《沖虛至德真經鬳齋口義》

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) secluded himself in the royal hunting grounds of Zheng State for forty years, with none comprehending his true attainment. The rulers and officials of Zheng regarded him as an ordinary commoner. When famine struck Zheng, Liezi prepared to journey to Wei State. His disciples asked: "Master, your departure suggests you may not return. We presume to ask—what teachings will you impart to us? Have you not heard the instructions of your teacher Huzi Qulin?"

The mentioned royal hunting grounds of Zheng, like those of Qin State recorded in the Zuo Zhuan, were imperial preserves. Here "journey" (嫁) carries a dialectical meaning of distant travel. Huzi Qulin being Liezi's teacher, the disciples sought transmission of his master's wisdom.

Liezi smiled and replied: "What words did Master Huzi ever speak? Yet I once overheard his conversation with Bohun Maoren (a recluse), which I shall now share." The phrase "what words" implies these truths transcend verbal expression. Bohun Maoren was Huzi's friend, and "overheard" denotes learning at the master's side. By first claiming "no words" then transmitting teachings, Liezi reveals how wordless mysteries surpass formal discourse.

Huzi said: "That which generates all things is itself ungenerated; that which transforms all things is itself untransformed. Only the ungenerated can generate all things; only the untransformed can transform all things. What is generated cannot but generate; what is transformed cannot but transform. Thus all things perpetually generate and transform in ceaseless cycles of birth and dissolution. The Yin-Yang energies operate thus; the four seasons revolve thus. The ungenerated stands solitary yet eternal; the untransformed cycles endlessly without conclusion. This realm lies beyond measurement; this principle extends without limit."

This passage reveals: All generation stems from the ungenerated origin (the Dao); all transformation flows from the untransformed source. Precisely because Dao itself is ungenerated and unchanging, it can generate and transform all existence. "Cannot but generate/transform" describes the phenomenal world. The Creator (Dao), being birthless and deathless, eternally generates transformation. "Timeless" signifies perpetual presence. The operations of Yin-Yang and seasons all manifest Dao's workings. "Solitary yet eternal" resembles Laozi's "appearing as ancestor of all things"—seemingly independent existence; while "endless cycles" mirror "existing before any manifest divinity," present prior to all phenomena.

This passage from the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of Perfect Virtue in the Highest Void) expounds profound Daoist insights into the cosmic origin. The term "solitary" refers to the supreme and ineffable Dao (the Way), which stands alone without companion; "uncertain" describes that ambiguous, indescribable state. The cyclical alternation of yin-yang and the four seasons resembles the endless succession of day and night, hence this transformation is said to have no conclusion.

The "Valley Spirit" (referring to the mysterious void as the source) is eternal and indestructible—this is what is called the "Mystic Feminine" (the profound maternal origin). The gateway of this Mystic Feminine is the root of heaven, earth, and the myriad things. It seems to exist yet not exist, continuous without end, inexhaustible in function yet never wearied. Though originally from Laozi Chapter 6, the attribution to the Yellow Emperor's writings suggests the transmission lineage behind Laozi's thought.

Here, the "Valley Spirit" is explained as the divine mystery within emptiness, from which human spirit (Shen) also arises, enabling its eternal existence. The phrase "Mystic Feminine" describes the nature of "emptiness," from which all things in heaven and earth emerge. "Continuous, as if enduring" means appearing both present and absent, unbroken in its flow—operating in nothingness, it never depletes, just as Laozi states: "Empty, yet never exhausted; the more it moves, the more it brings forth."

Zhu Xi (Master Hui) remarked that this contains the subtle principle of endless generation, which is not incorrect but leans toward an interpretation focused on life cultivation. In truth, Laozi's original intent in this chapter was not exclusively about life cultivation. Liezi cites it to illustrate the principle of "neither generating nor transforming."

That which truly creates the myriad things does not deliberately generate them; that which transforms them does not deliberately act. All things arise and transform spontaneously, take form and color naturally, possess wisdom and strength innately, and wax and wane of their own accord. To assume there is an active subject intentionally performing these acts of generation, transformation, shaping, coloring, intellect, or decline is mistaken. Between heaven and earth, all occurs naturally: form and color manifest in humans and objects; wisdom and strength are human attributes; flourishing and decay follow destiny's course. True "spontaneity" (ziran) appears to generate and transform yet in reality neither generates nor transforms.

