chasing gains and losses leads to confusion. Like broken vessels that cannot be mended with benevolence and righteousness, the natural order (what Zhou Xiong called "ceaseless cyclical movement") operates silently - all things wax and wane in perpetual alternation, with the cycle of life and death flowing as naturally as breath, though ordinary people seldom perceive its mystery. The cosmic transformations of Qi (vital energy) never occur abruptly.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of the Ultimate Virtue of Profound Emptiness) discusses the imperceptible transformations of phenomena and the limits of human perception. The human body does not suddenly decay nor abruptly grow—these changes are so subtle they elude our awareness. Consider how from birth to old age, one's appearance, intellect, and physique shift imperceptibly each day. Skin, nails, and hair constantly shed and renew, yet this does not mean an infant remains unchanged; the transformations are simply too minute to notice until their cumulative effects become evident later.

The text illustrates this with the parable of the man from Qi who feared the sky might collapse: A man from the state of Qi incessantly worried that heaven would cave in or the earth crumble, leaving him no refuge. His anxiety grew so severe he could neither eat nor sleep. Another man, troubled by this distress, sought to counsel him: "Heaven is but accumulated Qi (vital energy), present everywhere. You breathe and move within it daily—why fear its collapse?" The worrier pressed, "But what if the sun, moon, and stars fall?" The counselor replied, "These too are merely luminous Qi. Even if they descended, they couldn't harm anyone." When the man asked about the earth collapsing, the answer came: "The earth is compacted soil filling all directions. You walk upon it constantly—why dread its giving way?" Finally reassured, the anxious man found peace, and his counselor rejoiced.

Yet when the philosopher Changluzi heard this, he laughed and remarked: "Rainbows, clouds, wind, rain—these are the accumulated Qi forming heaven; mountains, rivers, metals, fire—these are the condensed matter constituting earth. Knowing heaven and earth are composed of Qi and matter, how can one claim they are indestructible? Though heaven and earth may seem vast to us, they are but minuscule specks within the cosmic void—their true nature lies beyond complete comprehension. To fret over their destruction is indeed excessive, yet to assert their permanence is equally mistaken. All things, including heaven and earth, must eventually dissolve. When that time comes, should we not be concerned?" Upon hearing this, Liezi (the text implies) remained silent, leaving the matter open for reflection.

This scripture consists of two parts. The first discusses the nature of existence and life, while the second illustrates the principle of "stealing from Heaven and Earth" through a parable.

The first part states: Someone laughed and said that those who claim Heaven and Earth will perish are wrong, and those who say they won't perish are also wrong. Whether Heaven and Earth perish is ultimately unknowable to us. Whether they perish or not, it remains the same Heaven and Earth, and this is the same Heaven and Earth we inhabit. The living cannot know the affairs of the dead, nor can the dead know the affairs of the living; those coming cannot know about departure, nor can those departing know about arrival. Why should I concern myself with whether Heaven and Earth perish?

Emperor Shun (an ancient sage ruler) asked the wise man Zheng: "Can the Dao (the Way) be obtained and possessed?" Zheng replied: "Even your own body does not belong to you—how could you possess the Dao?" Shun pressed further: "If my body doesn't belong to me, then to whom does it belong?" Zheng explained: "Your physical form is temporarily entrusted to you by Heaven and Earth; your life doesn't belong to you—it's the harmonious Qi (vital energy) bestowed by Heaven and Earth; your innate nature and destiny don't belong to you—they follow the operational patterns arranged by Heaven and Earth; even your descendants don't belong to you—they're the continuity granted by Heaven and Earth. Thus when people walk, they don't know where they're going; when dwelling, they don't know what they rely upon; when eating, they don't understand why they eat. All these are manifestations of the flowing Yang Qi between Heaven and Earth—how could they possibly be possessed by you?"

The second part presents a parable: The Guo family of Qi State was wealthy, while the Xiang family of Song State was poor. Xiang went to Qi to learn Guo's method for gaining wealth. Guo said: "I excel at 'stealing.' When I began 'stealing,' within one year I had enough for food and clothing, in two years I became prosperous, and after three years I was extremely wealthy and could even assist my neighbors." Misunderstanding the meaning of "stealing," Xiang returned home and began breaking into houses, only to be caught and have his property confiscated. He blamed Guo for deceiving him. Guo then explained: "You misunderstood the true meaning of 'stealing.' What I meant was utilizing the timeliness of Heaven and the benefits of Earth—'stealing' the nourishment of clouds and rain, the bounty of mountains and marshes to cultivate crops. This is the true Dao of 'stealing from Heaven and Earth.'"

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of Perfect Virtue and Pervading Emptiness) presents a philosophical reflection on the concept of "theft" through a dialogue between Guo Shi and Xiang Shi, exploring the relationship between humans and all things in nature.

Guo Shi says: "When I cultivate crops, build walls, construct houses, hunt animals on land, or catch fish and turtles in water—none of these count as theft. Crops, timber, beasts, and fish are all naturally produced—how could they be considered my possessions? I take what nature provides yet incur no calamity. But gold, silver, jewels, grain, cloth, money, and goods—these are all accumulated by human effort, not bestowed by Heaven. If stealing such things brings punishment, who is to blame?"

Perplexed, Xiang Shi suspects Guo Shi of deceiving him and consults Master Dongguo. The master replies: "Isn't your own body also 'stolen'? You appropriate the harmonious blending of Yin and Yang (Yin-Yang) to sustain your life, borrowing physical form to exist—how much more so with external things? Aren't these all 'taken'?"

In truth, all things between Heaven and Earth are interconnected. To forcibly claim ownership is delusion. Guo Shi's "theft" follows the natural Dao (the Way), thus avoiding calamity; ordinary theft stems from selfish desire, hence incurring punishment. Yet ultimately, whether motivated by private or public gain, it is all "theft." Those who comprehend the great De (Virtue/Power) of Heaven and Earth—who can definitively say what is theft and what is not?

This passage uses the concept of "theft" to reveal the Daoist teaching of "the unity of all things," suggesting that human appropriation of natural resources aligns with the Dao when done in harmony with cosmic principles rather than through forceful grasping.

During the fifteenth year of the Yellow Emperor's reign, he grew complacent with the people's adoration and indulged daily in sensory pleasures—eyes, ears, mouth, and nose. As a result, his complexion turned sallow and haggard, his spirit (Shen) became scattered, and his emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, and delight—descended into chaos. Another fifteen years passed, and he began to fret over poor governance, exhausting himself in state affairs until his face grew ashen and his mind dull.

The Yellow Emperor lamented, "My faults are grave indeed! Indulgence brings such calamity, yet governing the world likewise leads to distress." So he set aside his burdensome duties, left the palace, dismissed his attendants, reduced musical entertainments, simplified his meals, and retired alone to the residence of the Great Court Official. There, he purified his heart and restrained his desires, nurturing body and mind for three full months without attending to state affairs.

One day, while napping, he dreamed his spirit journeyed to the land of Huaxushi—a legendary utopia. This realm lay west of Yanzhou and north of Taizhou, so distant that no boat or carriage could reach it; only the spirit could travel there. It had no rulers, for all followed the natural course (Wuwei). The people harbored no cravings, wholly aligned with the Dao. They neither clung to life nor feared death, so none died young; neither favored themselves nor spurned others, so love and hate did not exist. Unaware of rebellion or obedience, they knew no conflict of gain and loss.

To them, nothing was beloved or feared: entering water did not drown them, fire did not burn them, blades and whips brought no pain, and scratches caused no itch. They walked the void as if treading solid ground, slept in emptiness as if on beds. Clouds and fog obscured no sight, thunderclaps disturbed no hearing, and beauty or ugliness could not sway their hearts.

The Yellow Emperor could traverse mountain valleys without stumbling, having attained the state of divine movement (shenxing). Upon awakening, he felt extraordinary joy and summoned his ministers Tianlao, Limu, and Taishanji. He told them: "After three months of secluded purification (zhaijie), gathering my spirit (shen) and nurturing my form, I pondered methods for cultivating life and governing the world yet found no essential path. Weary, I fell asleep and had this dream. Now I understand the supreme Dao cannot be sought through ordinary means. I have comprehended it, I have attained it, yet cannot convey it to you in words."

Twenty-eight years later, the world was perfectly governed, nearly as ideal as the legendary kingdom of Huaxushi. After the Yellow Emperor ascended as an immortal (xian), the people cherished his memory for over two centuries uninterrupted. On the mythical mountain of Guyeshan in the midst of the Haihe River, there dwelled a divine being who inhaled wind and drank dew, consuming no grains. His heart-mind was tranquil as an abyss, his appearance pure as a maiden. Neither intimate nor aloof, even immortals and sages willingly served as his ministers; neither fearful nor angry, even the most sincere people voluntarily labored for him. Without bestowing favors, all things were naturally abundant; without hoarding possessions, he himself never lacked.

Yin and Yang remained eternally harmonized, sun and moon perpetually bright, the four seasons perfectly ordered, wind and rain evenly distributed. All beings grew according to their seasons, crops flourished without fail. The land knew no calamities, people no untimely deaths, creation no imperfections, and spirits dared not cause mischief.

Liezi studied under the master Laoshangshi and befriended Bogaozi. Having acquired their true teachings, he rode the wind home. Hearing of this, Yinsheng followed Liezi for several months without returning home, repeatedly requesting instruction in the Dao yet being refused ten times. When Yinsheng resentfully asked to leave, Liezi didn't detain him. Months later, Yinsheng returned unable to resist. Liezi asked: "Why do you come and go so frequently?" Yinsheng replied: "Previously I sought with sincerity yet you wouldn't teach, so naturally I felt discontent. Now my anger has dissipated, hence I've returned." Liezi said: "At first I thought you profoundly perceptive, now I see how shallow you remain."

This scripture vividly depicts the process of a Daoist practitioner gradually attaining the state of self-oblivion through Liezi (an important Daoist figure) recounting his learning experience to Yin Sheng.

Liezi recalls nine stages of studying under his teacher: In the first three years, he dared not even contemplate right and wrong or personal gain; after five years, he could naturally discern right and wrong, earning his teacher's smile; after seven years, all distinctions between right and wrong vanished from his mind, and his teacher allowed him to sit at the same mat; after nine years, he completely transcended all dualities of right and wrong and personal interests, even forgetting who was teacher and who was friend. At this stage, the boundaries of his senses dissolved completely—his eyes could hear like ears, his ears could smell like a nose, and his body merged with nature until he could no longer distinguish whether he was floating or the wind was carrying him.

Liezi then criticizes Yin Sheng for complaining repeatedly despite being a beginner, pointing out that such an impatient mindset cannot even bear the Qi (vital energy) of heaven and earth, let alone attain the state of "walking on emptiness and riding the wind." When Liezi asks Guan Yinzi (a Daoist perfected being) why realized adepts can walk through water without drowning or tread on fire without burning, Guan Yinzi explains that this depends on preserving pure primordial Qi rather than cleverness or courage. He emphasizes that all things with form and appearance are merely "objects," while true adepts reach the formless state, wandering freely in the origin of all things, maintaining perfect harmony and merging with the endless rhythm of Dao.

Through these progressively deepening stages of cultivation, the text reveals the core principles of "self-forgetting" and "guarding Qi" in Daoist practice, ultimately pointing toward the supreme state of transcending form and uniting with the Dao.

This passage illustrates the state of "complete spiritual concentration" (quanshen) through two parables. The first uses the example of a drunkard who falls from a carriage yet escapes serious injury—because his spirit is wholly immersed in intoxication, remaining oblivious to external dangers, he paradoxically preserves himself. This demonstrates that if even drunkenness can produce such protective effects, how much more so would complete union with the natural Dao (de quan yu tian, "attaining wholeness through heaven") achieve.

The second story recounts Liezi's archery skill. When shooting on level ground, he displayed remarkable technique, maintaining perfect balance with a cup of water placed on his elbow. But Bohun Wuren (a Daoist sage) pointed out this was merely "deliberate archery." When they climbed a cliff face and Liezi became paralyzed with fear, sweating profusely, Bohun Wuren explained that a true perfected person (zhiren) maintains unshaken spirit even when facing bottomless chasms.

The passage concludes by mentioning a man named Zihua from the Fan clan who excelled at cultivating personal reputation. Though holding no official position, he enjoyed high status in the state of Jin. This serves as a contrast to the preceding teachings, subtly implying the distinction between worldly fame and genuine Daoist cultivation.

In the state of Jin, there lived a nobleman named Zihua who wielded immense power. Whoever caught the favor of his right eye would receive aristocratic rank in Jin, and whoever earned his verbal praise would obtain official emoluments. Those who visited his residence received treatment comparable to an audience with the ruler himself. Zihua took pleasure in pitting his retainers against each other—the clever bullying the dull, the strong oppressing the weak—caring not if they bloodied each other in the process. This cruel amusement became a prevailing custom throughout Jin.

Two men named Hesheng and Zibo, high-ranking retainers of the Fan clan, were once traveling through the countryside and took lodging at the home of an old farmer named Shangqiu Kai. Late at night, they discussed Zihua's formidable influence—how he could make the living die and the dead live, the rich become poor and the poor become rich. Shangqiu Kai, who was suffering from hunger and cold, overheard their conversation by the northern window. Borrowing some grain, he set out with a winnowing basket on his back to seek Zihua's patronage.

Zihua's followers were all scions of noble families, dressed in white robes and riding ornate carriages, swaggering as they walked. When they saw the elderly Shangqiu Kai—weak, sallow-faced, and shabbily dressed—they treated him with contempt. They devised every manner of prank to torment him, pushing, striking, and humiliating him without restraint. Yet Shangqiu Kai never grew angry, while his tormentors exhausted themselves in the effort.

Later, the group ascended a high platform where someone jested, "Whoever dares to jump from here will be rewarded with a hundred pieces of gold." Everyone clamored in agreement. Shangqiu Kai, taking the offer at face value, leaped first—descending as lightly as a bird, completely unharmed. The Fan retainers dismissed it as coincidence, showing no surprise. Then someone pointed to a deep bend in the river, saying, "There are precious pearls there—dive down and you can retrieve them." Shangqiu Kai plunged in again and indeed surfaced with pearls. Only then did the crowd begin to suspect something unusual, and Zihua provided him with fine clothes and sumptuous meals. Soon after, when the Fan family's storehouse caught fire, Zihua declared...

There was a man named Shang Qiu Kai who could enter fire to retrieve silk brocades, and people rewarded him based on the quantity he retrieved, much like merchants conducting trade. When he moved in and out of the flames, his expression remained unchanged, and though he walked back and forth, he was never stained by smoke or scorched by the fire. The retainers of the Fan family (a noble clan of the Jin state during the Spring and Autumn period) believed him to be a man of Dao (the Way), so they collectively apologized to him, saying: "We did not realize you were a man of Dao and earlier mocked you; we did not know you were a divine being and even insulted you. Were you feigning ignorance to deceive us? Were you pretending not to hear? Were you pretending not to see? May we ask what Dao you cultivate?"

Shang Qiu Kai replied: "I possess no special arts of Dao. Though I am aware in my heart, I do not know why this happens. However, there is one thing I can tell you: previously, two guests stayed at my home, and I heard them praise the Fan family’s power, saying it could make the living die and the dead revive, make the rich poor and the poor rich. I believed these words completely, so I traveled thousands of miles to come here. Upon arriving, I found that everything you said was true. I was only afraid that my sincerity might be insufficient or my actions inadequate—I never even considered the safety of my body or the balance of gain and loss. With my mind wholly focused, external things could not affect me. That was all there was to it. Now I realize you were merely toying with me. My heart is filled with doubt and worry, and though I feign composure outwardly, when I recall how I wasn’t burned to death before, it seems mere luck—the thought still terrifies me. How would I dare approach fire or water again?"

From then on, whenever Fan’s disciples encountered beggars or horse doctors on the road, they no longer dared to insult them but would invariably dismount and bow. When Confucius’s disciple Zai Wo heard of this, he reported it to Confucius. Confucius said: "Don’t you understand? A person of utmost sincerity and faith can move all things, shake heaven and earth, summon spirits and ghosts, and traverse the world without obstruction—how could it be limited to merely entering fire and water? Shang Qiu Kai believed even in falsehoods without resistance—how much more should this apply when both sides are sincere? Young men, remember this principle well."

During the reign of King Xuan of Zhou, there was a laborer named Liang Yang under the Mu Zheng (an official in charge of livestock)...

This scripture conveys the profound principle of "following nature's course" through two parables. The first recounts how Liang Yang mastered the art of taming wild beasts—his tigers, wolves, and eagles coexisted peacefully because he practiced the method of "neither opposing nor indulging." When feeding them, he avoided live prey (to prevent triggering their hunting instincts) and whole carcasses (to avoid stimulating their tearing impulses), instead precisely attuning to their hunger cycles to dissolve their aggression. Liang Yang revealed the key lay in his own mindset—neither deliberately pleasing nor willfully contradicting, so the animals regarded him as kin and naturally stayed.

The second story features a dialogue between Yan Hui and Confucius. Observing a ferryman's supernatural boat-handling skills, Yan Hui learned the ferryman's secret: skilled swimmers quickly master steering, while expert divers can operate boats without prior experience. Confucius explained this mirrors how we often study surface texts without grasping their essence—true mastery comes from forgetting external techniques, like the diver who merges completely with water to intuitively understand its nature. Both parables demonstrate that the highest forms of interaction or skill arise from thorough attunement to the inherent nature of things.

This scripture elucidates the Daoist core concept of "following nature's course" through several vivid parables.

The first story illustrates the principle of swimming: skilled swimmers can teach others because they understand water's nature; true masters even forget water's existence, like those who expertly steer boats having never seen one before—they perceive deep abysses as flat ground and capsizing vessels as mere carriage reversals. Such individuals remain undisturbed by external phenomena. The gambling analogy follows: betting with tiles brings ease, silver hooks induce tension, while gold stakes cause mental confusion—the skill remains identical, yet overvaluing external objects burdens the heart-mind.

The second narrative recounts Confucius' encounter at Lüliang Falls. The thirty-ren (approx. 54m) cascade with thirty-li rapids where even turtles couldn't swim, yet a man moved effortlessly through the torrent. Mistaking him for suicidal, Confucius sent disciples to rescue him, only to witness the swimmer emerge hundreds of paces downstream, singing while walking with hair unbound. When asked his secret, the man replied: "I possess no technique. Born on hills, I adapted to hills; raised by water, I harmonized with currents—this became my unthinking nature, what you call following Heaven's mandate. I dive with whirlpools and surface with upwellings, completely yielding to water's patterns without personal will."

The third fragment describes Confucius observing a hunchbacked elder catching cicadas with bamboo poles in Chu's forests. Though incomplete, this episode similarly demonstrates achieving the "self-and-object forgotten" state through prolonged concentrated practice.

