《沖虛至德真經鬳齋口義》Vol. 2

During the fifteenth year of the Yellow Emperor's reign, he became complacent because the people adored him, indulging solely in physical comforts and sensory pleasures. As a result, his complexion turned sallow and haggard, his spirit grew dull, and all his senses became disordered. Another fifteen years passed, and he began to worry about poor governance, exhausting his wisdom in state affairs and fretting over the people's welfare—only to find himself again with a withered appearance and a dazed mind.

The Yellow Emperor then lamented, "My mistakes are grave! Focusing only on self-cultivation leads to problems, and governing the world also brings trouble." So he set aside his administrative duties, dismissed his guards, reduced musical instruments, simplified his meals, and secluded himself in the Great Hall for quiet cultivation. For three months, he neglected court affairs, and during a daytime nap, he dreamed of journeying to the land of Huaxu (a legendary utopia).

This land of Huaxu 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 everything followed its natural course. The people harbored no desires, neither clinging to joy in life nor fearing death, so none died prematurely. They made no distinctions between intimacy and distance, so there was neither love nor hatred. Without notions of obedience or rebellion, there were no conflicts of interest. They could enter water without drowning, walk through fire without burning, remain unharmed by blades, and feel no pain from finger-pricks. They tread the air as if on solid ground and slept in the void as if on a bed. Clouds and mist did not obscure their vision, thunder did not disturb their hearing, beauty and ugliness did not stir their hearts, and they never stumbled on mountain paths—their spirits moved freely in perfect harmony.

Upon awakening, the Yellow Emperor was enlightened. He summoned his three ministers—Tianlao, Limu, and Taishanji—and said, "After three months of quiet cultivation, I failed to grasp the method of governing both self and state. Exhausted, I fell asleep and had this dream. Now I understand that the profoundest truth cannot be sought through ordinary means. I have realized it, attained it, yet cannot put it into words for you." Twenty-eight years later, the world was governed so perfectly it nearly resembled Huaxu. When the Yellow Emperor passed away, the people mourned him for over two centuries without cease.

(This passage, through the Yellow Emperor's dream, illustrates the Daoist ideal of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei), emphasizing that only by conforming to nature and eliminating artificial striving can perfect order be achieved. The characteristics of Huaxu's inhabitants embody the Daoist cultivation state of "no desires, no attachments" and "unity with the Dao.")

This passage discusses the mythical land of Huaxu (the ideal realm Emperor Huangdi visited in his dreams) and its conceptual connection with the "Virtuous State" mentioned in the Zhuangzi's "Mountain Tree" chapter. Both illustrate Emperor Huangdi's governance process: initially ruling with deliberate effort, ultimately attaining the realm of effortless non-action (Wuwei). "True life" refers to a state of existence aligned with one's innate nature, while "sallow and withered complexion" describes physical emaciation, and "mental confusion" depicts a mind clouded by disturbances from the five emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, pleasure, and desire.

A note clarifies that the character "淫" (often meaning "excessive") here should be interpreted as "deep," evoking the saturation of water permeating through objects. "Personal attendants" refers to close bodyguards, "bell racks" are wooden frames for hanging musical chimes, and "great court" denotes the imperial inner palace. "Embodiment cultivation" resembles modern practices of refining Qi (vital energy). The mentioned lands like Yanzhou and Taizhou, lying beyond the Nine Provinces, are as distant as the Buddhist realms of Aparagodānīya and Jambudvīpa (two of the four great continents in Buddhist cosmology). "Far removed" emphasizes extreme remoteness from the Central Plains.

"Natural absence of mind" describes a transcendent state free from discrimination or attachment. Those who attain this realm remain unharmed by water or fire, undisturbed in any circumstance. Blades and whips bring no pain; prods and tickles no itch—though their physical form exists, it seems formless. "Spirit-like movement" leaves no trace. Tianlao, Limu, and Taishan Ji were three of Emperor Huangdi's ministers, while "ascending afar" (originally "登假") should read "ascending beyond," referring to transcendence into immortality.