This scripture explores the process and essence of cosmic generation. It first points out that the true origin has neither concrete form nor color, neither vanishes nor changes, and initially possesses neither fixed name nor actual trace. To stubbornly pursue the origin through concrete names and traces would be mistaken.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) states that ancient sages governed heaven and earth through Yin-Yang. Since tangible things emerge from the formless, then from where did heaven and earth originate? Here the character "hu" (gourd) serves as a metaphor, suggesting the universe resembles a cosmos within a gourd—profound and unfathomable. The phrase "he yan zai" (what words suffice) carries deep meaning, resonating with Zhuangzi's teaching that "one may speak all day without having spoken."

The text then delineates four stages of cosmic generation: Taiyi (the state before Qi manifests), Taichu (the inception of Qi), Taishi (the inception of form), and Taisu (the inception of substance). This continues Zhuangzi's line of thought but with finer gradations. Here "Yi" doesn't refer to the Confucian Classic of Changes (Yijing), but signifies transformation and creation. The "su" (primal substance) mentioned by craftsmen when speaking of "embryonic substance" refers precisely to this most primordial quality.

When Qi, form, and substance coexist yet remain undifferentiated, this is called the "Hunlun" (chaotic undivided) state. At this stage, all things intermingle as one—invisible, inaudible, and intangible—hence called "Yi." Yi has no fixed form. First it transforms into "One," then "One" becomes "Seven," and "Seven" becomes "Nine." "Nine" represents the ultimate, which then reverts to "One"—this "One" marks the beginning of formal transformations.

Beyond expounding profound principles, this passage demonstrates distinctive literary structure. After presenting the four "Tai" stages, it synthesizes form, Qi, and substance—revealing the text's artful composition.

This scripture describes the process of cosmic formation and the evolution of all things. The initial state was the undifferentiated "Great Primality" (Taiyi) stage, where even Qi (vital energy) had not yet manifested—it was beyond sight, sound, or touch. Subsequently, Qi began to transform, giving rise to the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate, the cosmic origin), which then differentiated into the two energies of Yin and Yang and the Five Phases (Metal, Wood, Water, Fire, and Earth). Together, these constitute the seven fundamental elements.

The text explains the numerical symbolism of Yin-Yang transformations: Lesser Yin is represented by eight, Greater Yin by six; Lesser Yang by seven, and Greater Yang by nine. Here, nine signifies the ultimate expression of the Qian (Heaven) trigram (pure Yang), but things reverse at their extremes, eventually returning to the state of "One." This embodies the cyclical principle of "being returns to non-being, and non-being gives rise to being."

The light and clear Yang Qi ascends to form Heaven, while the turbid and heavy Yin Qi descends to form Earth. The harmonized interplay of Yin and Yang Qi gives birth to humanity. The conception of all things by Heaven and Earth requires the union of both Yin and Yang energies—neither Yin nor Yang alone can generate life.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) states that Heaven, Earth, sages, and all things each have their strengths and limitations. Heaven's function is to cover and nurture growth, Earth's is to support and shape forms, the sage's is to teach and transform, and each thing's nature has its own suitability. The principles governing Heaven and Earth's operations are none other than Yin and Yang; the teachings of sages are none other than benevolence and righteousness; the characteristics of all things are none other than hardness and softness. These all exemplify each entity fulfilling its role and realizing its potential.

This discussion is remarkably precise, with its core idea being that even supreme entities like Heaven and Earth are not omnipotent—each thing has its specific function and inherent limitations.

All things in heaven and earth have their inherent limitations. Heaven can generate life and cover all beings, earth can shape forms and bear all things, yet neither is omnipotent. The sage (one who has attained the Dao) stands between heaven and earth, charged with guiding all beings—each fulfilling their role according to their nature. Even sages have limitations, while ordinary things may possess unique capabilities.

Guidance must follow the innate nature of all things, just as governing a state requires adapting to the times through three approaches (loyalty, substance, and refinement), and nurturing talent demands teaching according to the nine virtues tailored to individual aptitudes. The characteristics of all things are fixed: the curved cannot be straightened, the small cannot be enlarged, the salty cannot turn sour, the cool cannot become hot—these are determined by their essential nature. The Yijing (Book of Changes) classifies Yin-Yang, firmness-softness, and humaneness-righteousness into the three categories of heaven, earth, and humanity. Here, they are further subdivided into heaven, earth, sages, and all things—each with its own principle.