These parables collectively reveal: authentic Dao (the Way) resides not in forced pursuit, but in perfect attunement to things' inherent nature, arriving at that spontaneous state of "knowing-not-how-yet-thus-it-is." Whether swimming, gambling, or cicada-catching, when humans shed attachments to externals and fully merge with their environment, they attain transcendent mastery.

This passage comes from the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of the Ultimate Virtue of Profound Emptiness), which conveys the Daoist philosophy that "the ultimate speech is beyond words, the ultimate action is non-action (Wuwei)" through several parables.

The first story tells of Confucius meeting an old man who was exceptionally skilled at catching cicadas. The old man explained that during his practice, his concentration reached its peak: he stood as steady as a tree stump, his arms as motionless as withered branches, and his eyes saw only the cicada’s wings—nothing in the world could distract him. Confucius marveled, "When the mind is wholly focused, it attains spiritual communion."

The second story describes a man by the sea who loved seagulls and played with hundreds of them daily. His father asked him to catch one for amusement, but the next day, the gulls only circled in the air and refused to land. This illustrates how deliberate pursuit disrupts natural harmony.

The third story recounts how Lord Xiang of Zhao encountered a strange man while hunting, one who could walk through stone walls and tread unharmed through fire. When questioned, the man replied, "What are stones? What is fire?" showing he paid no heed to such distinctions. Zixia explained that this was "the state of oneness with all things," but ordinary people, with impure minds, could hardly attain it.

These stories all demonstrate that true wisdom transcends words, and the highest form of action is non-action. When one discards cunning thoughts and merges completely with nature, one reaches a carefree state where metal and stone yield, and fire and water cannot harm. Deliberate striving, however, disrupts this natural harmony.

In the state of Zheng, there was a shaman named Ji Xian who could foresee people's life and death, fortune and misfortune, predicting events down to the exact year, month, and day with uncanny accuracy. The people of Zheng would flee in fear at the sight of him. Only Liezi (Lie Yukou, a prominent Daoist figure) admired him greatly and returned to tell his teacher, Master Huqiu: "I used to think your mastery of the Dao was the most profound, but now I realize there are even greater adepts."

Master Huqiu replied: "What I've taught you so far are only superficial techniques, not the true essence. How can you presume to have attained the Dao? It's like having a hen without a rooster—how could eggs be hatched? With such shallow skills, you try to compete with worldly men, so of course they can see through you. Bring him to meet me tomorrow."

The next day, Liezi brought Ji Xian to see Master Huqiu. Upon leaving, the shaman told Liezi: "Your teacher is dying—he won't last ten more days. I saw his complexion like damp ashes, utterly lifeless." Liezi returned in tears to report this. Master Huqiu said: "I showed him the 'Earthly Pattern' state (referring to a meditative state where vital energies are withdrawn), with Qi as still as the earth. He probably only perceived my sealed vitality."

On the third day during their meeting, Ji Xian emerged saying: "Fortunately, your teacher met me—he can be saved! I see his vitality beginning to return." Master Huqiu explained: "This time I manifested the 'Heaven-Earth' state (a cultivation stage where cosmic energies interact), where conceptual distinctions don't enter the mind and vitality rises from the feet. He glimpsed the signs of my recovering Qi."

At their fourth encounter, Ji Xian said: "Your teacher's spirit is unsettled today—I can't read him. Wait until he's calm." Master Huqiu remarked: "Now I revealed the 'Supreme Equilibrium' state (the pinnacle of Yin-Yang balance), where Qi harmonizes without trace. Like a fathomless abyss with nine depths (using water's changing states to metaphorize cultivation stages), he couldn't possibly discern my true condition."

On the final day, Ji Xian took one look at Master Huqiu and fled. The master said: "This time I manifested the 'Not-Yet-Emerged-from-My-Source' state (the supreme unity with the Dao). He found it completely inscrutable—like trying to grasp reeds in a gale or catch floating pestles in a torrent—so he had to run away."

Liezi, a prominent Daoist figure, believed he had grasped the true essence of the Dao (the Way), but Master Huzi (an enlightened sage) revealed to him a far profounder realm. Liezi pursued but couldn't catch up, returning to report that the master had vanished without trace. Master Huzi explained that what he'd demonstrated was the state of "never departing from my primordial source" (the original condition of the Dao). He had merely followed natural transformations like reeds bending with the wind or waves flowing with the current, thus effortlessly eluding capture. Only then did Liezi realize he hadn't even begun his spiritual journey. He returned home and practiced behind closed doors for three years—personally tending the hearth to cook for his wife, treating pigs and people with equal regard, shedding all artifice to return to primal simplicity. His form became like withered wood in solitary stillness, ultimately attaining the state where self and objects are both forgotten.

Later, when Liezi journeyed to Qi, he turned back midway and encountered Bohun Maoren (another enlightened master). Liezi confessed that at ten congee shops along the way, five had voluntarily offered him food—a circumstance that unsettled him. Bohun pointed out: "When inner attachments remain unextinguished, outward radiance manifests. This overawes people's hearts, making them slight elders who deserve respect, thereby inviting misfortune. These congee sellers operate on meager margins with trivial profits, yet they treated you thus—how much more would rulers of states? They'd surely burden you with state affairs and demand measurable achievements. Hence your fear."

Bohun Maoren prophesied: "Soon many will come to depend on you." Indeed, before long, visitors' shoes piled up outside Liezi's gate. When Bohun arrived leaning on his staff, he stood silently before departing. Liezi ran barefoot to the gate seeking guidance. Bohun said: "Didn't I foretell people would cling to you? This stems not from your capability, but your failure to prevent their dependence. Why deliberately display extraordinariness? To agitate your innate nature is meaningless. Those who associate with you won't warn you—their sweet words are poison, yet neither side perceives it."

The subsequent passage mentions Yang Zhu's southward journey and Laozi's westward travels, describing their encounter at Liang where Laozi gazed skyward mid-journey with a sigh. This episode primarily teaches that cultivators should preserve inner authenticity while avoiding outward brilliance that attracts worldly entanglements, emphasizing the essential practice of "harmonizing radiance and blending with the dust."

Yang Zhu (a Daoist scholar) went to visit Laozi (the founder of Daoism). Laozi looked up at the sky and sighed, saying: "At first I thought you could be taught, but now I see it's impossible." Yang Zhu remained silent.

Returning to his lodgings, Yang Zhu respectfully washed and groomed himself, then removed his shoes and approached Laozi on his knees, saying: "Earlier, Master sighed and said I was unteachable. I wished to ask why but dared not disturb you. Now I beg you to point out my faults." Laozi replied: "You carry yourself with such arrogance—who would want to associate with you? Those who truly possess De (Virtue) appear humble, as if lacking something." Hearing this, Yang Zhu's expression changed dramatically, and he bowed deeply, saying: "I shall remember your teaching."

Afterward, Yang Zhu completely transformed his demeanor. Where innkeepers had once greeted him with deference, now everyone interacted with him as an equal. Once while staying at an inn in the state of Song, Yang Zhu noticed the innkeeper had two concubines—one beautiful, the other plain—yet the innkeeper respected the plain one more. When Yang Zhu asked why, the innkeeper explained: "The beautiful one thinks herself lovely, but I don’t see it; the plain one considers herself unattractive, yet I find her otherwise." From this, Yang Zhu realized: Truly virtuous people must discard any self-consciousness of their virtue—only then will they be cherished wherever they go.

The text illustrates two approaches to life: Weakness is the path of constant victory, while rigidity is the path of constant defeat. Ancient sages said: Those who always seek to surpass others face danger when meeting equals, whereas those who cultivate themselves avoid such peril. Applying the principle of weakness to self-cultivation leads to personal fulfillment; applying it to governance brings order to the world. What seems incapable of overcoming others is actually the highest form of victory; what appears as Wuwei (non-action) is in fact the most skillful action.

Master Zhou (a Daoist figure) said: To achieve strength, one must first be pliant; to become mighty, one must begin by accumulating from small and weak beginnings. When weakness accumulates to its extreme, it transforms into strength. Observing the degree of a person’s accumulation foretells their fortune or misfortune. Those who rely on brute force can only overpower inferiors—when facing equals, they falter. But those who cultivate inner power possess immeasurable potential.

Laozi concluded: Weapons that are too hard break easily; trees that are too rigid snap readily. Weakness is the way of survival, while rigidity leads to death.

This passage reveals a profound truth through comparing human and animal forms and mentalities: essence cannot be judged by appearance alone.

The text explains that true wisdom doesn't reside in childlike appearance but in childlike purity of mind. Sages value the innocent wisdom of children, while ordinary people merely favor those who look like children. Humans tend to bond with those sharing similar appearances while distancing themselves from differently featured beings. For instance, people with seven-foot stature, differentiated limbs, head hair, complete teeth, and upright posture are considered human, yet such individuals may harbor bestial natures. Conversely, winged beasts with horns and sharp claws that can fly or run might possess human-like consciousness.

Several examples illustrate this: ancient sage-kings like Fuxi, Nüwa, Shennong, and the Xia rulers had serpent bodies with human faces or ox heads with tiger noses—unconventional appearances yet bearing supreme virtue. Tyrants like Jie of Xia, Zhou of Shang, Duke Huan of Lu, and King Mu of Chu had ordinary human features but beastly hearts. This proves the futility of seeking supreme wisdom through fixed physical standards.

The Yellow Emperor commanding bears, leopards, wolves, and panthers at the Battle of Banquan, or Emperor Yao making beasts dance and phoenixes gather through music, demonstrate how sages could govern animals through power and harmony. Animal consciousness actually shares common ground with humans—they instinctively seek survival, mating, parental care, warmth, and social organization without learning human wisdom.

This passage teaches us: to discern the essence of any being, we must look beyond superficial traits to perceive inner nature. What distinguishes sages from ordinary people is precisely this ability to transcend physical limitations and truly comprehend the fundamental nature of all things.

This scripture recounts several parables that illustrate the changing relationship between humans and all creatures from ancient times to later eras, as well as the way sages educated living beings.

In high antiquity, people coexisted harmoniously with all things and could understand the language of animals. For instance, most inhabitants of the Jieshi Kingdom in the East comprehended the speech of domestic animals—a skill they acquired through special cognitive abilities. The divine sages of the primordial era fully understood the nature of all beings, interpreting the sounds of different creatures. They gathered them together for instruction, enabling peaceful coexistence with humanity. Thus, these sages first communicated with spirits, mountain demons (chimei), and supernatural beings before educating the common people of all regions, and finally domesticating birds, beasts, and insects. Recognizing that although these creatures differed in form, their fundamental consciousness was interconnected, the sages taught them without discrimination.

The text then recounts the story of a monkey trainer: In the state of Song, there was a man who raised monkeys and could understand their thoughts, while the monkeys likewise comprehended his intentions. When his family fortunes declined and he sought to reduce their food rations, fearing their disobedience, he deceived them, saying: "Three chestnuts in the morning and four in the evening—is that enough?" The monkeys grew furious. He then said: "What if it's four in the morning and three in the evening?" At this, the monkeys rejoiced. This demonstrates how clever tactics to manipulate the ignorant resemble the trainer's tricks to placate his monkeys. The sage's use of wisdom to educate the common people follows the same principle.

Finally, there is the story of Ji Shengzi training fighting cocks for King Xuan of Zhou: After ten days of training, the king asked if the rooster was ready to fight. The reply was negative—the bird still relied on bluster. Another ten days passed, and the trainer reported it remained reactive to external stimuli. After ten more days, he noted its gaze had grown too sharp and its energy too fierce. Only after forty days did he declare it ready—by then, the rooster remained unmoved even when hearing other crows. This parable illustrates how genuine cultivation requires shedding restless Qi (vital energy) to attain a state undisturbed by external phenomena.

This passage recounts a dialogue between Hui Ang and King Kang of Song. When Hui Ang went to see the King, the ruler was stamping his feet and coughing impatiently, declaring: "I only admire those who are brave and strong, not those who preach benevolence and righteousness. What could you possibly teach me?"

Hui Ang replied: "I possess a method of the Dao that renders even the most courageous unable to stab you, and the strongest incapable of striking you." This piqued the King's interest. But Hui Ang continued: "Yet this is still inadequate. I have a superior method that prevents people from even daring to attack you—not because they lack ability, but because the thought never arises in their minds."

He then explained the highest attainment: "My Dao method can make all people, men and women alike, joyfully desire to cherish and support you. This far surpasses mere physical might." The King admitted this was precisely what he sought.

Seizing the moment, Hui Ang counseled: "This is what Confucius and Mozi achieved. Though possessing no territory, they were revered like sovereigns; holding no official posts, they were beloved as leaders. Now as ruler of this state, if Your Majesty sincerely practices this way, benefiting all your subjects, your De (Virtue/Power) will surpass even that of Confucius and Mozi." The King fell silent, and Hui Ang withdrew quickly. Later, the King remarked to his attendants: "This visitor's eloquence has truly convinced me."

Through progressive reasoning, the dialogue reveals that true Dao lies not in martial defense but in winning hearts through virtuous influence. Hui Ang skillfully began with the King's preoccupation with physical power, ultimately guiding him to recognize the superior strength of benevolent virtue.

During the reign of King Mu of Zhou, a man of miraculous transformations arrived from the farthest reaches of the West. This metamorphic being could freely pass through fire and water, penetrate metal and stone, overturn mountains and rivers, move entire cities, fly through the air without falling, and pass through solid objects unobstructed—his transformations were boundless. Not only could he alter the forms of objects, but he could also transform human thoughts. King Mu revered him as a divine being, serving him as one would a sovereign, offering him the main palace hall for residence, sacrificing the three ritual animals (oxen, sheep, and pigs), and selecting female musicians to entertain him.

Yet the metamorphic man found King Mu's palace crude and uninhabitable, the imperial cuisine foul and inedible, and the concubines' bodily odors unbearable. Thus, the king commissioned a new palace for him, employing every architectural craft available, painting it in red and white pigments, and exhausting the state treasury to construct the Mid-Heaven Tower—a structure a thousand ren (an ancient unit of measurement, approximately eight feet) high—atop Mount Zhongnan.

King Mu selected beautiful maidens from Zheng and Wei, adorning them with fragrant ointments, painted eyebrows, hairpins and earrings, fine silk garments, and trailing skirts of Qi silk. They were powdered and adorned with jade rings, perfumed with angelica. Ancient melodies like "Bearing Clouds," "Six Gems," "Nine Shao," and "Morning Dew" were played to entertain him. Each month, jade robes were presented, and each day, exquisite delicacies were offered—yet the metamorphic man remained unsatisfied. After reluctantly staying for a short while, he invited King Mu to journey with him.

Holding the sleeve of the metamorphic man, King Mu ascended into the sky, arriving at the man's palace. Built of gold and silver, adorned with pearls and jade, it floated above the clouds and rain, with no visible foundation below—from afar, it resembled a mass of gathered clouds. Everything seen, heard, tasted, or smelled there belonged not to the mortal world. King Mu became convinced that this was truly the realm of Qingxu (the Daoist term for the pure and empty abode of immortals).

This scripture recounts the marvelous celestial journey of King Mu of Zhou (referred to simply as "the King" in Daoist classics) with a shape-shifting immortal (huaren).

The Purple Tenuity Palace (Ziwei Gong, believed in Daoism to be the celestial abode of the Heavenly Emperor) shone with golden splendor, yet when King Mu gazed downward, those majestic structures appeared to him like mere clods of earth and thatched piles. As the immortal guided the King deeper into their spiritual voyage, they arrived at a wondrous realm where looking up revealed neither sun nor moon, and glancing down showed no rivers or seas. The dazzling light overwhelmed the King's vision, while strange sounds deafened his ears. His internal organs trembled, and his spirit (shen) grew faint and disoriented. Unable to endure, the King begged to return, whereupon the immortal gave him a gentle push—and he awoke with the sensation of falling from great heights.

Upon awakening, the King found himself seated exactly where he had been, with his attendants still present. The wine and dishes before him hadn't even cooled. His attendants informed him that he had merely been sitting in quiet meditation. This experience left the King in a state of melancholy for three months. Later, the immortal explained: "We were traveling with our spirits alone—our physical bodies never moved. Those celestial sights are no different from your own palaces and gardens." Only then did King Mu realize that in such swiftly shifting realms, distinctions between speed and slowness, reality and illusion, become impossible to grasp.

From that moment, the King lost interest in worldly governance and became obsessed with distant travels. He rode in a chariot drawn by eight divine horses (each meticulously named and positioned), driven by legendary charioteers like Zaofu, accompanied by his retinue as they raced thousands of miles to the land of the Jusou people. The Jusou offered white crane's blood for the King to drink and bathed his feet in mare's and cow's milk, feasting the entire procession. After the banquet, they continued their journey, spending the night encamped outdoors.

Through King Mu's spiritual journey, this passage illustrates the Daoist practice of "spirit wandering through the great void" (shenyou taixu). At the same time, it employs hyperbolic descriptions of the King's subsequent earthly travels, creating a striking contrast between the realms of illusion and reality.

At the southern foothills of Mount Kunlun, on the northern banks of the Red River, King Mu of Zhou (the fifth ruler of the Western Zhou Dynasty) once ascended to the mountain's summit. Gazing upon the ruins of the Yellow Emperor's palace, he performed sacrificial rites to preserve their legacy. Later, he visited the Queen Mother of the West (the highest-ranking female immortal in Daoism) and held a banquet by the Jade Pool. The Queen Mother sang ballads for King Mu, who responded in kind, their voices tinged with melancholy. As King Mu observed the sunset, he marveled at traversing thousands of miles in a single day and sighed: "Alas! My virtue (De) is incomplete, yet I indulge in pleasures. Will future generations condemn my failings?" King Mu nearly attained the realm of divine beings, experiencing all worldly joys and living a century before passing—so much so that people believed he had ascended to immortality as a transcendent.

Lao Chengzi studied the art of transformation under Master Yin Wen for three years without receiving any instruction. When Lao Chengzi inquired about his shortcomings and requested to leave, Master Yin Wen led him into an inner chamber, dismissed the attendants, and said: "When Laozi journeyed westward, he once told me: 'The vital energy (Qi) of all living things and the forms of all phenomena are illusory. At the dawn of creation, the interplay of yin and yang gives rise to what we call life, while their separation is called death. To penetrate the principles of things and master the ability to shift forms—this is true transformation. The profound mysteries of the Creator are unfathomable, while the techniques of shape-shifting are superficial, appearing and vanishing with time. Only by understanding that transformation and life-death share the same essence can one learn this art. In truth, both you and I are illusions—why strain to learn it?'" Returning home, Lao Chengzi contemplated these words deeply. After three months, he could freely manipulate existence and annihilation, overturn the seasons—summoning thunder in winter, creating ice in summer, making flying creatures run and walking creatures soar. Yet he never displayed these abilities in his lifetime, leaving the world none the wiser.