The Lieguyao Mountains (legendary immortal isles in the Eastern Sea) are home to divine beings who inhale wind and drink dew, abstaining from grains. Their minds are still as deep pools, their appearances pure as maidens. Without seeking closeness or distance, sages willingly serve them; without intimidation or anger, the virtuous eagerly assist; without charity or gifts, all things are self-sufficient; without hoarding wealth, they lack nothing. Here, Yin and Yang harmonize, the sun and moon shine perpetually, seasons follow their course, winds and rains are balanced, all things flourish in their time, harvests are abundant yearly, the land knows no calamities, people suffer no premature deaths, objects bear no flaws, and even spirits refrain from mischief.

These descriptions closely resemble the Zhuangzi, both centering on the ideal of governance through non-action. "Mind like still waters" illustrates a state of clarity akin to a placid spring. Through such marvels, the text embodies the Daoist vision of effortless rule and the transcendent state of realized beings.

This passage recounts a dialogue between Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) and his disciple Yinsheng, revealing the gradual stages of Daoist cultivation.

Liezi studied under the master Laoshangshi and befriended Bogaozi. After mastering the Dao, he could ride the wind home. Hearing of this, Yinsheng followed Liezi for several months without returning home, repeatedly requesting instruction in the Daoist arts but always being refused. Frustrated, Yinsheng decided to leave, yet Liezi made no attempt to stop him. Months later, Yinsheng returned, and Liezi asked why he kept coming and going.

Yinsheng explained: "Previously, when you refused my requests for teaching, I felt regret. Now I’ve reflected and returned." Liezi replied: "I once thought you had deep understanding, but now I see how shallow you are." He then shared his own journey in seeking the Dao:

After three years studying under his teacher, he no longer dared to think in terms of right and wrong or speak of gain and loss—only then did his teacher glance at him. After five years, he occasionally thought and spoke of such things, and his teacher finally smiled. After seven years, his thoughts and words no longer touched on right and wrong or gain and loss, and his teacher allowed him to sit beside him. After nine years, he completely transcended such distinctions, no longer knowing whether judgments belonged to himself or others—even forgetting who was teacher and who was friend. At this stage, his senses merged, body and mind became one, and when riding the wind, he could no longer tell whether the wind carried him or he carried the wind.

Liezi rebuked Yinsheng: "You’ve barely studied under me, yet you’ve complained many times. In such an impatient state, even your Qi cannot flow smoothly, and your body’s joints can hardly be received by the earth—how could you hope to ride the wind?"

This passage describes the progressive stages of spiritual cultivation and the refinement of one's nature in Daoist practice, recounting the experiences and realizations of Yin Sheng (Yin Xi) as he studied the Dao with Lao Shang (Laozi).

Initially, Yin Sheng was filled with doubt and dissatisfaction. After prolonged quiet meditation, even his breathing became subtle and gentle. Though he repeatedly sought answers, he received no direct explanations, yet dared not leave without permission. Only when he relinquished his attachments and came and went freely did he genuinely begin to comprehend the Great Dao (Dao).

The path of cultivation involves three crucial phases: First, one must spend three years dissolving the discriminating mind that judges right and wrong, maintaining silent stillness. Next, one allows thoughts, words, and actions to follow their natural course, no longer calculating gains and losses. Finally, complete spontaneity is achieved, where speech and action transcend the constraints of deliberate thought. These four stages represent sequential steps in cultivation practice.

When inner refinement reaches the state of unity with the Dao, outward behavior naturally aligns with it. Like a cicada shedding its shell, the cultivator must ultimately forget the existence of the physical body to attain the supreme state of "riding the wind." Clinging to bodily sensations is like carrying a heavy burden—even heaven and earth cannot sustain such weight.

The "perfected person" (zhiren, one who has realized the Dao) described here can dive without drowning, tread fire without burning, and walk the void without fear. This stems from mastering the "preservation of pure qi (vital energy)"—maintaining the pristine state of primordial qi rather than relying on cleverness or brute force. Just as fish move naturally through water, the realized person's state is spontaneously achieved.

These descriptions are not exaggerations; only genuine practitioners can comprehend their true meaning. The passage emphasizes gradually releasing attachments, returning to one's natural essence, and ultimately reaching the state where self and objects are forgotten, merging with the Dao in perfect authenticity.

This passage discusses the core Daoist philosophy regarding the relationship between "things" (物) and the Dao (道). All entities possessing form, sound, or color belong to the category of "things," but if one remains fixated on tangible forms, one cannot comprehend the origin of all creation.