In the world, there are living beings and the source that creates life; there are concrete forms and the force that shapes them; there are audible sounds and the origin that produces them; there are visible colors and the mechanism that manifests them; there are tasted flavors and the root that generates them. Created life will perish, but the source of life never exhausts; concrete forms are tangible, but the shaping force itself has no fixed form; audible sounds fade, but their origin remains; visible colors fade, but the principle of coloration is eternal; tasted flavors change, but the essence of flavor never manifests—these are all expressions of Wuwei (non-action, the spontaneous workings of creation).

What we call living beings, forms, sounds, colors, and flavors refer to concrete things, while the forces that create life, shape forms, produce sounds, manifest colors, and generate flavors are the spontaneous workings of the Dao (the Way). "Governance" here means mastery, and Wuwei is the essence of creation. Without directly giving birth, it generates life; without form, it shapes all things—even manifesting colors, producing sounds, and forming flavors. These are the miraculous operations of creation.

Creation can manifest Yin or Yang, softness or firmness, shortness or length, roundness or squareness; it can generate life and death, cold and heat, floating and sinking; it can produce the gong and shang musical notes (two of the ancient five tones), display the dark and yellow hues (heaven's dark blue, earth's yellow), and create sweet, bitter, gamey, or fragrant flavors. It seems without perception or capability, yet knows and accomplishes all. This paradoxical nature is precisely the profound mystery of creation (the Dao).

This passage elucidates the Daoist principle of the ceaseless transformation of all things. Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure), while traveling to the State of Wei, pointed to a century-old skull by the roadside and told his disciple Baifeng: "Only this skull and I truly understand that there is neither real life nor real death."

The text illustrates this truth through a chain of biological metamorphoses: a frog may transform into a quail, aquatic plants into moss, while grasses growing on earthen slopes become plantains. When plantains encounter fertile soil, they turn into crowfoot grass. The roots of crowfoot grass become scarab larvae, while its leaves transform into butterflies. Soon, these butterflies change again into insects called "ju duo" found beneath stoves. After a thousand days, the ju duo becomes a bird named "gan yu gu," whose saliva then transforms into "si mi" insects. These si mi insects become vinegar worms, which in turn evolve into yellow kuang insects... This endless sequence of transformations continues without cease.

When Liezi states "there has never been birth nor death," he means that life and death are merely changes in form, with no essential difference between them. The subsequent phrase "guo yang hu guo huan hu" likely contains transcription errors, and should probably read "ruo guo yang hu? yu guo huan hu?" meaning: "Do you truly understand the meaning of existence? Do I truly comprehend the joy beyond death?" These rhetorical questions provoke deeper reflection.

The phrase "the seed contains infinitesimal potential" suggests that although the myriad things in the world appear diverse, they all originate from minute fundamental sources of transformation. The author isn't using small things to metaphorically represent grand truths, but rather demonstrating how all things are fundamentally interconnected and mutually transforming. While similar to passages in the Zhuangzi, this text adds detailed observations—from roadside skulls to natural biological transformations—to expound the Daoist view of "the equality of all things" regarding life and death.

This passage discusses the principle of perpetual transformation in all things, pointing out that words and distinctions—whether grand or humble, noble or base—are ultimately without essential difference. The seemingly chaotic arrangement of the text actually follows an underlying order, much like appreciating scattered clouds and solitary geese, or fragmented peaks and broken cliffs—the more one contemplates them, the more profound their flavor becomes. It notes that the original Zhuangzi text was far more subtle, while later additions appear discordant by comparison.

The text meticulously catalogs various phenomena of mutual transformation among living creatures: moss (known as "the robe of marsh frogs") grows at the water's edge where earth and water meet; the plantain herb (Plantago) growing on elevated fields transforms into crowfoot grass when growing in manure, with crowfoot roots turning into scarab larvae (grubs) while its leaves become butterflies. The soft-bodied insects beneath stoves metamorphose into myna birds, whose saliva then generates tiny midges; vinegar flies and gnats are also mentioned among these intertransformations of insects.