Liezi remarked: "Those truly versed in the Dao of transformation employ methods so subtle and ordinary that their results appear no different from ordinary people. The virtue (De) of the Five Emperors of antiquity and the achievements of the Three Kings may not have stemmed solely from wisdom or courage—perhaps they were attained through such natural transformations. Who can fully comprehend this? In waking life, there are eight signs; in dreams, six manifestations. The so-called eight signs are: first, the recurrence of past events; second, deliberate action; third, gain; fourth, loss..." (The remaining signs are not fully preserved in the original text.)

This passage discusses eight emotional states and six types of dream phenomena in humans. The eight emotions include sorrow, joy, life, death, and others—all being the body's responses to external stimuli. The six dream types are: ordinary dreams (zhengmeng), nightmares (emeng), longing-induced dreams (simeng), half-awake dreams (wumeng), joyful dreams (ximeng), and fearful dreams (jumeng), all resulting from mental activities.

Without understanding the causes behind these emotions and dream transformations, one becomes confused when encountering situations; comprehending their principles allows one to grasp the reasons behind events. Understanding these reasons eliminates fear. The interplay of Yin-Yang within the human body resonates with heaven and earth, corresponding to all things in creation. Thus when Yin Qi becomes excessive, one dreams of wading through water and feels terror; when Yang Qi predominates, one dreams of raging fires; when both Yin and Yang are overly active, one dreams of life-and-death struggles. Overeating leads to dreams of giving, while starvation brings dreams of taking.

Those with floating, insubstantial bodies tend to dream of soaring, while those with heavy constitutions frequently dream of drowning. Sleeping with a belt tied may induce snake dreams; dreaming of flight occurs when birds seem to carry one's hair in their beaks. Excessive Yin generates fire dreams; illness produces dreams of eating and drinking. The inebriated dream of song and dance, while the sorrowful dream of weeping.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) said: When spirit makes contact, dreams form; when the body makes contact, reality manifests. Therefore, what occupies one's daytime thoughts easily becomes nighttime dreams—this is the mutual interaction of spirit and form. Those with concentrated spirit naturally experience fewer distracting thoughts and dreams. The truly awakened don't talk in their sleep; those who truly understand dreams don't cling to the transformations of phenomena.

The ancient perfected ones (zhenren) who attained the Dao could forget themselves while awake and remain dreamless while asleep. In the extreme western lands lies the ancient Mang Kingdom where Yin and Yang energies never intersect—thus no alternation of cold and heat; where sunlight and moonlight never reach—thus no division between day and night.

This scripture describes two distinctly different nations and their people's ways of life, along with a fable about dreams and reality.

First, it speaks of a peculiar country where the people neither eat nor wear clothes, waking only once every fifty days. They believe the experiences in their dreams are real, while what they see when awake is illusory. This land is vast, stretching across the Yellow River from north to south and Mount Tai from east to west, spanning ten thousand li. Here, Yin and Yang are clearly divided, giving rise to the alternation of cold and heat; day and night are distinct, creating the cycle of light and darkness. The people vary in wisdom and foolishness, all things flourish, skills and arts abound, and there exists a hierarchy of rulers and subjects along with rituals and laws. Yet they, too, consider their waking actions real and their dreams illusory.

Far to the northeast lies a land called Fuluo, where the climate is scorching, illuminated only by the residual light of the sun and moon. The soil yields no good crops, so the people survive on wild roots and fruits, never having learned to use fire. Their customs are fierce—the strong prey on the weak, valuing martial prowess over righteousness. The people here are always on the move, rarely resting, remaining awake year-round without sleep.

Next comes the story of a wealthy man named Yin from the Zhou dynasty: Obsessed with expanding his fortune, he drove his old servant to toil from dawn till dusk without respite. During the day, the servant groaned in exhaustion, but at night he would collapse into deep slumber, his spirit wandering as he dreamed nightly of being a king—ruling the state, indulging in pleasures, experiencing boundless joy. Upon waking, he returned to his labor. When others tried to console him, he replied, "A human life lasts a hundred years, divided equally between day and night. Though I suffer as a servant by day, by night I reign as a king in utmost delight—what have I to complain about?" Meanwhile, Master Yin spent his days consumed by worldly affairs, managing his estate until his body and mind were utterly spent. At night, he would sink into a heavy sleep, only to dream of being a servant—enduring all manner of drudgery, often beaten and cursed.

Through the contrast between these two imaginary nations and the dreams of master and servant, this story explores the relationship between reality and illusion, as well as how people in different circumstances perceive suffering and joy differently.

(Selected passage from the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing translated into vernacular Chinese)

There was a man named Yin who would constantly moan and talk in his sleep, only stopping at dawn. Troubled by this, he visited a friend who told him: "Your status brings you honor, your wealth exceeds what you could ever spend—you've surpassed ordinary people in every way. Dreaming of hard labor at night is simply nature's way of balancing your daytime indulgences. Did you expect to enjoy blessings both day and night?" Upon hearing this, Yin reduced his servants' workloads and lessened his own worries, and the condition indeed improved.

A woodcutter from Zheng State once encountered a startled deer that crashed into a tree and died while he was chopping wood in the wilderness. Fearing discovery, he hastily hid the deer in a dry ditch, covering it with banana leaves, overjoyed at his luck. But soon he forgot the hiding spot and assumed it had all been a dream. As he muttered about it on his way home, a passerby overheard him, found the deer exactly as described, and took it home. The man told his wife: "Just now a woodcutter dreamed of getting a deer but couldn't find it—now it's mine! He's the real dreamer." His wife retorted: "Are you sure you didn't dream of a woodcutter getting a deer? What woodcutter? Since we actually have the deer, maybe you're the one dreaming!" The husband replied: "The deer's in my hands—who cares who's dreaming!"

The woodcutter, still preoccupied with his loss, later dreamed that night of both the hiding place and the passerby taking the deer. At dawn, he followed the dream's clues and indeed found the man. Their dispute escalated to a magistrate (Shishi), who ruled: "Initially the woodcutter truly got the deer but called it a dream; the passerby truly dreamed of getting it but called it reality. Now the passerby indeed holds the woodcutter's deer, yet you each insist on your version. Since the deer's ownership is disputed, split it equally." When the king of Zheng heard this, he laughed: "Was that magistrate dreaming too when he divided the deer?" Consulting his prime minister, he was told: "I can't distinguish dream from reality either. To discern waking from dreaming would require the rebirth of Huangdi or Confucius. Let's just follow the magistrate's ruling for now."

Yangli Huazi of Song State developed amnesia in middle age... (subsequent text not provided)

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of the Ultimate Virtue of Profound Emptiness) presents a parable about "amnesia":

In the state of Lu, there was a man named Hua Zi who suffered from severe forgetfulness. He would forget by evening what he had taken in the morning, lose track of his destination while walking, and sit indoors forgetting what he intended to do—unable even to distinguish the sequence of events. His entire household was deeply distressed. Divinations by court historians proved useless, prayers by shamans ineffective, and medical treatments unsuccessful.

Later, a Confucian scholar claimed he could cure the condition. Hua Zi's wife offered half their family fortune for the remedy. The scholar said: "This illness cannot be diagnosed through divination, resolved through prayer, or treated with medicine. I shall attempt to transform his mind and adjust his thinking." Thus began the treatment: exposing Hua Zi to cold made him seek clothing, starvation taught him to ask for food, and confinement in darkness drove him to seek light.

After seven days of treatment, Hua Zi's years of amnesia suddenly vanished. Yet upon regaining his memory, he flew into a rage—berating his wife, punishing his children, and arming himself to pursue the scholar for execution. When apprehended by men of Song and questioned, Hua Zi explained: "Formerly in my oblivion, I knew not whether heaven and earth even existed. Now suddenly I recall decades of gains and losses, joys and sorrows, loves and hatreds—this chaotic flood of thoughts terrifies me. That brief carefree void—might I ever regain it?"

When Zigong heard of this, he found it perplexing and reported it to Confucius. The sage replied: "This lies beyond your understanding," instructing Yan Hui to record the incident. The narrative concludes by mentioning a similar case involving a child of the Feng family in Qin.

Through this exaggerated tale of amnesia, the text explores the dialectic between "forgetting" and "remembering"—sometimes oblivion brings liberation, while memory may inflict suffering. It reflects the Daoist philosophy of "rejecting sageliness and discarding knowledge" (juesheng qizhi), suggesting that excessive knowledge and memory become burdens rather than blessings.

There was a young man who suffered from a peculiar illness—everything appeared inverted to him. He mistook singing for weeping, perceived white as black, registered fragrance as stench, tasted sweetness as bitterness, and regarded wrongdoing as righteousness. In his distorted perception, the heavens and earth, the four directions, even fire and water, heat and cold—all were reversed.

His father, a man named Yang, heard that the state of Lu boasted many learned gentlemen and planned to seek their help. Passing through the state of Chen, he encountered Laozi (the founder of Daoism) and described his son’s condition. But Laozi replied, "How do you know your son is the deluded one? Nowadays, the people of the world cannot distinguish right from wrong or recognize benefit and harm. There are countless 'afflicted' like him—only no one realizes it. One person’s delusion cannot disrupt a household; one household’s delusion cannot disrupt a village; one village’s delusion cannot disrupt a state. But if the entire world were deluded, who could say who is deluded? If everyone were like your son, you would be the one who seems confused. Joy and anger, sorrow and pleasure, sounds and colors, flavors and judgments—who can truly define them? Even my words may well be deluded, let alone those gentlemen of Lu, who are themselves utterly confused. How could they unravel another’s bewilderment? You’d better save your provisions and hurry home."

Later, another story is told of a man from Yan who grew up in the state of Chu. In his old age, while returning home through the state of Jin, his companions deceived him, claiming that Jin’s city walls, ancestral shrines, houses, and graves were all from his homeland. The man believed them, shedding tears before the false shrines and weeping at the fabricated tombs. When his companions laughed and revealed the jest, he was deeply ashamed. Yet when he finally returned to Yan and beheld his true ancestral land, his grief was far less intense than before.

These two tales illustrate how what the world calls "clarity" may in fact be delusion, while what seems like "confusion" might align more closely with truth. When the conventional understanding shared by all is overturned, our so-called "normal" suddenly appears absurd. Like the man from Yan, whose emotional response to deception was stronger than his reaction to reality, we often dwell in illusions of our own making.

During Confucius' leisure at home, Zigong came to attend to him and noticed his master's worried expression but dared not inquire. After leaving, he informed Yan Hui, who then played the zither and sang. Hearing this, Confucius indeed summoned Yan Hui.

Yan Hui entered and asked, "Master, why do you sit alone in sorrow?" Confucius countered, "And why do you sit alone in joy?" Yan Hui cited his teacher's past teaching: "I once heard you say, 'Those who delight in Heaven and know the Mandate (顺应天道、知晓天命) do not grieve.' That is why I am joyful."

Confucius' expression grew solemn. After a moment of silence, he said, "Those were indeed my words in the past, but now we must take a new understanding as correct. You only know that delighting in Heaven and knowing the Mandate brings no sorrow, yet fail to realize that this very state contains a far greater worry."

Confucius explained further: "Now I shall tell you the truth. Cultivating oneself, remaining content whether in hardship or prosperity, understanding that life, death, and fate are beyond one's control, and keeping the inner self undisturbed by external changes—this is what you call 'delighting in Heaven and knowing the Mandate brings no sorrow.' But when I compiled the Book of Songs and the Book of Documents, and established the rites and music, it was to govern the world and set an example for later generations—not merely for self-cultivation or ruling Lu alone. Now, the ruler and ministers of Lu have lost order, benevolence and righteousness have decayed, and human bonds have weakened. My teachings cannot even be implemented in one state, in one era—how much less for the world and future generations?"

"Now I understand that the Book of Songs, the Book of Documents, and the rites and music cannot resolve the problems of order and chaos, yet I have not found the means to reform—this is the true worry of one who delights in Heaven and knows the Mandate. However, I have realized this: true joy and wisdom are not the 'delight and knowledge' spoken of by the ancients. Not deliberately pursuing joy is true joy; not clinging to knowledge is true wisdom. Only then can one be joyful in all things, know all things, grieve over all things, and act in all things. Why must we discard the Book of Songs, the Book of Documents, or the rites and music? The key lies in renewing their spirit."

(Note: This dialogue reveals the evolution of Confucius' thought—from his early emphasis on the open-mindedness of "delighting in Heaven and knowing the Mandate" to his later realization that true wisdom lies in transcending dualities, embracing the Dao (the Way) while taking responsibility for reforming society.)

Yan Hui (disciple of Confucius) bowed northward and said: "I too have comprehended this principle." After leaving, he told Zigong (another disciple of Confucius), who upon hearing this became utterly disoriented. Returning home, Zigong pondered for seven days and nights without sleep or food, becoming emaciated to the point of skin clinging to bones. Only after Yan Hui went to enlighten him again did Zigong return to Confucius's school, where he spent his days ceaselessly playing the zither and studying texts.

When a high official from the state of Chen visited Lu, he privately met with Shusun Shi (a Lu nobleman). Shusun remarked: "In our state we have a sage—is it not Confucius?" The Chen official asked: "How do you know he is a sage?" Shusun replied: "I once heard Yan Hui say: 'Confucius can relinquish subjective consciousness to accord with the natural form.'"

The Chen official said: "Our state also has a sage—did you not know?" When asked "Who is this sage?", he answered: "Lao Dan (Laozi) had a disciple named Kangcangzi who received the true transmission. He can see with his ears and hear with his eyes." When Duke Lu heard of this, he was astonished and sent a high minister with rich gifts to invite him. Kangcangzi accepted and came to Lu, where the Duke humbly sought instruction. Kangcangzi said: "The rumors are mistaken. I can see and hear without using eyes and ears, but this doesn't mean exchanging their functions." The Duke exclaimed: "This is even more marvelous! What principle governs this? I sincerely wish to understand."

Kangcangzi explained: "My body unites with the mind, the mind unites with Qi (vital energy), Qi unites with Shen (spirit), and Shen unites with emptiness. Even the subtlest existence or faintest sound—whether beyond the eight directions or right before me—if it touches me, I will perceive it. Yet this isn't through the senses of the seven orifices and four limbs, nor the cognition of the five viscera and six bowels, but spontaneous awareness." The Duke was delighted and later told Confucius, who smiled without responding.

When the Grand Steward of Song met Confucius, he asked: "Are you a sage?" Confucius replied: "How dare I claim to be a sage? I'm merely someone broadly learned." The Steward sighed: "Were the Three Kings (Yu of Xia, Tang of Shang, and Wen of Zhou) sages?" Confucius said: "The Three Kings excelled in employing the wise and courageous—whether they were sages, I don't know." Asked "Were the Five Emperors (Huangdi etc.) sages?", he replied: "They excelled in practicing benevolence and righteousness—whether they were sages, I don't know." Pressed further about the Three Sovereigns (Fuxi etc.), Confucius answered: "They followed celestial timing—whether they were sages, I still don't know." The astonished Steward asked: "Then who is truly a sage?" Confucius, altering his expression, said: "In the west there is a Zhenren (True Person, referring to Laozi) who governs without deliberate action yet the world isn't chaotic, persuades without speaking yet is naturally trusted, administers without policies yet all is orderly—this is the true sage."

A minister of the Shang Dynasty asked Confucius: "Were the rulers of the Three Dynasties (Xia, Shang, Zhou) sages?" Confucius replied: "The Three Kings excelled in employing wisdom and martial prowess, but whether they attained sagehood, I dare not presume to judge." The minister pressed further: "Then were the Five Emperors (Yellow Emperor, Zhuanxu, Emperor Ku, Yao, and Shun) sages?" Confucius said: "The Five Emperors excelled in promoting benevolence and righteousness, but whether they reached sagehood, I still cannot ascertain." Undeterred, the minister continued: "Surely the Three Sovereigns (Fuxi, Shennong, and the Yellow Emperor) must have been sages?" Confucius answered: "The Three Sovereigns excelled in adapting to the times, but whether they achieved the realm of sagehood—that I truly cannot say."

The Shang minister was astonished and asked: "Then who could possibly be called a sage?" Confucius grew solemn, remained silent for a moment, and then replied: "In the western regions, there is a cultivator who governs without deliberate action (Wuwei), yet order arises naturally; who teaches without words, yet the people trust him; who transforms without coercion, yet all things follow their course. His Virtue (De) is so vast and boundless that the people cannot even find words to praise him. I suspect he may be a true sage, yet I dare not confirm whether he has truly attained the sage's realm." Hearing this, the minister thought to himself: "Is Master Confucius deceiving me?"

Later, Confucius's disciple Zixia asked him: "What about Yan Hui?" Confucius said: "Yan Hui's benevolence surpasses mine." Zixia asked: "And Zigong?" Confucius replied: "Duanmu Ci (Zigong) is more eloquent than I." "What of Zilu?" Confucius answered: "Zhong You (Zilu) is braver than I." "And Zizhang?" Confucius said: "Zhuan Sunshi (Zizhang) carries himself with greater dignity than I." Zixia rose from his seat and pressed further: "If these four all surpass you in these ways, why do they still follow you as their teacher?"

Confucius said: "Sit, and I will tell you. Yan Hui is benevolent but lacks adaptability; Zigong is eloquent but cannot remain silent; Zilu is courageous but lacks caution; Zizhang is dignified but cannot be accommodating. Even if you combined the strengths of all four and offered them in exchange for my learning, I would not agree. This is why they devote themselves to studying under me without wavering."

Liezi (a Daoist master) studied under Master Huqiuzi Lin and befriended Bohun Maoren (a Daoist recluse). Later, he dwelled in the southern outskirts, where disciples gathered daily. Despite this, the depth of Liezi's Dao remained unfathomable. They engaged daily in profound discussions and debates, and their words spread far and wide. Liezi lived next to Master Nanguo (another Daoist practitioner), separated only by a single wall.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) and Master Nanguo (another recluse) had not visited each other for ten years. Once they met on the road yet passed by as if seeing nothing. Liezi’s disciples suspected some conflict between them. Later, a visitor from Chu asked Liezi: "Has something happened between you and Master Nanguo?"

Liezi explained: "Master Nanguo’s outward form is full, yet his inner being remains empty and still. His ears do not listen, his eyes do not see, his mouth does not speak, his mind does not cling, and his body does not strain. What purpose would there be in my visiting such a man? But since you’re curious, let us go see him together." He then took forty disciples to observe Master Nanguo, who indeed remained as unresponsive as a wooden puppet, making communication impossible. Liezi realized Nanguo’s body and spirit (Shen) seemed utterly detached, defying ordinary understanding.