The genuine Dao practitioner should attain this state of being: dwelling in unmanifested stillness, residing within the timeless principles of existence, and moving through the cycles of all things' birth and dissolution. By maintaining pure innate nature, nurturing vital energy (Qi), and upholding Dao-De (道德), one can penetrate the source of all creation. Such a person preserves their heavenly nature, with spirit undisturbed by external phenomena.

While the teachings of Master Guan Yin (Laozi's disciple) may contain later interpolations, their profound insights surpass those of other philosophical schools. The phrase "moving unseen through emptiness" describes acting in the void as though traversing solid ground; "above the myriad things" refers to transcending the realm of forms; "guarding pure Qi" represents the essential practice of cultivation—maintaining this state through non-intentional awareness, unattainable through mere cleverness or brute force.

The text clarifies that obsession with tangible forms (appearances, sounds, colors) prevents transcendence. Creation's primordial stage is formless (不形), existing before differentiation (无所化). Ordinary people see only concrete objects, missing the wonder of creation. The key to Dao cultivation lies in grasping the seemingly simple yet profoundly deep principle (不深之度), understanding the beginningless law governing all existence (无端之纪).

The concluding reference to textual variants ("Ji dwells, fish I") illustrates how even language and writing belong to the realm of tangible forms, demonstrating how phonetic shifts reflect the limitations of material phenomena.

People often fail to comprehend, just as Confucius thought I was withholding something. From beginning to end, the creation of all things is the result of natural transformation. Preserving one's innate purity, nurturing primordial Qi (the vital energy of life), and embodying Dao-De (the natural order) fundamentally means maintaining a state of purity, unity, stillness, and stability. In terms of principle, this is our innate nature; in terms of vitality, it's primordial Qi; and in terms of personal cultivation, it's Dao-De.

What is called "heaven's perfect preservation" refers to a state of pure unity undisturbed; "no retreat" means stability. When pure unity and stability are maintained, external things cannot shake the inner self—thus how could external matters possibly invade?

When drunkards fall from carriages, even at high speeds they rarely die. Their bones and joints are the same as ordinary people's, yet their injuries differ because their Shen (spirit) remains intact. They are unaware when riding and unaware when falling—neither fear of life nor death occupies their minds, so accidents don't frighten them. If mere drunkenness can preserve such wholeness, how much more so for those who have attained the Dao and merged with nature? The sages' Shen becomes one with nature, making them invulnerable to external harm.

These statements align with Zhuangzi's teachings. "Encountering harm" refers to falling. Both riding and falling occur without awareness due to intoxication, free from fear, thus preserving spiritual wholeness. It is precisely this wholeness that prevents fatal injury despite physical harm. "Unaffected by external things" means undisturbed by worldly matters; "unfrightened" means without fear. "Hidden in heaven" describes achieving a state of selfless oblivion. This analogy is profoundly insightful.

Lie Yukou (an ancient legendary archer) demonstrated his archery to Bohun Wuren. Drawing his bow to full tension, he balanced a cup of water on his elbow while releasing arrow after arrow with mechanical precision. Bohun Wuren remarked: "This is shooting with conscious intent, not the unconscious method. Let us climb a high mountain, stand at the cliff's edge with a thousand-foot chasm below—could you still shoot this way?" They ascended the peak, where Bohun Wuren stood at the precipice with his heels hanging over emptiness, then bowed to invite Lie Yukou forward. Lie Yukou collapsed in terror, sweat pouring to his heels. Bohun Wuren said: "The perfected person gazes upward to heaven, descends into the earth below, with Shen reaching all directions while composure remains unshaken. Your current terror reveals how far your inner cultivation still falls short."

This passage matches exactly the content in Zhuangzi's "Tian Zifang" chapter. "Drawing to full tension" means pulling the bowstring to maximum; extending the forearm level allows balancing a cup of water upon it.

The passage consists of two parts: the first employs an archery metaphor to illustrate the stages of Daoist cultivation, while the latter recounts the story of Fan Zihua.

The archery analogy describes how, when the first arrow has just left the bowstring, the next is already nocked—symbolizing lightning-fast reflexes. Like a wooden puppet standing at a cliff's edge with two-thirds of its footing suspended in midair yet maintaining perfect balance, this demands supreme concentration (what is called "guarding pure Qi"). Ordinary archers always shoot from solid ground, but true masters remain unshaken even in perilous situations. If one panics upon seeing danger, it proves they haven't attained the realm of the perfected person (Zhiren), making it nearly impossible to hit the target.