Further examples continue: sheep's liver transforms into ground orchids, horse blood into will-o'-the-wisps, human blood into wildfire; sparrowhawks change into kestrels, kestrels into cuckoos, and cuckoos back into sparrowhawks; swallows become clams, field mice turn into quails; rotten melons transform into fish, aged leeks into amaranth, old ewes into apes, and fish eggs into insects. These examples collectively illustrate how all things exist in ceaseless transformation—an eternal cycle of generation and regeneration without end.

This passage describes remarkable phenomena of biological transformation in the natural world. It first mentions creatures recorded in the Classic of Mountains and Seas (Shanhaijing): the Dan Yuan beast (a feline-like creature with long fur) that can self-conceive offspring, called "Lei"; a river-dwelling bird named "Yi" that reproduces through mutual gazing; the all-female giant softshell turtles, and the all-male dwarf bees (where only the queen bee has a stinger while worker bees are male).

The text then cites extraordinary human birth cases: "Si Shi" (men yearning for women) can conceive through emotional resonance without marriage, while "Si Nü" (women longing for men) can become pregnant without wedlock; Hou Ji (ancestor of the Zhou dynasty) was born after his mother stepped on a giant's footprint, and Yi Yin (renowned Shang dynasty minister) emerged from a hollow mulberry tree. It further notes transformative phenomena among food sources: the Jue Zhao insects born in damp places, and vinegar flies (tiny flying insects) bred from wine.

Finally, it outlines an ecological chain: the Yang Xi grass (resembling bamboo) coexists with non-sprouting bamboo; aged bamboo gives rise to Qing Ning insects, which produce Cheng insects; Cheng insects generate horse grass, and horse grass yields ginseng plants—ultimately illustrating how all things originate from and return to nature's creative force. The author clarifies that while these accounts may seem astonishing, they are not factual records but parables Zhuangzi employed to provoke contemplation. The mentioned species—such as purslane, indigo plants, and ginseng—are all real-world flora.

This passage primarily discusses Daoist thought regarding the transformation of all things and the cyclical nature of life and death.

It first observes that the Liezi may not be a complete text, as many classical works were lost after the Qin dynasty. When later generations attempted to reconstruct them, forged materials inevitably became mixed in—much like the Guan Yinzi, which contains both profound insights and adulterated content.

Quoting the Yellow Emperor's Scripture, it states: "Movement of form does not produce form, but rather shadow; movement of sound does not produce sound, but rather echo. Without movement there is no generation, and what is generated must ultimately end. Heaven and earth will ultimately end with me, yet how this ending occurs remains beyond our knowing." The Dao (the Way) itself has no beginning, and thus no end; transformation never ceases, and therefore nothing remains permanently fixed. What has life must return to lifelessness; what has form must return to formlessness.

The author considers the phrases "movement of form produces shadow, movement of sound produces echo" particularly insightful, as they illustrate how "being" arises from "non-being." All existing things emerge from emptiness and ultimately return to emptiness. Heaven and earth are also forms—how could they not end along with us? Yet if we say heaven and earth truly have an end, this remains something we cannot know with certainty. The phrase "the ending advances beyond knowing" means the concept of termination ultimately reaches a state that transcends comprehension. Here "advances" (jin) carries the sense of "exhaustion" (jin), a semantic shift resulting from phonetic evolution. What has no beginning naturally has no end; what undergoes constant transformation cannot persist eternally. Life must return to lifelessness; form must return to formlessness.

This passage elucidates the fundamental principle of life and death transformation. The formless and shapeless Dao (the cosmic origin) gives birth to all tangible phenomena, which ultimately return to formlessness. The true state of "neither arising nor ceasing" actually transcends the conceptual distinction between "birth" and "non-birth"—the moment we describe it as "non-arising," we've already deviated from the essence of Dao.

Life inevitably concludes, just as it inevitably begins. The desire for eternal life and resistance to death represent misguided thoughts that violate natural law. The human spirit (heavenly hun) belongs to the clear, ascending heavens, while the physical body (earthly po) belongs to the turbid, descending earth. After death, the spirit returns to the celestial realm and the body to the earth, as the Yellow Emperor stated: "The spirit enters the heavenly gate, the bones return to earthly roots." What then remains of "me"?