Suddenly, Master Nanguo pointed at the disciples lagging behind and spoke with the intensity of a debater. The disciples were astonished and returned visibly perplexed. Liezi counseled them: "Those who embody the Dao (the Way) need no words; true wisdom transcends speech. To express through 'not-speaking' is still expression; to know through 'not-knowing' is still knowing. At this stage, nothing remains unexpressed or unknown—yet it appears as if nothing was said or known. Why should this surprise you?"

Liezi then recounted his own cultivation journey: For the first three years, he dared not harbor thoughts of right/wrong or speak of gain/loss—only then did his teacher Lao Shangshi glance at him sidelong. After five years, when he began contemplating right/wrong and discussing gain/loss, Lao Shangshi finally smiled. After seven years, when distinctions of right/wrong faded from his mind and calculations of gain/loss vanished from his speech, his teacher let him share the mat. After nine years, his thoughts and words flowed freely—he could no longer separate his own judgments from others’, his senses merged completely, his mind concentrated while his form dissolved, until he felt no bodily existence and merged wholly with the Dao.

Earlier in the text, it’s mentioned that young Liezi loved traveling. His teacher Huzi asked: "Yu Kou (Liezi’s given name), what do you seek in your travels?" Liezi replied: "The joy lies in witnessing novelty. Others travel to see external sights—I travel to observe internal transformations." This exchange reveals the Daoist practitioner’s path from outward exploration to inward cultivation.

This passage discusses two distinct types of "wandering" (referring to spiritual states of experience): external wandering and internal contemplation.

Huzi (a Daoist master) said to Liezi: Your way of wandering appears similar to others on the surface, but differs in essence. Ordinary people only perceive superficial changes in phenomena, becoming obsessed with the impermanent nature of external things while remaining unaware of their own impermanence. Those who pursue only external wandering constantly seek fulfillment from external objects, while those who understand internal contemplation find completeness within themselves. The highest form of wandering is precisely this inner completeness. After hearing this, Liezi never ventured out again, realizing he hadn't yet understood true "wandering."

Huzi further explained: The supreme wandering doesn't cling to destinations; the supreme observation doesn't fixate on objects. When one attains this state, all things exist within both "wandering" and "observation."

The subsequent narrative tells of Longshu visiting the famous physician Wen Zhi for treatment. Longshu described his peculiar symptoms: praise from villagers brought him no honor, nor did slander from the state bring shame; gains didn't delight him nor losses sadden him; he viewed life as death and wealth as poverty; saw others as pigs or dogs and himself as just another person; lived in his own home as if in an inn, and regarded his hometown as barbarian lands. These "symptoms" made him impervious to official rewards, unafraid of punishments, and unaffected by worldly changes.

Wen Zhi had Longshu stand with his back to light and observed him from behind, then said: I see your heart—empty, luminous, and tranquil, nearly attaining sagehood. Your heart originally had seven apertures; now six are fully open with only one remaining. You consider these sage-like realizations to be illness—this is beyond my medical art to cure.

The passage concludes by clarifying: What exists eternally without external causes is the Dao (the Way). Those who follow life's natural patterns, though their bodies perish, have spirits that never vanish—this is the constant principle. But to live while losing one's true nature—that is genuine misfortune.

This scripture primarily explores the philosophy of life-and-death and the proper employment of talents.

Regarding life and death, the text states: Death itself is a manifestation of the Dao (the Way). Those destined to die will naturally perish even before their time comes—this is the normal course. Surviving the brink of death is but fortune. Existing effortlessly without forced action is the Dao, while following the Dao to complete one's natural lifespan is the principle. Similarly, dying for a purpose is also the Dao, and dying for the Dao is likewise the principle. The text cites the example of Yang Zhu: When Ji Liang passed away, Yang Zhu sang at the door, yet when Sui Wu died, he wept over the corpse. This illustrates that life and death are natural phenomena, and whether people sing or weep are normal responses.

It then uses sensory changes as metaphors: Those about to go blind first discern minute details; those about to go deaf first hear the buzzing of mosquitoes; before losing taste, one distinguishes between the waters of Zi and Mian; before nasal congestion, one detects scorched smells; before the body stiffens, one rushes to run; and before the mind becomes confused, one distinguishes right from wrong. This demonstrates that when things reach their extremes, they reverse.

The latter part recounts a story from the state of Zheng: The Puze region had many virtuous scholars, while Dongli produced numerous talented individuals. When Bofengzi passed through Dongli, he encountered Deng Xi (a representative figure of the School of Names during the Spring and Autumn period), who mocked Bofengzi and his kind as being like pigs and dogs—fed by others yet unable to stand independently, only capable of living in groups and depending on others. Bofengzi’s attendant retorted: The states of Qi and Lu had many skilled artisans—some excelled in architecture, others in metalwork, some in music, others in writing and arithmetic, some in military strategy, and others in ancestral temple rituals. These talents each had their strengths, but the key lay in whether a wise ruler could employ them properly. Without a leader’s discernment, even the greatest talents remain useless.

Through its perspectives on life-and-death and talent, this passage elucidates the Daoist ideas of following nature, the reversal of extremes, and the governance principle of recognizing and utilizing people’s abilities wisely.

This passage illustrates the true essence of rulership and power. Gongyi Bo was renowned among feudal lords for his extraordinary strength, prompting King Xuan of Zhou to summon him with grand ceremony, only to find a seemingly timid man. The perplexed king asked, "What exactly is your strength capable of?" Gongyi Bo replied, "I can break the legs of spring locusts and crush the wings of autumn cicadas." The king's countenance darkened: "I can tear rhinoceros hide and halt nine oxen by their tails, yet still find my strength insufficient. How could such petty skills earn you fame?"

Gongyi Bo sighed deeply and explained: "Your question cuts to the heart of the matter. Let me speak truthfully—my teacher Shangqiu Zi possessed strength unmatched in the world, yet even his family remained unaware, for he never displayed it. Only upon his deathbed, after my lifelong service, did he reveal his wisdom: 'One must perceive what others overlook, observe what escapes notice, pursue what others neglect, and cultivate what remains undone. Thus when learning to see, begin by examining cartloads of firewood; when training hearing, start with bell strikes. When inner cultivation reaches perfection, external mastery follows effortlessly.'"

"My reputation among lords actually violates my teacher's instruction—I revealed my capability. Yet my fame springs not from brute force, but from understanding how to employ strength wisely. Is this not superior to mere displays of might?"

The narrative continues with the story of Prince Mou of Zhongshan from Wei, who neglected state affairs to associate with worthies, particularly admiring Gongsun Long (representative of the School of Names). When mocked for this preference, the prince retorted, "Why ridicule my appreciation of Gongsun Long?" Through these two parables, the text demonstrates that true power resides in inner cultivation rather than external display, and that wisdom outweighs physical strength.

This dialogue records the debate between Ziyu and Prince Mou regarding Gongsun Long's doctrines. Ziyu criticized the absurdity in the teachings of Gongsun Long (a prominent logician of the Warring States period's School of Names), citing several typical examples: for instance, Gongsun Long claimed a divine archer could make the tip of a following arrow hit the fletching of the preceding one, creating an unbroken chain of arrows; he also recounted how Gongsun's disciple Hong Chao, in a fit of anger, shot an arrow at his wife's eye, yet when the arrow reached her eyelid, she didn't even blink, and when it fell, it didn't stir any dust.

Prince Mou defended Gongsun Long, arguing these statements revealed subtle truths about phenomena: the trailing arrow catching the leading one demonstrated balanced force, while the arrow failing to make an eyelid flutter showed exhausted momentum. He further listed other propositions by Gongsun Long, such as "having intention doesn't mean having a mind," "a white horse is not a horse," and "an orphaned calf never had a mother," maintaining these were profound insights that shattered conventional thinking.

Ziyu retorted that such claims were like strange noises emitted from bodily orifices, and Prince Mou eventually withdrew in silence, proposing to continue the discussion another day. The passage abruptly concludes with an allusion to Emperor Yao's fifty-year reign, hinting that the validation of truth requires the test of time.

(Note: The "Wuhao bow" and "Qiwei arrows" refer to famous ancient weapons; the "School of Names" was a Warring States period philosophical school renowned for logical disputation, with Gongsun Long's propositions like "a white horse is not a horse" exploring the relationship between names and realities.)

This scripture recounts two stories that reveal the essence of the Daoist principle of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)."

The first story tells how Emperor Yao, wishing to understand the people's condition, traveled incognito among the commoners. After questioning officials and citizens alike without finding anyone who knew the way of governance, he heard children in the marketplace singing: "To nourish the people—must we not follow heaven's Dao? Unknowingly, unawares, we conform to the celestial law." Delighted, Emperor Yao traced the song's origin and discovered it was an ancient folk verse. He then returned to his palace and abdicated the throne to Shun, who accepted without hesitation.

The second story, through the words of Guan Yinxi (Laozi's disciple), expounds a core Daoist view: The true Dao operates like flowing water, a mirror's reflection, or an echo's response—utterly spontaneous. The Dao never contradicts the myriad things; only things may deviate from the Dao. Those who truly understand the Dao need not strain their senses, strength, or intellect to pursue it. The Dao seems ahead, then suddenly behind; when employed it fills heaven and earth, yet when released it leaves no trace. Neither can those who deliberately seek it distance themselves from the Dao, nor can the indifferent draw near to it.

Those who genuinely comprehend the Dao attain it through silent realization and alignment with their innate nature. To know yet remain unmoved, to possess ability yet refrain from forced action—this constitutes true knowledge and true capability. Like piled earth and drifting dust that appear inactive yet naturally accord with heavenly principle, the text emphasizes abandoning willful striving to follow the celestial Dao through effortless spontaneity.

King Tang of Shang (the founding ruler of the Shang dynasty) asked Xia Ge (an ancient sage): "Did material existence have a primordial beginning?" Xia Ge replied: "In the primordial state there was nothing. Where then did present existence come from? If we speak this way, might future generations regard our present reality as equally void?"

Tang pressed further: "Then does material existence lack sequence of before and after?" Xia Ge explained: "The beginnings and endings of things inherently lack demarcation. What appears as one thing's beginning may be another's ending, and what seems an ending may birth new beginnings - who can discern their patterns? As for conditions before material forms coalesced or events manifested, this too lies beyond my knowledge."

Tang continued questioning: "Do heaven and earth's eight directions have boundaries?" Xia Ge said: "I do not know." Under Tang's persistent inquiry, Xia Ge elaborated: "In emptiness there are no borders, yet concrete existence must have limits - but how could I know their particulars? However, beyond the Wuji (Limitless) there can be no greater boundlessness, and within the endless (infinite time) cannot reside greater infinity. Thus I comprehend the infinitude of space-time while remaining ignorant of where such boundaries might lie."

Tang asked further: "What exists beyond the Four Seas?" Xia Ge responded: "The same as within the Central Plains." Tang challenged: "How do you verify this?" Xia Ge said: "Journeying east to Yingzhou (modern Liaodong), I found its people no different from ours. Inquiring beyond Yingzhou, they reported similar conditions. Traveling west to Bin territory (modern Shaanxi), its inhabitants matched our own. Asking beyond Bin, the accounts were identical. Thus I understand the Four Seas, Four Wastes (distant borderlands), and Four Extremities share this fundamental sameness."

Finally Xia Ge concluded: "All things great and small intercontain without exhaustion. The space encompassing all phenomena resembles that containing heaven and earth. Since the vessel holding heaven and earth knows no bounds, how could I presume nothing greater exists beyond them? This too remains beyond my understanding."

Heaven and Earth are ultimately composed of material substance, and all matter inevitably has imperfections. In ancient times, the goddess Nüwa smelted five-colored stones to mend the ruptures in the celestial vault and severed the legs of a giant turtle to support the four pillars of the cosmos. Later, when the water deity Gonggong contended with Emperor Zhuanxu (one of the Five Emperors) for the throne, he angrily crashed into Mount Buzhou in his rage, breaking the celestial pillar and severing the earthly tethers. Consequently, the heavens tilted northwestward, causing the sun, moon, and stars to move in that direction, while the earth collapsed in the southeast, drawing all rivers to flow toward that region.

King Tang of Shang then asked: "Do all things have distinctions of size? Are there differences in length? Can we discern similarities and variations among them?" Liezi replied: "East of the Bohai Sea, beyond countless billions of miles, lies an unfathomable abyss called the 'Guixu' (Returning Depths). The waters of the eight directions and the celestial river all pour into it, yet its level never rises or falls. There stand five divine mountains: Daiyu, Yuanjiao, Fanghu, Yingzhou, and Penglai. These mountains rise thirty thousand miles high, with plateaus at their summits spanning nine thousand miles, and they stand seventy thousand miles apart from one another. Their towers and pavilions are built of gold and jade, their beasts and birds are pure white, and their forests of pearl- and jade-like trees bear fruits that grant immortality. The inhabitants are all immortals (xian) and sages, who fly about daily in such numbers that their comings and goings cannot be counted.

Yet these five mountains lacked stable foundations and often drifted up and down with the tides. Troubled by this, the immortals pleaded their case to the Celestial Emperor (Tian Di). Fearing the mountains might drift to the western extremity and deprive the immortals of their abode, the emperor commanded the sea god Yuqiang to dispatch fifteen giant turtles to take turns holding up the mountains with their heads, rotating every sixty thousand years. Only then did the five mountains stabilize. Later, a man from the land of Longbo (the kingdom of giants)...".

This passage recounts a series of marvelous legends and supernatural phenomena, showcasing the wondrous diversity of all things in the Daoist cosmological worldview.

It mentions a "Great Man" (referring to a spiritual adept with supernatural powers) who could stride over five mountains in a few steps and catch six giant turtles with a single cast of his fishing line. Later, the immortal mountains Daiyu and Yuanjiao drifted to the North Pole and sank into the sea, displacing countless immortals and sages. The Heavenly Emperor grew furious at this and punished the kingdom of Longbo (the land of giants), reducing its inhabitants' height from thousands of zhang to mere inches.

The text then describes numerous extraordinary lands: the people of Jiaoyao Country stand only 1.5 chi tall, while the "contentious people" of the northeastern extremes measure a mere nine cun. In the south grows the Mingling Tree that counts five hundred years as a single season; in antiquity there was the Great Chun Tree that measured eight thousand years per season. There are also mushrooms that sprout at dawn and wither by dusk, and midges that are born in rain and die in sunlight.

The northern region contains a celestial pond called the "Ming Sea," home to the giant fish Kun and the enormous bird Peng whose wings resemble clouds draping from the sky. The Great Yu once witnessed these marvels, which Bo Yi named and Yi Jian recorded.

By the river lives a minuscule creature called the "Jiaoming" that gathers in swarms on mosquito eyelashes without touching each other, coming and going unnoticed by their hosts. Even Li Zhu and Ziyu with their extraordinary vision, or Shi Kuang with his acute hearing, could neither discern their forms nor detect their sounds.

Finally, the passage recounts how the Yellow Emperor and Rong Chengzi practiced purification rituals on Mount Kongtong for three months. After attaining the state of "the mind dying and the form dissolving," they used divine power to perceive these microscopic creatures as large as Mount Song and sensed their movements as loud as thunder through Qi perception. This illustrates how advanced Daoist cultivation enables practitioners to perceive microscopic realms beyond ordinary human perception.

In the state of Chu grew a remarkable tree called the you tree (yòu). This tree bore fruit in winter—bright red but sour in taste. Its bark's sap could cure fainting spells, and the people of Qi highly valued it. Strangely, though, when transplanted north of the Huai River, it transformed into a different plant called the zhi tree (zhǐ).

Just as mynah birds cannot fly beyond the Ji River, or raccoon dogs perish when crossing the Wen River, these changes occur due to differences in local climate and terrain. Though forms and temperaments may shift, the intrinsic nature of all things remains fundamentally the same. Since all beings are born complete, each with its own innate sufficiency, why should we trouble ourselves distinguishing their size, length, or differences?

Now, let us recount the tale of the Taihang and Wangwu Mountains. These two peaks spanned seven hundred li in circumference, towering ten thousand ren (an ancient unit of length) high. Originally situated south of Jizhou and north of Heyang, they blocked the path of an elderly man—nearly ninety years old—who lived north of the mountains. Troubled by the long detours required to travel around them, he gathered his family and proposed: "Let us work together to level these mountains, clearing a path to the south of Yuzhou and the southern banks of the Han River. What say you?" His family all agreed.

Only his wife raised doubts: "With your strength, you couldn’t even remove a small mound like Kuifu—how much less these massive Taihang and Wangwu Mountains? And where would we put all the earth and stones we dig up?" The family suggested dumping them by the shores of the Bohai Sea. So the old man, along with three of his descendants who could carry loads, began chiseling rocks and digging soil, hauling the debris in baskets to the distant sea. A widow from the neighboring Jingcheng clan had a young son, just losing his baby teeth, who eagerly skipped along to help. Their round trip took a full year.

An old man from Hequ, known as Wise Elder, mocked the old man: "How foolish you are! With your frail bones, you can’t even pluck a single blade of grass from the mountain—what hope do you have of moving earth and stone?" The old man sighed deeply and replied: "Your mind is too rigid! When I die, my sons will carry on; they will have sons and grandsons in turn, generation after generation without end. But the mountains won’t grow taller—how could we not level them in time?" The Wise Elder had no answer.

The mountain god, hearing of this, feared the old man might persist indefinitely and reported it to the Heavenly Emperor. Moved by the old man’s sincerity, the Emperor commanded the two sons of Kua’e to carry away the mountains—one was placed east of Shuofang, the other south of Yongzhou. From then on, the lands from southern Jizhou to the southern banks of the Han River were no longer obstructed by towering peaks.

(Finally, there is mention of the tale of Kuafu chasing the sun.) Kuafu, overestimating his strength, sought to overtake the sun, pursuing it all the way to the Valley of Yu (where legend says the sun sets). Parched with thirst, he....

This passage presents two contrasting worldviews and visions of an ideal realm. The first part describes the perspective of Yu the Great (legendary flood-control hero of antiquity): he believed all phenomena between heaven and earth were governed by the movements of celestial bodies, seasonal cycles, and the Grand Year (an ancient calendrical concept), with deities creating various life forms—patterns only sages could comprehend.

However, Xia Ge proposed an opposing view: certain existences require no divine creation, need no formation through Yin-Yang, depend not on sunlight or moonlight, cannot be prematurely ended by violence, need not deliberately pursue longevity, sustain themselves without consuming the Five Grains, wear no silken garments, and travel without carts or boats—these beings follow the natural Dao so completely that even sages cannot fully understand them.

The latter portion details an ideal land called "Ultimate North." Located in the extreme northern reaches, this kingdom knows no wind, rain, frost, or dew, nor do birds, beasts, or vegetation exist there. At its center stands Mount Huling, whose summit holds a cavern named "Nourishing Grotto" that gushes forth a spring called "Divine Effluvia"—its fragrance surpassing orchids and pepper plants, its flavor more exquisite than fine wine. The waters divide into four streams flowing throughout the land, creating a temperate climate entirely free from pestilence.

The people of Ultimate North possess gentle dispositions, recognizing no distinctions of rank or age. Men and women mingle freely without matchmakers, dwelling along the waterways without practicing agriculture. The perpetual warmth eliminates any need for woven clothing. They live to a hundred years and die naturally, knowing neither illness nor untimely death, their flourishing population untouched by care. Delighting in song, they spend days hand-in-hand singing in turns. When hungry or weary, they drink the Divine Effluvia—overindulgence brings a pleasant intoxication lasting ten days before awakening. Here emerges a vision of society perfectly attuned to nature, utterly free from desire or striving.

This passage recounts several stories about the customs of different nations, reflecting ancient people's observations and reflections on foreign cultures.

When King Mu of Zhou traveled north, he arrived at a peculiar country where people bathed in divine water that left their skin smooth and fragrant for over ten days. The king stayed there for three years, forgetting to return home. Even after going back to the Zhou court, he remained nostalgic for months, losing his appetite and avoiding the company of women.

Guan Zhong once planned to take Duke Huan of Qi to visit this land and nearly succeeded. But Xi Peng admonished: "You possess the vast state of Qi with its multitudes of people, majestic mountains and rivers, abundant resources, complete rituals, and splendid attire. Your court has both enchanting beauties and loyal ministers. At your command, a million troops stand ready; with a gesture, feudal lords obey. Why envy that small barbarian state and abandon Qi's sacred land?" The duke thus abandoned the plan. When Guan Zhong learned of this, he remarked: "Xi Peng fails to understand that country's profundity. What worries me is the inscrutable mystery of that place."

The text then lists distinctive customs from various regions:

• Southerners cut their hair short and went naked
• Northerners wrapped their heads in cloth and wore fur garments
• Central Plains people wore ceremonial caps and long robes

With different local products, people farmed or traded, hunted or fished—just as one wears fur in winter and linen in summer, or rides boats on water and chariots on land—all customs formed naturally.

Several nations' unusual funeral practices are recorded:

• In the Zhexiu Kingdom east of Yue: The firstborn son was cooked and eaten, called "benefiting younger brothers"; when grandfathers died, grandmothers were carried away and abandoned as "ghost wives cannot cohabit."
• Among the Yanren people south of Chu: After a relative's death, flesh was cut away and discarded before burying the bones—only then was one considered filial.
• In the Yiqu Wenkang Kingdom west of Qin: Deceased relatives were burned on pyres, the rising smoke symbolizing their ascent to heaven.

These accounts reveal ancient people's fascination with cultural differences while showcasing their ethnographic observations and reflections on "the Other."

This passage recounts two stories that both embody the Daoist cultivation wisdom of "single-minded concentration."

The first is the famous "Two Children Debating the Sun" tale: While traveling in the east, Confucius encountered two children arguing about the sun's distance. One child said the morning sun appears as large as a carriage canopy but shrinks to plate-size by noon, proving it's closer in the morning. The other countered that the cool morning and hot noon prove the opposite. Unable to decide, Confucius was mocked: "Who said you were so learned?" This illustrates how fundamental truths manifest in concrete phenomena—like how evenly distributed force won't break a hair suspending weights, but uneven force will. Though some may doubt this principle, certain individuals truly understand it.

The second story describes the miraculous fishing skill of Zhan He: Using a single silk thread as line, a fine needle as hook, a bramble as rod, and crushed rice as bait, he could land cart-filling fish from deep torrents without breaking line, straightening hook, or bending rod. Summoned by the King of Chu, Zhan He revealed he'd learned from ancient archer Pu Juizi's method—using weak bows and fine strings to shoot two birds from the clouds by riding wind currents, the key being "single-minded concentration and even application of force." After five years mastering this focus, he fished with no distracting thoughts—only the fish in mind—applying precisely measured movements undisturbed by externalities. Fish took his bait as naturally as swallowing water bubbles or dust. This demonstrates how seemingly weak tools can achieve great feats through the cultivated state of mental focus and balanced energy application.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of Perfect Virtue in the Highest Emptiness) contains two parables that explore the relationship between inner cultivation and external manifestation.

The first story illustrates the art of governance through the King of Chu. True mastery in ruling resembles maintaining perfect equilibrium—appearing effortless yet capable of handling significant affairs. When a ruler comprehends this Dao of balance, governing the realm becomes as natural as holding something in one's palm. The King of Chu acknowledged this wisdom upon hearing it.

This is followed by the renowned tale of Bian Que's heart transplant. Two patients—Gong Hu from Lu and Qi Ying from Qi—simultaneously sought treatment from the legendary physician Bian Que. Beyond their physical ailments, Bian Que discerned their congenital temperament flaws: Gong Hu possessed strong willpower but lacked courage, excelling in strategy yet prone to indecision; Qi Ying was the opposite—overflowing with boldness but deficient in willpower, acting impulsively without deliberation. Bian Que proposed swapping their hearts to balance their dispositions. During the procedure, he administered an anesthetic wine that induced a three-day coma, performed the thoracic surgery, then revived them with divine medicine. The aftermath created confusion: Gong Hu returned to Qi Ying's household claiming his wife, while Qi Ying went to Gong Hu's home doing the same, leading to legal disputes until Bian Que intervened to explain. This parable demonstrates how inner nature determines outward behavior.

The second narrative recounts how the musician Hu Ba's zither playing could make birds dance and fish leap. Upon hearing this, Shi Wen sought apprenticeship. After three years of arduous practice without mastering basic melodies, his teacher dismissed him. Shi Wen set aside his instrument and lamented: "The problem lies not in finger techniques, but in inner cultivation. Without spiritual awakening, my Qi remains unaligned—how dare I pluck the strings carelessly?" He pleaded for more time for contemplation. When he later revisited his teacher, Shi Wen had realized the essence of music lies in the unity of heart and Qi. This story emphasizes that artistic mastery stems from inner refinement rather than external skill.

Both parables embody the Daoist principle of "inner cultivation as foundation"—whether in governance, healing, or arts, the key lies in attaining internal equilibrium.

This passage recounts several stories illustrating the transformative power of music. When the shang tone (one of the ancient pentatonic notes) was played in spring, the nanlü pitch (one of the twelve tonalities) summoned cool breezes that caused plants to bear fruit. Playing the jue tone in autumn brought warm winds that revived withered vegetation. The yu tone performed in summer summoned frost and snow, while the zhi tone played in winter made sunlight blaze forth to melt solid ice. When the four strings were finally harmonized with the gong tone, auspicious winds swirled, propitious clouds appeared, sweet dew descended, and sweet springs bubbled forth. Master Xiangzi (an ancient musician), upon hearing this, slapped his chest and stamped his feet in excitement, declaring this music surpassed even the legendary skills of masters Shi Kuang and Zou Yan.

The text then tells of Xue Tan studying singing with Qin Qing. Before completing his training, Xue Tan assumed he had mastered the art and prepared to leave. At his farewell banquet in the suburbs, Qin Qing marked time while singing a mournful tune so powerfully it shook the forest trees and halted passing clouds. Only then did Xue Tan realize his inadequacy, begging to continue his studies—he never again spoke of returning home.

Another account describes the ancient singer Han E. When she performed for food at Yongmen in Qi State, her songs lingered around the rafters for three days after her departure. Once mistreated by an innkeeper, she responded with such plaintive singing that the entire neighborhood grieved for three days without eating. Later, her joyful songs made the townspeople dance with delight. Thereafter, the people of Yongmen all learned this moving style of singing.

Finally, there's the famous "zhiyin" (understanding music) story of Boya and Zhong Ziqi. When Boya played the qin while imagining mountains, Zhong Ziqi would say, "Majestic as Mount Tai"; when envisioning flowing water, Zhong Ziqi remarked, "Vast as the Yangtze and Yellow Rivers." Once during a mountain storm, Boya improvised music depicting rain and landslides—Zhong Ziqi perfectly grasped every nuance. Boya sighed, acknowledging Zhong Ziqi as the only one who truly understood his music.

This story recounts how King Mu of Zhou encountered a master craftsman named Yanshi during his western tour. When the king asked about his skills, Yanshi claimed to have created a performing artificial man. The next day, Yanshi presented this automaton before the king—it walked, bowed, and raised its head with perfect human likeness, singing and dancing in rhythm while executing countless intricate movements. King Mu initially mistook it for a real person and even summoned his favorite concubine Shengji to watch the performance.

Near the finale, the artificial man suddenly winked flirtatiously at the royal consort. Enraged, the king ordered Yanshi executed. The terrified craftsman immediately dismantled the figure—revealing its construction from leather, wood, lacquer, and pigments. Remarkably, it contained complete internal organs and external features including bones, sinews, and hair, all capable of disassembly and reassembly. When the king experimentally removed its heart, the automaton fell silent; without its liver it went blind; without kidneys it couldn't walk. Amazed, King Mu's fury turned to delight, exclaiming: "Human craftsmanship can truly rival the Creator's work!" He then brought Yanshi back to court in a secondary carriage.

The narrative continues by mentioning how even legendary craftsmen like Gongshu Ban (Lu Ban) with his cloud ladders and Mozi with his wooden kites—who considered their skills unsurpassed—ceased boasting of their abilities after their disciples reported Yanshi's achievements.

The text then shifts to the tale of master archer Gan Ying: wild beasts would prostrate themselves when he drew his bow, and birds fell from the sky at the twang of his string. His disciple Fei Wei surpassed him, while Fei Wei's pupil Ji Chang reached even greater heights. Fei Wei first required Ji Chang to master unblinking focus—the apprentice practiced for two years lying beneath a loom, staring at the shuttle's movement until he could remain unfazed even when awl points stabbed toward his eyes.

This passage recounts two classical parables of mastery: the archer Ji Chang learning from master Fei Wei, and the charioteer Zao Fu studying under Tai Dou.

When Ji Chang sought archery instruction from Fei Wei, the master first required him to develop his vision—to perceive small objects as large and discern minute details clearly. Ji Chang suspended a louse by yak hair before his window, gazing at it daily. After ten days, the louse appeared larger; after three years, it seemed wheel-sized while other objects loomed like mountains. Using a bow of Yan-state ox horn and arrows of northern reeds, he pierced the louse's heart without breaking the hair. Fei Wei patted his chest, declaring, "You've grasped the essence!"

Later, believing only Fei Wei could surpass him, Ji Chang sought to kill his teacher. Their duel in the wilderness saw arrows meeting midair without stirring dust. When Fei Wei exhausted his arrows, Ji Chang's final shot was deflected by a thorn tip. Moved, they cast aside their bows, swore a father-son bond on the road, and vowed never teach outsiders.

Zao Fu's charioteer training under Tai Dou began with three years of apparent neglect. Only after demonstrating utmost reverence was he told: "A master bowyer's son first learns basket-weaving; a swordsmith's son begins with leatherwork. Observe my walking—master this before handling six steeds." Tai Dou ran effortlessly across narrow beams; Zao Fu replicated this in three days. The master praised his agility, revealing charioteering's principle: coordinated limbs, focused mind, reins moving as extensions of will—perfect unity of man and horse.

(Notes: Zao Fu was a legendary charioteer; Tai Dou his teacher. "Six reins" refers to controlling a six-horse team; "coordinated control" describes harmonious handling.)

The text recounts two distinct narratives. The first describes the sublime art of charioteering, while the second tells the story of Lai Dan seeking a sword to avenge his father's death.

When charioteering reaches its highest mastery, the driver's movements perfectly conform to the rules of the art, allowing long journeys without exhaustion. The key lies in grasping the essential principles: from the bit to the reins, from the reins to the hands, and from the hands to the heart—all must harmonize flawlessly. At this level of skill, one needs neither eyes to see nor whips to urge the horses forward. With a relaxed mind and upright posture, the six reins remain perfectly ordered, and all twenty-four hooves strike the ground with absolute precision. Every turn, advance, or retreat is executed with perfect timing. The wheels leave no extraneous tracks beyond their path, and the horses' hooves tread no unnecessary ground. Whether traversing perilous mountain valleys or open plains, all terrain appears equally level to such a master.

The second narrative recounts how Hei Luan of Wei murdered Qiu Bingzhang due to personal enmity. Qiu's son Lai Dan sought vengeance. Though Lai Dan possessed courage, his body was frail—he could only eat rice grain by grain and had to walk with the wind's assistance. Yet he resolved to personally slay Hei Luan with a sword. However, Hei Luan's strength was immense, his body impervious to blades, and he regarded Lai Dan with utter contempt.

Lai Dan's friend Shen Ta advised him to seek help from Kong Zhou in the state of Wei. Kong Zhou's ancestors had received legendary swords from the Yin dynasty emperors—swords said to enable even a child wearing them to repel entire armies. Lai Dan journeyed to Wei and humbly prostrated himself before Kong Zhou, offering to present his wife and children before stating his purpose. Kong Zhou revealed he possessed three swords, though none could kill. He then described their properties: The first, named "Han Guang" (Hidden Radiance), could neither be seen nor felt—when it passed through objects, they remained completely unharmed. The second, "Cheng Ying" (Catching Shadows), appeared faintly visible at dawn and dusk—its passage produced a faint sound but left no wound. The third, "Xiao Lian" (Night Forge), showed only shadows without light by day and light without form by night—its cuts felt swift but caused no injury.

This passage recounts two parables. The first tells of Lai Dan seeking revenge through Kong Zhou's swords. Kong Zhou's family possessed three ancestral swords passed down thirteen generations yet never used. Lai Dan insisted on borrowing the least potent one, which Kong Zhou entrusted to him after seven days of purification rituals (zhaijiao). Lai Dan struck his drunken enemy Hei Luan three times with the sword but failed to inflict harm. When Hei Luan awoke, he only felt discomfort in his throat and waist, while his son reported becoming stiff after Lai Dan gestured toward him three times at their gate. The sword appeared sharp yet couldn't harm anyone, leaving Lai Dan to return sighing in resignation.

The second story describes King Mu of Zhou's western expedition, where the Western Rong tribes presented two marvels: the Kunwu Sword that could slice jade effortlessly, and fire-washed cloth that emerged whiter after being cleansed in flames. A skeptical prince dismissed these as fabrications, but Xiao Shu rebuked him for arrogantly denying reality.

The concluding section features a dialogue between "Human Effort" and "Destiny" exploring fate's dominion over human affairs. Effort claims authority over lifespan and fortune, while Destiny counters with examples: Pengzu's longevity, Yan Yuan's early death, Confucius' hardships, and King Zhou's undeserved throne—all demonstrating life's outcomes transcending mortal control. This exchange reveals core Daoist philosophy of "following Heaven's mandate" (shuntian), emphasizing the limits of human striving and the ultimate governance of destiny.

This passage expresses the Daoist perspective on destiny. It states: When the wise find themselves in hardship, the virtuous are disregarded, while fools are honored; when the good suffer poverty while the wicked prosper—can this truly be fate's arrangement? If so, then who controls this so-called fate?

The author maintains that what we call destiny is simply allowing things to follow their natural course. Let the upright flourish and the crooked go their own way. Each person's lifespan—whether long or short, their experiences of poverty or success, their status as noble or humble, their circumstances of wealth or destitution—all emerge spontaneously from nature's workings. How could I possibly comprehend its principles? How could I truly understand destiny?

Here we see the embodiment of the Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)," which holds that the rise and fall, honor and disgrace of all things in the world are simply the natural unfolding of the Dao. Human effort cannot interfere with this process, nor should we attempt to force outcomes against nature's flow.

Beigongzi said to Ximenzi: "We live in the same era, yet people honor you with distinction. We come from the same clan, yet people respect you. Our appearances are comparable, yet people favor you. We speak similarly, yet people believe you. Our conduct is alike, yet people trust you. We both hold office, yet you rise to greater prominence. We both farm, yet you grow richer. We both trade, yet you reap greater profits. I wear coarse hemp garments, eat rough grains, dwell in a thatched hut, and walk wherever I go. Yet you dress in embroidered silks, dine on fine meats, reside in lofty mansions, and ride in four-horse carriages. At home, you glow with self-importance and look down on me; at court, you strut with arrogance and disdain me. We haven't interacted for years, nor traveled together—do you truly believe your virtue surpasses mine?"

Ximenzi replied: "I know not the truth of it. But where your endeavors meet obstacles, mine find smooth passage—isn't this proof of our differing fortunes? That you claim equality with me shows remarkable audacity." Beigongzi fell silent, crestfallen, and turned homeward. On the road, he encountered Master Dongguo.

Master Dongguo inquired: "From whence do you return? Why do you walk hunched, your face clouded with shame?" After hearing the account, the master said: "I shall cleanse your humiliation—let us confront Ximenzi together." Addressing Ximenzi, he demanded: "Why this disgrace toward Beigongzi? Explain yourself."

Ximenzi responded: "Beigongzi claims we share era, lineage, age, appearance, speech and conduct—yet differ in status and wealth. I told him: your failures against my successes demonstrate our unequal fortunes. Still he insists we're equals—isn't this shameless?"

Master Dongguo observed: "Your 'fortune' speaks of talent and virtue, but my interpretation runs deeper. Beigongzi possesses profound virtue yet meager destiny; you enjoy bounteous destiny but shallow virtue. Your eminence springs not from wisdom, nor his adversity from folly—both flow from Heaven's decree, beyond mortal control. You pride yourself on fortunate fate; he shames himself for virtuous depth—neither comprehending this is simply the Dao's natural order."

Hearing this, Ximenzi said: "Master, speak no more—I dare not dispute further."

Beigongzi returned home wearing coarse hemp garments yet feeling as warm as in fox-fur robes, eating rough legumes yet savoring them like fine grains, dwelling in a thatched hut yet comfortable as in grand mansions, riding a crude firewood cart yet at ease as in an ornate carriage. Throughout his life he remained serenely content, utterly indifferent to worldly honors or disgraces. When Master Dongguo heard of this, he sighed: "Beigongzi has lingered long in this grand dream. That a single phrase could awaken him shows remarkable clarity indeed!"