The text particularly emphasizes: Life and death follow natural law, yet those who cling to life and fear death constantly resist mortality. The phrase "deluded by numbers" refers to being misled by attachment to lifespan duration. Zhu Xi's criticism that Buddhism plagiarized this concept is mistaken—discussions about life and death have existed since ancient times, with figures like Yuan Rang (a Daoist thinker from the Spring and Autumn period) representing such ideas. Buddhism originated in the West and couldn't have appropriated Central Plains philosophy.

Human life progresses through four stages: infancy, prime years, old age, and death. During infancy, Jing (essence) and Qi remain pure and unified, in perfect harmony with nature—external forces cannot harm this state of complete De (virtue). In one's prime, vigorous blood and Qi lead to increased desires and overthinking, making one vulnerable to external disturbances as De begins declining. In old age, desires diminish as the body gradually rests, no longer threatened by external matters. Though not matching infantile purity, this stage approaches the return to natural harmony.

In youth, one's vital essence (Jing) is abundant, while at death, it is as if entering a state of rest—this signifies a return to the original source of life.

Human life can be divided into several stages: childhood, when one's vital energy (Qi) is still unstable; adulthood, when Qi flourishes; and old age, when Qi declines. Zhuangzi states that nature endows us with form, assigning us to toil in life, find ease in old age, and rest in death—dividing existence into four phases. Laozi describes infancy as the most perfect state, when Qi is full yet not dissipated. In adulthood, as Qi becomes vigorous, desires and thoughts emerge uncontrollably—yearning for wealth, calculating gains and losses. External matters begin to disturb the inner self, and the natural harmony of infancy fades. In old age, though desires remain, one's strength no longer matches ambition. Zhuangzi calls this "ease in old age," meaning the body seeks rest—phrased differently but conveying the same truth.

At this stage, one no longer competes with the world and naturally yields. Though not equal to the infant's state of non-contention with all things, it surpasses the desires of adulthood. When form and Qi are exhausted, one returns to life's origin—what Zhuangzi terms "rest in death." The "ultimate" refers to the Taiji (Supreme Ultimate), the primal state where life's transformations begin.

While traveling on Mount Tai, Confucius once saw Rong Qiqi (Rong being his surname, Qiqi his given name) in the wilderness of Cheng, dressed in deerskin with a rope belt, playing the qin and singing. Confucius asked, "Why are you so joyful, sir?" Rong Qiqi replied, "My joys are many. Heaven creates all things, yet humans are most noble—that I am human is my first joy. Men and women differ, yet men are esteemed above women—that I am a man is my second joy. Some die at birth, yet I've lived to ninety—this is my third joy. Poverty is the scholar's lot; death, everyone's end. I abide in my lot yet reach my natural span—what cause for sorrow?" Confucius sighed, "Well said! Truly one who consoles himself."

The description of deerskin robes and rope belts illustrates Rong Qiqi's simple life. Among heaven and earth's creations, humans are most noble; among humans, men rank above women—these three joys align with human nature. This parable teaches how to regard wealth, poverty, life, and death. Those who can console themselves are thus.

The passage recounts a dialogue between Lin Lei (an ancient recluse) and Zigong (a disciple of Confucius), demonstrating the Daoist transcendent attitude toward life and death.

In late spring, the centenarian Lin Lei was gathering wheat ears along the field ridges while wearing a fur coat, singing as he walked. When Confucius saw him in the outskirts of the State of Wei, he thought this elder worth conversing with and sent Zigong to inquire. Zigong intercepted Lin Lei at the field's edge and asked, "Don't you feel any regret while singing and gleaning wheat like this?" Lin Lei continued singing without pausing his steps.

Only when Zigong pressed further did Lin Lei lift his head to counter, "What would I regret?" Zigong said, "You weren't diligent in youth, sought no fame in prime years, and now in old age have neither wife nor children with death approaching—how can you still joyfully gather wheat and sing?" Lin Lei laughed and replied, "The joy I possess is available to all, yet people like you worry about it instead. Precisely because I was idle in youth and uncontending in adulthood have I lived this long; precisely because I'm unburdened in old age with death near have I such happiness."

Zigong, perplexed, asked, "Long life is what all desire, death what all dread—why do you treat death as joy?" Lin Lei explained, "Life and death are like a cycle of coming and going. How do we know those who die here aren't reborn elsewhere? How do I know frantic clinging to life isn't delusion? How do I know today's death isn't better than past life?" Unable to comprehend, Zigong reported back to Confucius, who sighed, "I knew we could discuss the Dao (the Way) with him—he truly understands it, though not yet perfectly."