The subsequent passage recounts the story of Guan Zhong (courtesy name Yiwu) and Bao Shuya: The two were closest friends who both served in the state of Qi. Guan Zhong attended to Prince Jiu, while Bao Shuya assisted Prince Xiaobai. At that time, the Qi court was embroiled in succession disputes between legitimate and collateral lines, creating turbulent circumstances. When Gongsun Wuzhi launched a rebellion, the two princes fled separately to Lu and Ju states. Ultimately Xiaobai returned to ascend the throne as Duke Huan of Qi, compelling Lu to execute Prince Jiu. While Guan Zhong was imprisoned, Bao Shuya advised the duke: "Guan Zhong is a minister of exceptional governance. A wise ruler should not harbor personal grudges. Moreover, one who remained loyal to his former lord will surely serve his new sovereign faithfully. If you aspire to achieve hegemony, you must employ Guan Zhong." The duke heeded this counsel, welcoming Guan Zhong with great ceremony and appointing him prime minister, elevating him above other officials with the honorific title "Uncle Zhong." Later, Guan Zhong helped Duke Huan establish Qi's hegemony. He often reflected: "In my youth when doing business with Bao Shuya, I took larger shares of profit, yet he never considered me greedy - he understood my poverty. When my strategies for him brought greater hardship, he never blamed me."

This passage recounts the story between Guan Zhong (Guan Yiwu), Bao Shuya, and Duke Huan of Qi (Xiao Bai), illustrating the wisdom of ancient people in handling talent and interpersonal relationships.

Guan Zhong once said: When others think I am foolish, it is because the circumstances were favorable or unfavorable. I served as an official three times and was dismissed three times, yet Bao Shuya did not consider me incompetent—he knew I simply hadn’t encountered the right opportunity. I fought in three battles and fled three times, but Bao Shuya did not think me a coward—he understood I had an elderly mother to care for. After Prince Jiu’s defeat, Zhao Hu committed suicide to follow his lord in death, while I chose to endure imprisonment and humiliation. Bao Shuya did not deem me shameless—he recognized that I disregarded minor matters and cared only about achieving great renown. My parents gave me life, but Bao Shuya truly understood me.

People praise the friendship between Guan and Bao as exemplary and commend Duke Huan of Qi for his wisdom in employing talent, yet in truth, there was no flawless principle of friendship or perfect discernment in governance.

Zhao Hu did not truly wish to die—he had no choice. Bao Shuya did not genuinely desire to recommend worthy men—he had no choice. Duke Huan of Qi did not sincerely wish to employ his enemy (referring to Guan Zhong, who had once shot him with an arrow)—he had no choice.

Later, when Guan Zhong fell ill, Duke Huan visited him and asked, "Father Zhong, your illness is severe. If the worst should happen, to whom should I entrust the state?" Guan Zhong countered, "Whom does Your Grace wish to appoint?" Duke Huan suggested, "Could Bao Shuya be suitable?" Guan Zhong replied that he would not, explaining that Bao Shuya was too upright and principled—he would not associate with those he deemed inferior and never forgot another’s faults once he learned of them. If he governed the state, he would oppose the ruler above and alienate the people below, quickly losing the ruler’s trust.

Duke Huan then asked, "Then who would be suitable?" Guan Zhong answered, "If you must choose, consider Xi Peng. He is humble toward superiors and kind to subordinates, always feeling himself less virtuous than the Yellow Emperor and showing compassion for those beneath him. To transform others through virtue is the way of a sage; to aid others with material goods is the way of a worthy man. But to govern others while presuming oneself a worthy will never win their hearts."

This passage primarily explores the relationship between destiny and human agency, illustrating the principles of celestial Dao through several historical anecdotes.

First, it discusses the art of employing people: those who are truly humble in their dealings never fail to win hearts. Take Guan Zhong (Guan Yiwu) - he didn't intentionally slight Bao Shuya, nor did he particularly favor Xi Peng; circumstances dictated his actions. The closeness or distance between people isn't entirely determined by personal will.

The narrative then cites the story of Zichan, a minister of Zheng, and Deng Xi: Deng Xi excelled in sophistry. Though his "Bamboo Penal Code" was adopted by Zheng, he repeatedly obstructed Zichan's governance policies. Ultimately, Zichan had no choice but to execute Deng Xi. This demonstrates how many situations compel actions contrary to one's subjective intentions.

The text subsequently expounds on perspectives of life and death: what appears to be human choice in matters of life and death is actually governed by celestial mandate. To live when it's time to live is a blessing, and to die when it's time to die is equally a blessing. Conversely, clinging to life when one should die invites heavenly punishment. What seems like choice is ultimately fate's arrangement, beyond mortal power to alter.

Finally, through the story of Yang Zhu and Ji Liang, it illustrates how the Dao of Heaven operates with unfathomable profundity, accomplishing things naturally. When Ji Liang fell gravely ill, Yang Zhu comforted his family with a ballad: "If even Heaven itself doesn't comprehend all mysteries, how can mere mortals fully understand celestial will?" This emphasizes aligning with the natural Dao.

Collectively, these stories demonstrate that all phenomena follow their inherent patterns. Human wisdom cannot interfere with celestial Dao - we should accept destiny's arrangements with equanimity.

This passage uses the story of physicians diagnosing Ji Liang's illness to reveal the profound Daoist philosophy of "natural non-action" (Wuwei).

When Ji Liang fell ill, he consulted three doctors. The first, Jiao Shi, diagnosed the illness as resulting from immoderate living and excessive indulgence, prescribing medicinal treatment. The second, Yu Shi, attributed it to congenital deficiency compounded by acquired imbalance, declaring the condition irreversible. The third, Lu Shi, asserted the illness stemmed neither from heavenly will nor human actions, but from the natural course of life itself, making medicine fundamentally ineffective. Ji Liang recognized Lu Shi as the true divine physician, and soon after, his illness resolved without treatment.

The text then illustrates through contrast how life's essence remains unchanged by human valuations of nobility or baseness, love or hatred. Seeming contradictions—where the cherished die young while the neglected live long, or the favored remain frail while the overlooked stay healthy—actually demonstrate life's inherent patterns. As Yu Xiong told King Wen of Zhou: life's duration cannot be lengthened or shortened by external forces; what destiny ordains cannot be altered.

Lao Dan (Laozi) further explained to Guan Yinzi: speculating about heaven's will or calculating gains and losses proves futile. Yang Bu's question about brothers born in the same year with similar appearances and talents yet vastly different lifespans and social standings further highlights these natural variations. All these examples show life follows its own internal principles, where human interference often produces opposite effects.

This scripture explores the relationship between "destiny" and "natural essence." It references an ancient saying: Some things happen without our understanding why—this is destiny. People today muddle through life, coming and going each day—who can comprehend the reasons behind it all? These are the arrangements of destiny.

Those who truly believe in destiny do not concern themselves with longevity or brevity of life. Those who trust in cosmic principles do not calculate rights and wrongs. Those who have faith in their original mind do not dwell on favorable or adverse circumstances. Those who embrace their inherent nature do not worry about safety or danger. Such individuals may be said to have reached the supreme state of "neither believing nor doubting anything," where distinctions between coming and going, sorrow and joy, action and non-action (Wuwei) naturally dissolve.

The Yellow Emperor's classic records: Those who have attained the Dao (the Way) appear as if dead when still, and move like mechanisms when active. They neither know why they remain still nor why they don't move; neither understand why they act nor why they refrain. They won't alter their attitude because of others' opinions, nor maintain appearances due to being unobserved—coming and going alone, utterly unconstrained.

The text then presents four groups of contrasting personalities: The Mo-Chi, Dan-Zhi, Chan-Xuan, and Bie-Fu quartet consider themselves profoundly wise; the Qiao-Ning, Yu-Zhi, Nian-Zhuo, and Bian-Bi four pride themselves on exquisite skills; the Xiao-Ya, Qing-Lu, Rang-Ji, and Ling-Sui group each harbor private agendas. Though these people may interact for years, they never truly understand one another, each immersed in their own perceptions. This subtly suggests that Daoist practitioners should transcend such worldly attachments and return to their natural essence.

The passage describes four personality types (bold, timid, skeptical, and evasive) coexisting in society and explores the Daoist understanding of destiny.

Though differing in temperament, all four types live according to their nature without mutual reproach throughout the year. Each considers their conduct blameless—some follow the crowd while others stand apart—yet all find contentment. This reveals that diverse human expressions ultimately return to Dao (the Way) as their fundamental principle.

Those appearing successful may not truly be so; those seeming failures may not truly fail. People often become confused by superficial appearances, perplexed between the facades of success and failure. Those who truly comprehend the principle feel neither terror toward external misfortunes nor excessive joy for internal blessings. They understand when to act or rest according to circumstance—wisdom unattainable through calculation.

Those who trust destiny treat others and themselves equally. To discriminate would be worse than closing one's eyes, stopping one's ears, turning one's back to the mountain while facing the city wall—at least then one wouldn't stumble. Thus life and death follow destiny; wealth and poverty obey timing. Those who lament early deaths don't understand destiny; those who resent poverty don't understand timing. Facing death without fear and enduring poverty without sorrow—this is the wisdom of harmonizing with destiny and resting content in circumstance.

The clever calculate advantages, weigh possibilities, and scrutinize human relations—achieving mixed results. The simple-minded make no such calculations—yet their outcomes remain equally mixed. Calculation makes no difference; only complete relinquishment preserves one's original nature without confusion. This preservation isn't attained through deliberate pursuit, but emerges naturally. Like Duke Jing of Qi weeping on Mount Niu while gazing at his capital's splendor—such reactions flow from genuine, unforced nature.

(Note: "Dao" refers to the fundamental cosmic principle in Daoist thought; "Duke Jing of Qi" was a Spring and Autumn period ruler whose mountain contemplation became a classic illustration of spontaneous emotion toward transient beauty)

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of Perfect Virtue in the Realm of Emptiness) conveys profound insights on life, death, gain, and loss through two illustrative stories.

The first story recounts how Duke Jing of Qi, while on an excursion, lamented the fleeting beauty of nature and the brevity of human life. His minister, Kong Liangqiu Ju, wept along with him, saying, "Thanks to Your Grace’s generosity, we enjoy meat and fine carriages—if even we do not wish to die, how much more must this be true for you, my lord?" Only Yanzi stood by, laughing. When the duke asked why he laughed, Yanzi replied, "If wise rulers could reign forever, then Grand Duke Jiang and Duke Huan would still be ruling. If mighty rulers could endure, then Duke Zhuang and Duke Ling would never have passed away. The succession of rulers through the ages is the natural order. Yet now you weep over life and death—this shows a lack of wisdom. And those sycophantic ministers who join in weeping are simply insincere." Hearing this, the duke felt ashamed and punished himself with a drink, then penalized the two ministers.

The second story tells of Dongmen Wu, a man of Wei, who did not grieve when his son died. His steward asked why he felt no sorrow, to which Dongmen Wu replied, "When I had no child, I was not troubled. Now that my son has died, it is no different from when I had no child—why should I grieve?" He then offered an analogy using four professions: farmers labor with the seasons, merchants chase profit, artisans refine their craft, and officials seek power—each fulfilling their natural role. Yet farmers face floods and droughts, merchants experience gains and losses, artisans see successes and failures, and officials encounter smooth or troubled careers—all governed by fate.

(Note: The "Grand Duke" refers to Jiang Taigong, while Dukes Huan, Zhuang, and Ling were rulers of Qi. Yanzi was a renowned virtuous minister of Qi. "Chongxu Zhide" refers to the Daoist ideal of emptiness, stillness, and non-action—the supreme virtue of non-contention.)

During his travels in the state of Lu, Yang Zhu (a Daoist thinker of the Warring States period) stayed with the Meng family. A member of the Meng household asked him: "What is the purpose of human existence? Why do people pursue fame?" Yang Zhu replied: "People pursue fame to attain wealth." When asked further, "Why don't they stop after becoming wealthy?" Yang Zhu responded: "They seek status." Pressed again with "Why remain unsatisfied after achieving high status?" he answered: "They want posthumous reputation." Meng then questioned: "What benefit does fame bring to one's descendants?" Yang Zhu explained: "Though the pursuit of fame exhausts body and mind, it truly brings honor to one's clan and benefits the local community—how much more so for descendants!"

Yang Zhu then analyzed: Those who chase empty fame invariably become incorruptible, and incorruptibility leads to poverty; those obsessed with reputation inevitably practice excessive humility, and such humility results in lowly status. He cited two historical examples: When Guan Zhong served Duke Huan of Qi, he matched his ruler's debauchery with debauchery and mirrored his extravagance with extravagance—his words and deeds being perfectly aligned. Though this made Qi a hegemon, the Guan clan declined after his death. Conversely, when the Tian clan (Tian Chang) served Qi's rulers, they practiced thrift when the ruler was greedy and distributed wealth when the ruler hoarded, winning the people's allegiance until the Tian clan eventually supplanted the Qi rulers, securing prosperity for generations.

Yang Zhu pointed out: Genuine reputation brings poverty, while false reputation yields wealth—fame is essentially illusory. He illustrated this with the examples of Yao and Shun, who ostensibly abdicated their thrones to the hermits Xu You and Shan Juan while actually retaining power and ruling for a century. In contrast, Bo Yi and Shu Qi (virtuous princes of late Shang) sincerely renounced the throne of Guzhu kingdom only to starve to death on Shouyang Mountain. Such is the stark difference between true and false fame.

Finally, Yang Zhu reflected on life's brevity: Few live to a hundred years. Even those who do spend nearly half their lives in childhood and old age. Sleep and rest claim another half of the remaining time, while illness and suffering consume what's left. Calculated this way, the days of genuine carefree joy amount to very few within a decade.

What is the true purpose of human existence? And what truly brings joy? Whether pursuing luxurious garments and fine food or indulging in sensual pleasures, these material satisfactions can never truly fulfill the human heart, nor can fleeting sensory delights be sustained. Instead, people become bound by worldly rewards and punishments, driven by the laws of fame and profit, anxiously competing for empty reputations all day long while calculating posthumous glory. They cautiously restrain their senses, obsessing over rights and wrongs of body and mind, only to forfeit life's genuine joys—not even daring momentary unrestrained abandon. How does this differ from prisoners weighed down by heavy shackles?

The sages of antiquity understood that life is as fleeting as a white steed glimpsed through a crack, and death but a temporary departure. Thus they followed their hearts without violating their innate nature, embracing present joys without artificial avoidance, never seduced by empty fame. They wandered freely in accordance with their essence without resisting the patterns of all things. Posthumous reputation held no value for them, and therefore they remained unburdened by punitive consequences. As for the sequence of fame or lifespan's length—these were never their concerns.

Yang Zhu (a Daoist philosopher of the Warring States period) said: The greatest difference among the myriad things lies in their states while living, while their greatest similarity is in death. In life, there are distinctions of wisdom and folly, nobility and baseness, but in death all alike decay into putrid dissolution. Yet neither wisdom nor folly, nobility nor baseness are matters of human choice, just as decay and dissolution cannot be altered by human effort. Thus life and death are not subject to human will—all distinctions of worth are relative. In essence, the myriad things are simultaneously born and simultaneously perish, equally wise and equally foolish, equally noble and equally base. Those who live ten years will die; those who live a hundred will die. Benevolent sages perish; wicked fools perish too. In life one may be a sage-king like Yao or Shun, but in death just a pile of rotting bones. In life one may be a tyrant like Jie or Zhou, but in death equally transformed into decaying remains. Since the end is identical for all, why concern ourselves with distinctions? Better to live well in the present moment—what use is worrying about what comes after death?

Yang Zhu further observed: Bo Yi (a recluse of late Shang dynasty) was not without desires—he merely concealed them behind an aloof demeanor.

Yang Zhu, a Daoist thinker of the Warring States period, conveys profound wisdom in the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Classic of Perfect Virtue of the Most Empty): Though Zhan Ji (Liu Xiahui, renowned for his moral integrity) would rather starve than compromise his principles, this isn't to deny the value of noble character, but to caution that excessive rigidity in form may cause us to lose our authentic nature.

He illustrates this with two examples: Yuan Xian (a disciple of Confucius) lived in dire poverty in Lu, while Zi Gong (another Confucian disciple) amassed wealth through commerce in Wei. Yuan Xian's destitution harmed his livelihood, yet Zi Gong's riches became a burden to his health. This shows neither poverty nor wealth represents the ideal state. What, then, is proper? The key lies in living joyfully with ease of body and mind. Those who truly understand joyful living won't plunge themselves into poverty, just as those skilled in self-cultivation won't be shackled by material possessions.

Yang Zhu cites an ancient saying: "In life, care for one another; in death, handle matters simply." This is supreme wisdom. Caring during life means not just emotional support, but ensuring the weary find rest, the hungry are fed, the cold warmed, and the struggling find their way. After death, there's no need for excessive mourning—no jade pearls in the mouth, no lavish burial garments, no elaborate offerings or grave goods.

When Yanzi (Yan Pingzhong) asked Guan Zhong (Guan Yiwu) about the art of nurturing life, Guan replied: "Follow what comes naturally, without repression or obstruction." The method is this: Let ears hear what they wish, eyes see what they desire, the nose smell what it enjoys, the mouth speak its mind, the body relax when it needs, and the heart-mind (Xin) pursue its inclinations. Blocking what the ears long to hear stifles hearing; preventing the eyes from beholding beauty stifles vision; denying the nose fragrant scents stifles smell; restraining free speech stifles wisdom; depriving the body of comfort stifles ease; constraining the heart-mind's freedom stifles our innate nature (Xing). All such repressions are roots of harm to body and spirit. Only by removing these obstructions can one pass each day and month in untroubled contentment.

This passage recounts the differing views on life, death, and desires held by several notable figures during the Spring and Autumn period, along with the governance challenges faced by Zichan in the state of Zheng.

Guan Zhong (Guan Yiwu) and Yan Ying (Yan Pingzhong) discussed the Dao of nurturing life and handling death. Guan Zhong stated that what he pursued was "nourishing in accordance with nature" – referring to a way of cultivating life that follows natural principles rather than deliberately seeking immortality. Yan Ying believed that how one handles death matters little – whether through cremation, burial, leaving the corpse exposed in the wilderness, wrapping it in straw mats to discard in ditches, or even dressing it in fine robes and placing it in a stone coffin. All depended on circumstances. Guan Zhong told Bao Shuya that the two of them had already comprehended the Dao of life and death.

After governing Zheng for three years, Zichan had achieved a state where virtuous people followed his teachings, wrongdoers feared his prohibitions, and neighboring states stood in awe of Zheng's growing power. Yet he faced a personal dilemma with his two brothers: Gongsun Chao was an alcoholic who kept thousands of jars of wine at home, with fermenting yeast piled like mountains – the aroma could be smelled a hundred paces away. When immersed in drink, he became completely oblivious to worldly affairs, human relationships, and even imminent dangers like fire, flood, or weapons. Gongsun Mu was obsessed with women, keeping dozens of rooms filled with beautiful young concubines in his rear courtyard. During his indulgences, he would shut his doors to all visitors, sometimes not emerging for three months at a time, and still unsatisfied, would use money to seduce local beauties.

Tormented day and night by this situation, Zichan secretly consulted his advisor Deng Xi for solutions. This episode reflects the Daoist critique of excessive indulgence – the pursuit of wine and women to the point of losing touch with reality. It also illustrates the ethical dilemma faced by rulers: while charged with guiding the people through moral education, they must simultaneously confront the challenges posed by their own family members' unrestrained behavior.

This dialogue presents contrasting perspectives on governing a state and cultivating the self. Gongsun Qiao (Zichan) believed one should first cultivate the self and regulate the family before governing the state and bringing peace to the world, proceeding from the near to the distant. However, he found himself highly successful in statecraft while encountering domestic troubles, so he sought advice from Deng Xi.

Deng Xi suggested that he should use the importance of one's innate nature (xing) and life (ming) to admonish his family members and guide them with the nobility of ritual propriety (li) and righteousness (yi). Zichan adopted this advice and exhorted his brothers, saying: "What makes humans nobler than beasts is their wisdom and adherence to ritual and righteousness. By observing these, one gains reputation and status, whereas indulging desires endangers one's very life. If you heed this advice, you can quickly repent and receive official emoluments."

However, Chao Mu (another interlocutor) countered: "I've long understood this principle—human life is fleeting, and death comes easily. Why should we use our hard-won life to await inevitable death while boasting of ritual righteousness and distorting our innate nature for fame? To me, such a life isn't worth living. I only wish to enjoy life to the fullest—my worries are whether my stomach is too full to drink freely or my strength too weak to indulge in pleasures. How could I spare concern for reputation or life's dangers? You come preaching your methods of statecraft, trying to move me with promises of glory and wealth—isn't this utterly laughable?"

Finally, Chao Mu highlights the crucial distinction: "Those skilled at governing external affairs (statecraft) may fail at self-mastery, exhausting both body and mind. Those skilled at inner cultivation may find external affairs naturally ordered while their innate nature remains at ease. Your methods of governance might work temporarily in one state, but they aren't the fundamental Way (Dao)."

This scripture recounts two stories that reveal the Daoist perspective on worldly governance and human pursuits.

The first story tells of Zichan, a senior minister of Zheng (a renowned statesman of the Spring and Autumn period), who attempted to instruct an enlightened master in statecraft, only to have the master reveal the truth: genuine governance should stem from cultivating one's heart and nature. When Zichan recounted this encounter to Deng Xi (a representative figure of the School of Names), Deng bluntly pointed out: "You dwell with a true person yet fail to recognize the true Dao. What Zheng calls peace is merely accidental—not your achievement."

The second story details the life of Duanmu Shu, a wealthy man of Wei (descendant of Zigong). Inheriting vast riches, he indulged his desires completely: building extravagant palaces and gardens, collecting rare treasures from across the land, and feasting day and night. Yet what set him apart was that after satisfying his pleasures, he distributed his entire fortune—first to his clan, then to his neighbors, and finally to the entire state. By age sixty, he kept nothing, not even funds for medicine or burial, truly embodying the ideal of "coming naked and leaving unburdened." As a result, the people who had benefited from his generosity spontaneously pooled resources to bury him and returned the remaining wealth to his children.

Together, these stories illustrate core Daoist principles: the art of governance originates in self-cultivation, and rigid attachment to worldly achievements pales beside following nature's flow; true abundance lies not in hoarding wealth but in transcending material desires to unite with the Dao. Duanmu Shu's seemingly decadent life actually concealed profound wisdom—"using things without being used by things"—that aligns with the deepest Daoist understanding.

This passage records a discussion among several Daoist figures concerning life, virtue, and the way of conducting oneself in the world.

When Qin Guli heard of Duanmu Shu's behavior, he considered him a madman who dishonored his ancestors, while Duan Gansheng praised Duanmu Shu as a man of surpassing virtue who transcended his forebears. Though his actions astonished ordinary people, they aligned with the true Dao (the Way). The gentlemen of that time, constrained by ritual norms, found it difficult to comprehend the inner realm of such a person.

Meng Sunyang asked Yang Zhu about the matter of longevity. Yang Zhu replied: In principle, there are no immortal people, nor are there those who live forever. Life does not extend simply because you cherish it, nor does the body remain eternally healthy just because you care for it. Moreover, what meaning is there in living long? People of ancient and modern times share the same joys and sorrows, the same bodily sensations, the same vicissitudes of worldly affairs. Having experienced, witnessed, and changed, even a hundred years of life would feel too long—how much more so the suffering brought by immortality?

Meng Sunyang countered: Then would it be better to die early rather than seek longevity? For example, by actively seeking death? Yang Zhu said: Not so. Since you are alive, live naturally until death comes; when death approaches, face it naturally as well. Why deliberately pursue speed or slowness?

Yang Zhu further elaborated his view: Bo Chengzi Gao refused to use the benefit of a single hair to help others, abandoning his throne to live in seclusion and farm. Yu the Great sought no personal gain, to the point of exhausting his body. The ancient sages neither wished to sacrifice the slightest for the world's benefit, nor desired to take the world's resources to nourish themselves. If no one harmed others to benefit themselves or sacrificed themselves to benefit others, the world would naturally be at peace.

Finally, Qinzi asked Yang Zhu: If plucking one hair from your body could save the world, would you be willing? This dialogue reveals the Daoist philosophy of "valuing the self" and "preserving life," advocating for following nature—neither deliberately sacrificing oneself nor greedily pursuing external things, but maintaining the original, authentic state of life.

This dialogue takes place between Yang Zhu (a Daoist philosopher) and his student Qin Guli, discussing the relationship between individual benefit and collective interest.

Yang Zhu argues that the world's problems cannot be solved by the sacrifice of "a single hair." Qin Guli counters by asking whether he would be willing to do so if it hypothetically resolved the issue, to which Yang Zhu remains silent. Later, Meng Sunyang (another disciple of Yang Zhu) explains: The skin is more important than a single hair, and a limb is more important than the skin. Yet even a hair is part of the body—how can it be dismissed lightly? This illustrates the Daoist emphasis on the individual and rejection of sacrificing the small self for the greater whole.

Later, Yang Zhu critiques historical figures: People attribute all virtue to Shun, Yu, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius, while blaming all wickedness on Jie and Zhou. Yet in reality, Shun endured a life of hardship—he only married at thirty and was forced to abdicate in old age, dying in sorrow. Yu became physically disabled from taming the floods and remained burdened with worry even after ascending the throne. These sage-kings may appear glorious, but in truth, they were pitiable figures tormented by fate. This reflects the Daoist critique of the Confucian idealization of sage-kings, viewing them as having violated their natural instincts and lived without true freedom.

Note: In the text, "a single hair" (一毛) symbolizes minor individual interests, "skin and flesh" (肌肤) represents moderate interests, and "a limb" (一节) signifies major interests. The Yang Zhu school advocates "valuing the self and cherishing life" (贵己重生), opposing the sacrifice of the individual for the collective—a sharp contrast to the Mohist doctrine of "universal love" (兼爱).

After King Wu of Zhou passed away, the young King Cheng ascended the throne, and the Duke of Zhou (King Wu’s younger brother) acted as regent in his stead. The Duke of Shao resented this arrangement, and rumors spread among the feudal lords. The Duke of Zhou withdrew to the eastern capital for three years, during which he was forced to execute his elder brother Guan Shu for rebellion and exile his younger brother Cai Shu. He barely managed to preserve his own life, spending his days in deep anxiety until his death. Such was the precarious situation even a sage faced when dealing with the will of Heaven and human affairs.

Confucius, though profoundly versed in statecraft, encountered repeated setbacks: he was driven out of Song by men cutting down the tree he rested under, barred from entering Wei, reduced to poverty in the lands of Shang and Zhou, besieged between Chen and Cai, humiliated by the Ji family, and insulted by Yang Hu. His entire life was marked by hardship and worry. These four sages never knew a day of peace while alive, yet their names endured for generations after death. But posthumous fame was never the tangible value they sought—even if praised, they remained unaware, as insensible as blocks of wood or clods of earth.

The tyrant Jie of Xia, relying on wealth accumulated over generations, occupied the supreme position of emperor. His intellect was sharp enough to dominate his ministers, and his authority awed the realm. He indulged in every sensual pleasure, acting recklessly until his death—this was the epitome of hedonistic excess. Similarly, King Zhou of Shang inherited his ancestors’ legacy, reigning with absolute power. He gratified his desires in lavish palaces, reveling night after night without restraint, never tempering himself with ritual or righteousness, until he met a violent end. These two despots enjoyed boundless pleasure in life but were branded as fools and tyrants after death. Yet the actual enjoyment they pursued bore no relation to reputation—even if reviled, they remained oblivious, no different from unfeeling wood or earth.

Those four sages, though adorned with virtue, suffered bitterly throughout their lives, all meeting the same end: death. Those two tyrants, though steeped in wickedness, reveled in pleasure until death claimed them as well. (Using these examples, Yang Zhu said to King Liang of Wei:) Governing the world is like turning an object in the palm of your hand—there’s no need to fixate excessively on gain and loss, honor and disgrace.

King Liang asked a certain master: "You can't even manage one wife and one concubine properly, nor tend a three-acre vegetable garden well, yet you claim governing the world is as easy as turning something in your palm. Why is that?"

The master replied: "Have you ever seen a shepherd? A single man drives a hundred sheep, with just a child holding a whip behind him—he can lead them east or west as he pleases. But if you had Yao (the ancient sage king) leading one sheep with Shun (another sage king) following with a whip, they wouldn't make progress. I've also heard: giant fish that can swallow boats don't swim in narrow streams, and swans that soar high don't alight in filthy ponds—such is the grandeur of their purpose. The solemn tones of the Huangzhong and Dalu (ancient ceremonial music) cannot accompany disorderly dances, for their harmonies are dignified. Those who govern great affairs don't fuss over trivialities; those who achieve great merit don't dwell on minor matters. This is the principle."

Yang Zhu (a Warring States philosopher) said: The affairs of deepest antiquity have vanished—who remembers them now? The deeds of the Three Sovereigns seem half-real, those of the Five Emperors like half-remembered dreams, while events from the Xia, Shang and Zhou dynasties flicker between obscurity and clarity—what we know amounts to less than one in a hundred million. Of events happening around us, we genuinely comprehend less than one in ten thousand. Present circumstances arise and fade before we grasp even one in a thousand. From primordial times to today, the years are beyond counting—since Fuxi's era alone spans over 300,000 years. Whether wise or foolish, beautiful or ugly, successful or failed, right or wrong—all ultimately vanish, differing only in timing. To torment body and spirit over momentary praise or blame—can posthumous fame lasting a few centuries moisten dry bones? Where then lies life's joy?

Yang Zhu continued: Humans are patterned after Heaven and Earth, endowed with the Five Constant Virtues (benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom and faithfulness), making them the most spiritual of creatures. Yet our nails and teeth cannot defend us, our skin and muscles cannot withstand injury, we lack speed to escape calamity, and grow no feathers against heat or cold—we must depend on external things to survive.

This passage explores the Daoist perspective on life, material possessions, and desires. The core teaching is that neither our bodies nor worldly things truly belong to us, and excessive attachment only brings suffering.

The text observes that true wisdom lies in self-preservation, while brute force manifests in violating others. Though we inhabit our bodies, they are not our personal property; though all things sustain life, none should be claimed as possessions. Only sages can "treat their bodies as belonging to all under heaven, and regard all things as communal property," understanding both physical form and material objects as shared resources of the cosmos.

Yang Zhu (a representative Daoist figure) identified four common pursuits that disturb human peace: longevity, reputation, status, and wealth. Chasing these makes people fear ghosts and deities, dread others' opinions, cower before authority, and tremble at punishment—becoming what he called "fugitives from their true nature." In contrast, those who don't resist Heaven's decree needn't envy long life; those who don't flaunt nobility needn't chase fame; those indifferent to power and position, unconcerned with wealth—these are the "aligned people" who follow nature's course.

A farmer's parable illustrates this wisdom: A peasant in Song Dynasty wore tattered hemp clothes in winter yet felt perfectly content basking in spring sunlight among his fields, unaware of mansions with heated rooms or fox-fur robes. This shows how ordinary people find genuine fulfillment in simple living. Were such a farmer suddenly given luxurious comforts, his body and mind would grow unsettled and sick. The lesson: one should remain content with one's lot.

Throughout, the text emphasizes the Daoist principle of "fewer selfish desires," teaching that excessive pursuit of external things makes us lose our innate nature. The supreme state comes through aligning with nature's flow and practicing contentment.

This scripture reveals the dangers of pursuing empty fame and external pleasures through vivid parables and sayings from Daoist thinkers.

It begins with a fable: Someone presented ordinary beans, hemp stalks, and water weeds as delicacies to a local gentry, causing him tongue numbness and stomach discomfort, which drew public ridicule. Yang Zhu (a Warring States period Daoist philosopher) commented that when people already possess the four luxuries of fine houses, beautiful clothes, exquisite food, and attractive companions yet still crave more, it's their insatiable nature at work. Such greed corrodes one's Yin-Yang balance like termites eating through wood.

The text then observes how blind loyalty fails to stabilize rulers while endangering oneself, and rigid adherence to righteousness harms life rather than benefiting all things. True statecraft should bring stability to both rulers and ministers, benefiting both nature and humanity. Master Yu (a Daoist figure) advocated abandoning vain reputation to remain carefree, yet Laozi pointed out that fame is merely the shadow of substance - while ordinary people chase this shadow relentlessly.

Finally, it illuminates the core paradox: Fame brings honor and glory, while obscurity leads to humility and disgrace. Honor grants comfort and joy, disgrace breeds worry and suffering. Yet obsessive pursuit of fame burdens one's true nature - in such a state, one can't even attend to imminent peril, let alone simple matters of pleasure and pain. The fundamental principle lies in not damaging one's authentic self for the sake of empty reputation.

When Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) sought instruction from Master Huzi (a Daoist recluse), the master told him: "You must first comprehend the principle of 'holding to the rear' before discussing self-cultivation." When Liezi inquired about this concept, Master Huzi used the analogy of a shadow: "Observe your own shadow—when your body bends, the shadow slants; when your body straightens, the shadow becomes upright. This shows the shadow's form is entirely determined by bodily movements, not by the shadow itself. Similarly in human affairs, gain and loss, honor and disgrace all stem from one's own actions, not external judgments. This is the wisdom of 'holding to the rear yet occupying the forefront.'"

Master Guanyin (a Daoist perfected being) elaborated further: "Beautiful words produce pleasant echoes, harsh words create grating echoes; a tall figure casts a long shadow, a short stature makes a brief shadow. Reputation is like an echo, while conduct resembles a shadow. Therefore sages speak cautiously knowing there will be responses, and act carefully understanding others will emulate. They discern essence by observing manifestations, and foresee the future by examining the past."

The crux of self-cultivation lies in self-discipline, while its verification appears in others' reactions. When people treat me kindly, I naturally reciprocate with goodwill; when others dislike me, I first examine myself. Kings Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou became true monarchs by loving their people, while Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang perished by harming the world—this is history's testimony. Understanding these principles yet failing to practice them is like exiting through side doors or traveling without following roads—such approaches make success nearly impossible.

Having studied the virtuous governance of Shennong (the legendary sage-king), examined the classics of Yu, Xia, Shang and Zhou dynasties, and weighed the teachings of wise sages, I've found that every nation's survival or decline follows this pattern. When the fictional character Yan Hui asked: "Isn't seeking the Dao (the Way) just for gaining wealth? Now that I've obtained precious pearls and become rich, why pursue the Dao?" Liezi countered: "It was precisely because Jie and Zhou valued profit over the Dao that they lost their kingdoms. Without moral principles, humans obsessed with food and drink differ little from chickens and dogs. Those who rely on brute force in competition behave as wild beasts. How can one who acts like a beast expect others' respect? Without respect, calamity and disgrace will surely follow."

After mastering archery to the point of hitting every target, Liezi consulted Master Guanyin. The master responded with a question: "Do you understand why you can hit the mark?" (implying true mastery requires grasping the underlying principles behind success, not just superficial skill)

Master Guan Yinzi (a Daoist figure) asked Liezi (Lie Yukou) if he understood the principle of archery. Liezi replied that he did not. Guan Yinzi instructed him to go back and practice. Three years later, Liezi returned to seek guidance again. Guan Yinzi asked, "Do you now understand why you can hit the target?" Liezi said he did. Guan Yinzi declared that this was sufficient and advised him to hold fast to this principle without losing it—for it applied not only to archery but also to governing a state and cultivating one's character. Thus, the sages do not focus on superficial success or failure but investigate the root causes.

Liezi said: Those with ruddy complexions are prone to arrogance, and those with great strength are prone to assertiveness. Such people cannot be reasoned with about the Dao. Therefore, even those whose hair has not yet turned gray err when discussing the Dao—how much more so when attempting to practice it? If a person is always domineering, others will not offer him honest advice; without advice, he will be isolated and helpless. The wise excel at employing people, which is why they remain vigorous in old age and clear-minded even when their wisdom seems exhausted. The difficulty in governing lies in recognizing talent, not in presuming oneself to be virtuous.

A man from the state of Song once carved a leaf from jade, spending three years to complete it. The veins and texture were so finely detailed that it was indistinguishable when placed among real leaves. The man made a living in Song by this craft. When Liezi heard of this, he remarked: If Heaven and Earth took three years to produce a single leaf, there would be very few leafy plants. Therefore, the sages rely on the natural transformations of creation rather than on clever artifice.

Liezi lived in poverty, his face showing signs of hunger. A guest once said to Ziyang, the prime minister of Zheng: "Lie Yukou is a man who has attained the Dao, yet he lives in your state in such destitution—does this not suggest you neglect worthy scholars?" Ziyang immediately sent an envoy with provisions for Liezi. Upon meeting the messenger, Liezi repeatedly bowed in gratitude but declined the offer. After the envoy left, his wife beat her chest in frustration, saying: "I’ve heard that the families of those who embody the Dao live in comfort and joy, yet here we starve. The prime minister sends food, and you refuse—is this our fate?"

This story illustrates the importance of timing and worldly wisdom. Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure), though starving, refused the grain offered to him, recognizing that the benefactor did not truly understand him but was merely acting on hearsay. Later, as predicted, turmoil ensued and that very benefactor Ziyang was killed.

The Shi family of Lu had two sons: one devoted himself to scholarship, the other to military strategy. The scholar went to Qi and impressed its ruler with his learning, becoming tutor to the princes; the strategist gained the King of Chu's favor through his military expertise and was appointed an officer. Both branches of the family thus achieved wealth and prominence. Their neighbors, the Meng family, also had two sons who studied literature and martial arts respectively, yet remained in poverty. They approached the Shis to learn their secret of success.

The elder Meng son went to Qin advocating benevolent governance. The King of Qin declared: "In this age of rival warlords, we value only military preparedness and grain supplies. Governing through benevolence would be our ruin." He had the young man castrated and banished. The younger Meng son went to Wei promoting military strategy, but Marquis Wei responded: "We're a small state caught between powerful neighbors. Survival demands we yield to greater states and pacify smaller ones. Relying on arms would hasten our demise." He had the youth's feet amputated before sending him back to Lu.