The term "late spring" refers to the season's end, while "singing while walking" captures the image of carefree movement. Lin Lei's "lack of diligence in youth" indicates his refusal to strive for fame, and "not competing in prime years" shows his avoidance of profit-seeking. This dialogue embodies the Daoist view of equating life and death—that forcibly pursuing fame and gain leads to premature demise, while following nature's course allows one to fulfill their heavenly years.

This passage discusses the principle of life-death轮回 (samsara). Zigong (a disciple of Confucius), weary from prolonged study, told Confucius he wished to rest. Confucius replied: "There is no rest while one lives." Puzzled, Zigong asked where true rest could be found. Confucius then pointed to the sight of burial mounds—those towering grave mounds being humanity's final resting place.

Here, the grave serves as a metaphor that death alone brings true rest. The noble person understands this truth and thus finds peace, while ordinary people, though clinging to life, must ultimately yield to it. The author notes that while this admonishes those who fear death, it carries deeper meaning—resonating with Chan Buddhist concepts like "dead mind" (abandoning attachments) and "the dead yet live" (transcending life and death).

The text references Zhuangzi's analogy of "the lost child who forgets the way home" to illustrate how people often forget death as the return to origin. The author also questions whether these words attributed to Confucius genuinely originate from Liezi (a Daoist master), as Liezi's writings frequently employ Confucius to expound Daoist principles.

Ultimately, the passage reveals: People know life's joys but not its toils; recognize old age's anxieties but not its ease; fear death's terror but fail to see it as true rest. Through sage dialogue, it illuminates life-death循环 (cyclical transformation)—living inevitably brings labor, while only death grants genuine repose.

Yanzi said: The ancients regarded death as a blessing, for virtuous people find rest in it while the unvirtuous perish. Death is the ultimate destination of De (Virtue/Power). The ancients called the deceased "returned ones." If the dead are those who have returned, then the living are "travelers" (those on the path). To journey endlessly without returning is to lose one's home. When an individual loses their home, the world condemns them; yet when all under heaven lose their home, no one sees it as wrong.

Some people abandon their homeland, forsake family, neglect their duties, and wander without returning—all would surely call them dissolute. Others become excessively attached to worldly achievements, flaunting their talents and chasing fame until they lose their true selves, yet the world praises them as wise. Both have lost their original nature, but people only condemn the former while applauding the latter. Only the sage understands what to embrace and what to reject.

The "virtuous" and "unvirtuous" correspond to the distinction between noble persons and petty people. "Return" signifies the final destination—De ultimately finds its verification in death. This reflects the Daoist principle of "returning to simplicity," using the great matter of life and death to illustrate truth. "Losing one's home" is what Daoists call "weakness and loss" (being lost from childhood). The phrase "admiring worldly wisdom" is a scribal error—it should read "overvaluing form and life," referring to excessive attachment to the body and existence.

People condemn dissipation as wrong yet paradoxically praise the cunning, unaware that cleverness equally deviates from the Dao. The sage's standard for acceptance or rejection is alignment with the Dao.

Someone asked Liezi: "Why do you value 'emptiness'?" Liezi replied: "Emptiness itself cannot be valued. To speak of 'valuing emptiness' means regarding it as the ultimate state; to say 'no value exists' means even the concept of 'emptiness' shouldn't be clung to—how then could it be valued?"

Liezi elaborated: True emptiness and stillness cannot be defined by names. Laozi said, "The name that can be named is not the eternal name"—emptiness is the state beyond traces or designation. Maintaining this state accords with nature; the moment discriminating thoughts of acceptance or rejection arise, deviation occurs. Just as pottery requires mending only after breaking, and the Dao's decline necessitated promoting humaneness and righteousness, these virtues cannot restore the Dao's original wholeness.

(Note: "Broken vessels" metaphorically refers to remedial measures arising after the Dao's fragmentation; "waving humaneness and righteousness" means flaunting these virtues like patching broken objects.)

The text speaks of how people often fail to perceive the imperceptible transformations occurring in all things. Master Zhou Xiong (invoking the name of an ancient sage) said: "The heavens and earth revolve without cease, yet who can detect such subtle changes?" Just as something diminishes over there, it increases here; where something takes form, elsewhere it wanes. These cycles of waxing and waning unfold continuously through the processes of life, with birth and death following each other seamlessly, leaving no discernible gaps in between.