Beating their breasts in anguish, the Meng family blamed the Shis, who explained: "Success depends on seizing the right moment. Your methods mirrored ours, yet outcomes differed—not because your approach was wrong, but because the timing wasn't right. No principle under heaven remains eternally valid; what worked yesterday may fail today."

This scripture illustrates the principle of "wisdom in application" through several parables.

First, it teaches that what is discarded today may prove useful tomorrow—there are no fixed standards for usefulness. Seizing the moment and adapting to circumstances requires wisdom. Without it, even someone as learned as Confucius or as strategically brilliant as Jiang Ziya (Jiang Taigong) would stumble at every turn.

Next comes the story of the Meng father and son: Though misunderstood by others, they remained unperturbed, calmly stating, "I already understand," and refrained from further explanation.

Then follows the tale of Duke Wen of Jin: When preparing to attack the state of Wei, his minister Gongzi Chu dissuaded him with a joke. He told of a man who flirted with a mulberry-picking woman by the roadside, only to turn and find another man seducing his own wife. Duke Wen realized this was a warning—"While you invade another state, your own land may be vulnerable to attack"—and withdrew his troops, thus averting disaster.

Lastly, there is the story of Jin’s crackdown on thieves: A man named Xi Yong could identify robbers by studying their faces and captured many. The Marquis of Jin was pleased, but minister Zhao Wenzi predicted this method would not last. Sure enough, the thieves banded together and killed Xi Yong. Zhao Wenzi advised: Rather than relying on detection, appoint virtuous officials to promote moral education, so the people would feel shame and refrain from theft. The Marquis heeded this and appointed Sui Hui to govern—soon, the thieves all fled to Qin.

These stories reveal: True wisdom is not mere cleverness but understanding the fundamental Dao (the Way). Relying on tactics offers only temporary solutions; only through moral transformation can lasting peace be achieved.

Confucius was returning from the state of Wei to Lu when he stopped to rest by a river bridge. There he saw a waterfall plunging thirty ren (approximately 54 meters), its turbulent currents forming whirlpools stretching ninety li—so fierce that neither fish nor turtles could swim through, nor could giant turtles or crocodiles find refuge. A man was about to cross, so Confucius instructed his attendants to warn him from the bank: "This waterfall drops thirty ren with whirlpools spanning ninety li. Even aquatic creatures cannot pass—surely it’s too dangerous to cross?" The man paid no heed and swam across effortlessly before returning safely.

Confucius asked him, "Is this skill or Daoist art? How can you traverse so freely?" The man replied, "When I enter the water, I embrace loyalty and sincerity; when I emerge, I still hold fast to them. Loyalty and sincerity bear my body through the torrents. I dare not entertain selfish thoughts—that is why I can come and go unharmed." Confucius turned to his disciples and said, "Understand this: even water responds to loyalty and sincerity with intimacy—how much more so should people?"

Later, Duke Bai of Chu asked Confucius, "Can one speak of hidden truths with others?" Confucius remained silent. Duke Bai pressed, "What if one throws a stone into water?" Confucius answered, "A skilled diver could retrieve it." Duke Bai asked again, "What if one pours water into water?" Confucius said, "Like mixing the Zi and Min rivers—the chef Yi Ya could distinguish them with one taste." Duke Bai persisted, "So ultimately, one cannot speak of secrets?" Confucius replied, "Why not? But you must find those who grasp meaning beyond words. Those who truly understand need no verbal explanations. Fishermen get wet, hunters must run fast—not because they enjoy it. Thus, the highest speech transcends words; the greatest action is Wuwei (non-action). Petty people quarrel over trivialities." Duke Bai failed to grasp the lesson and later met his end in a bathhouse.

Another story tells of Zhao Xiangzi sending Xinzhi Muzi to attack the state of Di, where they swiftly captured the cities of Zuoren and Zhongren. When the victory report arrived during a meal, Zhao Xiangzi wore a troubled expression. His attendants asked, "Conquering two cities in a day should bring joy—why does my lord grieve?" Xiangzi said, "Great rivers flood for no more than three days; storms rage for no more than a morning; the midday sun lingers but a moment. Our house of Zhao has not yet accumulated sufficient De (virtue), yet we’ve suddenly achieved great triumph. I fear such fortune cannot endure."

This scripture illustrates the Daoist wisdom of "the soft and weak overcoming the hard and strong" through several parables.

When Confucius heard that the state of Zhao had captured two cities simultaneously, he predicted: "Zhao will soon prosper." For it is through vigilance that states flourish, while complacency leads to ruin. Achieving victory is not difficult—the true challenge lies in maintaining it. Enlightened rulers understand this principle, thus securing blessings for future generations. The states of Qi, Chu, Wu, and Yue each enjoyed temporary hegemony, yet all ultimately perished because they lacked the wisdom to preserve their triumphs. Only rulers who have attained the Dao (the Way) can truly sustain victory.

Two examples then demonstrate how true strength never flaunts might: Confucius possessed the strength to lift a city gate's massive bar, yet never became known for martial prowess; Mozi (founder of Mohism) impressed the master craftsman Gongshu Ban with his defensive strategies, yet refused to be celebrated as a military genius. Those skilled at preserving victory often appear weak outwardly.

The text recounts a story about a Song family: Three generations of their household practiced virtue, and their black cow bore a white calf (considered an auspicious omen in antiquity). Confucius declared this a propitious sign, advising them to use it for sacrifice. A year later, the father suddenly went blind, and the black cow again bore a white calf. The son hesitated to consult Confucius again, but the father insisted: "The sage's words first bring adversity, then fortune." True enough, the son also lost his sight the following year. When Chu later invaded Song, both father and son survived the war's devastation because of their blindness—and afterward, their vision miraculously restored.

Finally, two entertainers are contrasted: A Song acrobat received lavish rewards for his exceptional skills, but when another performer came later displaying similar feats, the ruler—then in ill temper—nearly executed him. Duke Mu of Qin asked the horse expert Bole: "You've grown old—do any descendants possess your gift for judging steeds?"

These stories collectively reveal: True wisdom lies not in displays of strength, but in discerning timing and using softness to overcome hardness. At the peak of prosperity, one must maintain vigilance—what appears weak and yielding often endures longest.

Bo Le (an ancient horse physiognomy expert) replied to Duke Huan of Qi: "Ordinary fine horses can be judged by their form, bones, and sinews. But the truly exceptional thousand-mile steed of the world—its characteristics seem to exist yet not exist, elusive and impossible to grasp. When it runs, its speed leaves even the dust behind. My sons are men of mediocre talent who can only recognize ordinary good horses, incapable of identifying such a treasure of the world. However, there was Jiufang Gao (a master horse judge) who once gathered firewood and carried burdens with me—his skill in judging horses far surpasses mine."

When Jiufang Gao searched for a thousand-mile steed for Duke Mu of Qin, he returned after three months reporting he'd found one at Sandy Hill. Asked what kind of horse it was, he replied it was a yellow mare. But when sent to retrieve it, the horse turned out to be a black stallion. An angry Duke Mu confronted Bo Le, who sighed in admiration: "This is precisely where he surpasses me ten thousandfold! Jiufang Gao observes the horse's innate divine vitality (Shen), grasping its essence while overlooking superficial traits, valuing inner qualities rather than external features. He sees only what should be seen and disregards what's unimportant. This realm of horse judgment is more precious than the skill itself." The horse later proved indeed to be a rare, exceptional steed.

When King Zhuang of Chu sought governance advice from Zhan He (a Daoist recluse), Zhan He replied: "I only understand self-cultivation, not state governance." The king insisted on learning statecraft methods, to which Zhan He responded: "I've never heard of a ruler who cultivated himself rigorously yet governed a chaotic state, nor seen a ruler of corrupt character presiding over a prosperous kingdom. The root of governance lies in self-cultivation—I dare not answer you with trivial details." The king praised this wisdom.

The Elder of Fox Hill (a hermit) said to Shusun Ao (Prime Minister of Chu): "There are three ways men invite resentment: high nobility provokes envy, great office arouses the ruler's suspicion, and generous emoluments easily draw others' resentment."

This scripture illustrates the Daoist wisdom of "maintaining softness and abiding in humility" through two contrasting stories.

The first story tells of Sunshu Ao, the prime minister of Chu. Someone warned him: "The higher your position, the more envy you attract; the greater your power, the more suspicion from the ruler; the richer your wealth, the heavier the resentment." Sunshu Ao replied: "The higher my rank, the more humble my heart; the greater my authority, the more cautious my actions; the more abundant my wealth, the more generously I share." On his deathbed, he advised his son: "The king of Chu has repeatedly offered me rewards, but I refused them all. If after my death, the king wishes to grant you land, never accept fertile territory. Instead, ask for Qinqiu (modern-day Gushi, Henan), a barren and ill-omened place (the character '寝' suggests death). The people of Chu believe in ghosts and spirits, while the Yue people trust omens—neither would want it, so it will remain in our family forever." His son followed this advice, and the land remained in their possession for generations.

The second story concerns the Confucian scholar Niu Que, a renowned scholar from Shangdi, who encountered robbers in Handan. Though they took all his belongings, he remained calm. Puzzled, the robbers asked why, to which he replied: "A nobleman does not let material possessions harm his inner cultivation." The robbers marveled, saying, "Truly a virtuous man!" But then they reconsidered: "If such a wise man reports us to the king of Zhao, we’ll be in trouble." So they chased him down and killed him. When the people of Yan heard of this, they warned each other: "If you meet robbers, don’t act like Niu Que." Later, Niu Que’s younger brother traveled to Qin and was also robbed. Remembering his brother’s fate, he first resisted fiercely, then groveled when overpowered. Enraged, the robbers shouted: "Sparing your life was mercy enough! Yet you still beg for your things—this will expose us!" They killed him and several others with him.

These two stories present a stark contrast: Sunshu Ao understood that "high status demands greater humility," ensuring his peaceful end and his family’s lasting security by willingly choosing "unfavorable land." Meanwhile, the Confucian Niu Que, though morally upright, invited death by displaying his virtue, while his brother, overcorrecting, provoked violence by appearing weak. Together, they embody the Daoist philosophy that "softness overcomes hardness" and "daring not to take the lead in the world."

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of the Ultimate Virtue of Empty Nothingness) presents two instructive anecdotes concerning human conduct and worldly interactions.

The first tale recounts a wealthy man named Yu from Liang State, whose riches were beyond measure. He often amused himself by hosting gambling feasts in his street-facing tower. Once, during a dice game, a thrown die happened to strike a rotting rat below, provoking uproarious laughter from the revelers. Passing knights-errant took this as a grave insult, reasoning: "The Yu family's prolonged luxury has bred contempt for others. Though we never provoked them, they shame us with putrid vermin. Unless we avenge this slight, how can we maintain our standing in the martial world?" That night, they gathered their followers and exterminated the entire Yu household.

The second narrative tells of Yuan Jingmu, who collapsed from starvation on the road. A bandit named Qiu (from the robber-infested region of Hufu) compassionately fed him. After three meals restored his sight, Yuan learned his benefactor's identity and immediately tried to vomit the food, ultimately starving himself to death. The commentary observes: Though Qiu was a robber, the food wasn't stolen. To reject sustenance because the giver bears a thief's name is to confuse reputation with substance.

The text further relates the story of Zhu Lishu: He retreated to the seashore gathering water chestnuts and acorns, believing Lord Ju'ao failed to recognize his worth. Yet when the lord faced calamity, Zhu rushed to die with him. To puzzled friends he explained: "I left because of being misunderstood; now I die precisely to prove my true value."

Zhu Lishu said: "To those who do not understand me, my existence makes no difference. Believing myself to be misunderstood, I chose to depart. Now if I die, it will precisely prove their failure to comprehend me. I shall use death to shame future rulers who fail to understand their ministers. Those who truly know me would die for me, while those who don't would not—this is the upright path of the Dao (the Way)." Zhu Lishu may be called one who forgot his own safety in expressing righteous indignation.

Yang Zhu (a Warring States period philosopher) remarked: "Kindness extended invites reciprocation, while resentment expressed invites misfortune. What emanates from within finds its counterpart without—thus the wise remain cautious in speech and action."

When Yang Zhu's neighbor lost a sheep, he not only mobilized his whole household but also enlisted Yang Zhu's servants in the search. Yang Zhu asked: "Why dispatch so many for one missing sheep?" The neighbor replied: "There are too many branching paths." Upon their return, Yang Zhu inquired: "Did you find it?" The neighbor said: "It's lost." Asked how, he explained: "The branching paths had further branches—we knew not which way to pursue, so we returned." Yang Zhu's countenance darkened with sorrow; for a full day he neither spoke nor smiled. His disciples found this strange: "Sheep are lowly creatures, and this wasn't even yours—why such grief?" Yang Zhu remained silent.

Disciple Meng Sunyang reported this to Xinduzi. Later, Xinduzi came with Meng Sunyang to consult Yang Zhu: "Once there were three brothers who studied in Qi and Lu under the same master to learn the Dao of humaneness and righteousness (Ren-Yi). Upon returning, their father asked what they had learned. The eldest said humaneness teaches us to cherish life above reputation; the second said it requires sacrificing life for reputation; the youngest said it preserves both life and reputation. These contradictory teachings all stem from Confucianism—which is right or wrong?"

Yang Zhu responded with a parable: "By the riverside lived an expert swimmer who ferried people to support his hundred-member household. Many came to learn swimming, yet nearly half drowned. They came to learn swimming, not drowning—yet this was the result. Who would you say was right or wrong?" Xinduzi departed in silence. Meng Sunyang reproached him: "Your question was circuitous, the master's reply obscure—I'm more confused than ever." Xinduzi said: "The great road loses sheep through its many forks; seekers lose their lives through myriad methods. The root of learning lies in returning to the origin, not straying amidst proliferating branches."

This passage conveys profound truths through several allegorical stories.

The first story tells of Yang Bu, younger brother of the philosopher Yang Zhu from the Warring States period. Yang Bu went out wearing white clothes, but after rain forced him to change into black garments, his own dog failed to recognize him and barked furiously. When Yang Bu wanted to beat the dog, Yang Zhu remarked: "If your dog had gone out white and returned black, wouldn't you also be astonished?" This illustrates how misunderstandings naturally arise when external appearances change.

Next comes a lesson about virtuous deeds: Performing good acts shouldn't be for fame, yet fame naturally follows; fame shouldn't be pursued for profit, yet benefits naturally come; benefits shouldn't invite contention, yet conflict inevitably arises. Therefore, noble persons must exercise particular caution in virtuous conduct.

Then follows the story of the ruler of Yan: A man claimed knowledge of immortality techniques, so the king sent envoys to learn them. Before mastery was achieved, the man died. When the furious king wanted to execute the envoys, a minister advised: "How could someone who couldn't preserve his own life possibly grant you immortality?" This satirizes those blindly pursuing longevity without understanding fundamental principles.

In Wei state, a skilled mathematician on his deathbed taught his son calculation secrets. The son memorized them but couldn't apply them. When questioned, the son repeated his father's words, yet the questioner could actually use the method. This shows: Those who know methods may fail to practice them, while practitioners may lack theoretical knowledge. Similarly, the dead cannot transmit techniques for eternal life.

Finally, the story of Handan citizens presenting turtledoves to Lord Jian of Zhao on New Year's Day: The delighted lord rewarded them handsomely, claiming he'd release the birds to demonstrate benevolence. A guest pointed out: "When people know you'll release captured birds, they'll compete to catch more, causing greater mortality. Better to simply forbid capture - so-called mercy through release cannot offset the original harm." This reveals how surface-level good deeds may produce worse consequences.

The Tian clan of Qi held a grand ancestral sacrifice in their courtyard, hosting a banquet for over a thousand guests. During the feast, someone presented fish and wild geese as offerings. Tian looked at these sacrificial items and sighed, "How benevolent Heaven is to the common people! It makes the five grains grow and produces fish and birds for human consumption." The guests all echoed his sentiment in perfect unison, like reverberating echoes.

At this moment, a twelve-year-old boy named Bao who was among the guests stepped forward and said, "I cannot agree with your view. All beings between Heaven and Earth share equal life with us humans—there are no inherent hierarchies. It's merely differences in physical size and intellectual capacity that create relationships of mutual restraint and consumption, not because Heaven specially created these creatures for humans. Just as humans select edible foods to eat, can we say that mosquitoes sucking blood or tigers and wolves eating meat means Heaven specifically created humans for mosquitoes and meat for predators?"

In Qi, there was a poor man who often begged in the city. The townspeople, annoyed by his frequent appearances, stopped giving him alms. He eventually went to work in Tian's stables assisting the horse doctors for food. The townspeople mocked him: "Aren't you ashamed to eat by working with horse doctors?" The beggar replied, "The greatest shame under Heaven is begging. If I feel no shame in begging, why should I feel ashamed working with horse doctors?"

A man of Song found someone's lost contract on the road. Returning home, he secretly counted the notches carved on it (ancient contractual proof) and told his neighbor, "My day of wealth is near." Another family had a withered phoenix tree, and an elderly neighbor said dead phoenix trees were inauspicious, so the owner hurriedly chopped it down. Later when the old neighbor came asking for firewood, the man said resentfully, "So this old man tricked me into cutting the tree just to get firewood! Such scheming neighbors!"

A man who lost his axe suspected his neighbor's son had stolen it. The boy's walk seemed like a thief's, his expression seemed like a thief's, his speech seemed like a thief's—everything about him appeared suspicious. Later when the axe was found in a valley, the man saw the neighbor's son again and found nothing about him resembled a thief.

When Bai Gong Sheng (a senior official of Chu) was plotting rebellion, even after court dismissal he would stand fiddling with his horsewhip until its iron tip pricked his chin. (This detail revealed his inner anxiety)

In the state of Zheng, there was a man so absorbed in his thoughts while walking that he didn't even notice his own blood dripping onto the ground. When the locals heard about this, they remarked: "When one is this focused, even pain is forgotten—what else couldn't be forgotten?" When the mind becomes completely fixated on something, one might trip over tree stumps or bump into trunks without realizing it.

Long ago in the state of Qi, there was a man obsessed with obtaining gold. One morning, he dressed properly and went to the marketplace, heading straight for the gold vendor's stall, where he grabbed the gold and ran. The officers caught him and asked, "With so many people around, how dare you openly steal gold?" The man replied, "When I took the gold, I didn’t see any people—only the gold."

(This passage uses two parables to illustrate the state of "spirit concentration" (shen ning): when the mind is intensely focused on one thing, awareness of the external world fades. In Daoist cultivation, this state is both an achievement and a warning—excessive fixation can lead to losing one’s true nature.)