The author employs the metaphor of a person aboard a boat: though the vessel moves forward, those on board feel no motion. Similarly, the transformations of heaven, earth, and the myriad things proceed unseen, eluding human perception. Observe how flowing waters merge to form rivers, their currents ever advancing; witness how human generations succeed each other to create history, as people age and pass on. Each era renews itself, and none can remain forever anchored in the past.

The passage notes that "no single breath (qi) advances abruptly, no single form wanes suddenly" — meaning all transformations occur gradually: the alternation of cold and heat in the seasons happens step by step; mountains becoming valleys and gorges rising into hills transpire slowly. Precisely because change isn't abrupt, people fail to notice it. The term "not sudden" (bu dun) here emphasizes this imperceptible progression.

Human life follows this same pattern. From infancy to old age, our skin, nails, and hair change daily, yet never transform abruptly in any single moment. This continuous transformation knows no interruption — only with the passage of time does it become apparent. Like the man from Qi who feared the sky might collapse (alluding to the "Qi man worries about heaven" parable), in truth the movements of heaven and earth follow their own inherent patterns, requiring no excessive anxiety.

The text also criticizes contemporaries who treat "humaneness and righteousness" (renyi) as mere playthings, much like how people today manipulate legal statutes, thereby making the restoration of simple, genuine virtue increasingly difficult.

A man troubled by the "man of Qi who feared the sky might fall" went to counsel him, saying: "The sky is nothing but accumulated Qi (vital energy), present everywhere. You bend and stretch, inhale and exhale—all day you move within the sky, so why worry about it collapsing?" The man countered: "If the sky is truly accumulated Qi, wouldn't the sun, moon, and stars fall down?" The counselor explained: "These too are merely luminous Qi. Even if they fell, they wouldn't harm anyone." The man persisted: "Then what if the earth crumbles?" The reply came: "The earth is heaped clods of soil, filling the four directions. You walk and tread upon it daily—why fear its collapse?" Only then did the man of Qi relax, and the counselor smiled in relief.

When Master Changlu heard of this, he remarked: "Rainbows, clouds, wind, rain, and the four seasons—these are the accumulated Qi forming heaven. Mountains, rivers, metals, stones, fire, and water—these are the accumulated forms constituting earth. Knowing heaven and earth are material constructs, how can we claim they're indestructible? Though vast to humans, they're but specks in the cosmos, destined to perish eventually. Worrying about imminent collapse is indeed foolish, yet insisting they'll never perish is equally wrong—when destruction truly comes, how can one not be concerned?"

Upon hearing this, Liezi offered a deeper perspective: "Declaring whether heaven and earth will perish is itself partial knowledge. Their fate lies beyond human comprehension. Just as the living know not death, nor the dead know life; as arrivals know not departure, nor departures know return—why cling to concerns about heaven and earth's survival?"

(Note: "Bending and breathing" illustrates how human activity interconnects with celestial Qi; "four directions" denotes cosmic emptiness; "walking and treading" describes earthly movement. Through these three-tiered dialogues—from concrete to abstract—the passage ultimately points to the Daoist philosophy of "equalizing all things," transcending attachment to existence and annihilation.)

This scripture elucidates the Daoist perspective on the relationship between the Dao (the Way) and all phenomena, as well as how humans should perceive their own existence.

The text first cites the Yijing (Book of Changes): "If Qian (Heaven) and Kun (Earth) were to perish, we could no longer perceive the Dao." The sages shared this understanding, though they never stated it explicitly. Within the vast emptiness of the universe, there originally existed no form or boundaries. Even Heaven and Earth are but minuscule existences within it. Yet from the human perspective, the tangible world of Heaven and Earth appears as the grandest reality. This reveals that the Dao is unfathomable and immeasurable, beyond complete human comprehension.

The text then recounts a dialogue between Shun and Cheng (recorded in Zhuangzi as "Minister") to illustrate: "Your physical body does not truly belong to you—how then can you claim possession of the Dao?" The body is but a temporary aggregation of forms bestowed by Heaven and Earth (weixing), life emerges from the harmonious blending of Yin and Yang (weihe), one's innate nature manifests the principles of natural order (weishun), while descendants resemble the molting of cicadas (weitui)—a perpetual cycle of renewal. Human actions, dwellings, and sustenance are all propelled by the circulating Yang Qi (vital energy) within Heaven and Earth, none of which truly belongs to the individual. This mirrors the Buddhist Yuanjue Jing (Sutra of Perfect Enlightenment)'s teaching: "Where does this illusory body truly reside?"

The latter section employs the parable of Master Guo of Qi and Master Xiang of Song: Guo prospered through "skillful taking" (by understanding natural cycles of cultivation), while Xiang mistakenly interpreted this as literal theft and met punishment. This demonstrates that attaining the Dao requires recognizing all things as belonging to nature's flow, not objects for forced possession.

The overarching theme emphasizes that Dao practitioners should transcend attachment to dualistic concepts like existence/non-existence or coming/going. One must realize that all phenomena represent the natural movement of Heaven and Earth's Qi (vital energy), with individuals serving merely as temporary vessels for these transformations.

There was a man named Xiang who became very pleased after hearing Master Guo's discourse on the principle of "taking" (dao), but he only grasped the superficial meaning without understanding its deeper significance. He proceeded to scale walls and bore through barriers, stealing whatever he encountered. Before long, he was convicted for possessing stolen goods, and even his family's ancestral property was confiscated.

Feeling deceived by Master Guo, Xiang went to complain. Master Guo asked, "How exactly were you 'taking' things?" After hearing the account, he sighed and said, "You've completely misunderstood the true meaning of 'taking'! Let me explain: We harness the winds and rains of heaven's timing and the bounties of earth's resources to grow crops and build houses. We hunt animals on land and catch fish and turtles in water—all these are acts of 'taking' resources from heaven and earth. But the crops, houses, animals, fish, and turtles are all born of heaven and earth, not private possessions. Thus, this kind of 'taking' brings no calamity."

"Gold, silver, treasures, grains, and fabrics, however, are all hoarded as private property by people, not bestowed by heaven and earth. When you steal these, of course you'll be punished—who else is to blame?" Xiang grew even more confused, thinking Master Guo was playing word games, so he went to consult Master Dongguo.

Master Dongguo illuminated the matter: "Isn't your very body also 'taken' from the union of Yin and Yang Qi? Even your life and form are gifts from heaven and earth—how much more so external possessions? All things under heaven are fundamentally one. To rigidly divide ownership is folly. Master Guo spoke of 'taking according to universal principle'—using communal resources—hence no disaster befell him. What you practiced was theft driven by selfish desire, so punishment followed. In truth, whether for public or private ends, all is 'taking.' Those who understand the transformative virtue (De) of heaven and earth wouldn't obsess over distinctions between taking and not taking."

(Note: The term "taking" here carries dual meaning—both physical acquisition and an allegory for the origin of all things. Daoism holds that human survival inherently depends on drawing from nature, with the key being whether such usage aligns with the Dao. This philosophy reflects the cosmological view of the unity of heaven and humanity, advocating harmony with nature rather than forced possession.)

This passage explores the relationship between humans and the cosmos. The core idea suggests that humans exist between Heaven and Earth, essentially drawing resources from both realms to sustain life. Ordinary people take these resources like thieves, while sages understand how to properly utilize them by following celestial patterns (using the Dao of Heaven) and appropriately distributing terrestrial benefits (sharing Earth's bounty).

The text references Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) and Liu Zongyuan (styled Zihou), both of whom discussed similar concepts. A key distinction is made between the public Dao that belongs to all and private Daos that differ among individuals. From a human perspective, actions can be categorized as public or private, but from Heaven and Earth's viewpoint, such distinctions don't exist—what we call "public" naturally emerges from cosmic processes, just as "private" aspects do.

When judged by cosmic standards, both conscious resource acquisition (theft) and unconscious acquisition (non-theft) become deliberate actions. This resembles how conscious distinctions between good and evil can paradoxically turn virtue itself into vice. The author quotes Laozi's famous line: "When the world knows beauty as beauty, ugliness arises" to illustrate this principle.

The passage concludes by noting these ideas may not originate from Liezi's original text but were likely added by later interpreters. Throughout, the text embodies the Daoist philosophy of Wuwei (non-action), advocating alignment with natural processes rather than forced intervention.