The second part tells of Fan Zihua: Among the Fan clan was a man named Zihua, skilled at cultivating false reputations. The entire state of Jin idolized him, and even its ruler favored him. Though holding no official post, his status surpassed the Three Ministers. Whoever pleased him would gain promotion; those he disapproved of would be dismissed. The stream of visitors to his home rivaled court audiences.

Zihua delighted in pitting his retainers against each other in contests of wit and strength—indifferent even when they harmed one another—making this cruel amusement his daily pastime until it became a Jin cultural phenomenon. Hesheng and Zibo, two of Fan's senior retainers, once lodged at Tian Geng Shangqiu Kai's home during their travels. At midnight, they boasted of Zihua's power to "make the living die and the dead live, the rich become poor and the poor rich." Shangqiu Kai, then suffering hunger and cold while eavesdropping beneath the north window, borrowed provisions and arrived at Zihua's gate carrying a bamboo basket.

All of Zihua's disciples were aristocrats—dressed in white silks, riding lavish carriages, swaggering with affected grandeur. When they saw the elderly, frail Shangqiu Kai with his sun-darkened face and tattered clothing, they unanimously scorned him.

This story recounts the extraordinary encounters between Shang Qiu Kai and the disciples of the Fan clan. Initially, Fan's followers often mocked and humiliated Shang Qiu Kai, but he never grew angry. When their pranks grew tiresome, they took Shang Qiu Kai up to a high platform and jokingly declared before the crowd, "Whoever dares to jump down will be rewarded with a hundred pieces of gold." Everyone cheered in agreement, but Shang Qiu Kai took the words seriously and leaped down first, landing as lightly as a bird, completely unharmed. The Fan clan dismissed it as mere coincidence.

Later, they pointed to a deep bend in the river and said, "There are precious pearls at the bottom." Shang Qiu Kai immediately dove in and indeed retrieved pearls. Only then did the crowd begin to marvel. The Fan clan leader, Zihua, began treating him with respect, providing fine clothes and meals. Soon after, the Fan family’s storeroom suddenly caught fire. Zihua announced, "Whoever can enter the flames to save the brocade will be richly rewarded based on how much they retrieve." Without hesitation, Shang Qiu Kai rushed into the fire, weaving through it unscathed—his clothes unburned, his body untouched by smoke or ash.

At this point, the Fan clan realized they had encountered an extraordinary man. They collectively apologized, saying, "We did not know you were a man of the Dao (the Way) and mocked you; we did not realize you were a divine being and insulted you. Were you feigning ignorance, deafness, and muteness? Please teach us your method." Shang Qiu Kai replied, "I possess no special arts. Initially, I heard that the Fan clan could control life, death, poverty, and wealth, so I came in absolute faith. Once here, I took all your words as truth, fearing only that my sincerity and actions might be lacking. I never considered my own safety—my mind was free of distractions, so external forces could not harm me. Now that I know you deceived me, doubt and hesitation have arisen in my heart. When I recall how I once braved fire and water, I tremble in fear—how could I dare approach them now?"

From then on, the Fan clan’s disciples no longer dared to disrespect even beggars or horse doctors on the road, always dismounting to bow in greeting. When Confucius’ disciple Zai Wo heard of this (the story abruptly ends here, though the original text likely included commentary).

This passage, through Shang Qiu Kai’s remarkable experiences, illustrates the Daoist principle of "utmost sincerity forging connection": when one completely relinquishes the self, free of mental distractions, they enter a state of unity with all things, where even fire and water cannot harm them. Yet once discriminating thoughts arise, this state vanishes. The story also subtly critiques worldly hypocrisy—the Fan clan only changed their attitude upon realizing Shang Qiu Kai was a "man of the Dao," while previously lacking basic respect for ordinary beggars and horse doctors.

This passage discusses the power of "sincere heart." Confucius (Zhongni) said: The most sincere person can move all things, influence heaven, earth, and spirits, and traverse the universe unimpeded—how could such capability be limited to merely crossing dangers or entering fire and water? A man like Shang Qiu Kai was even willing to believe in falsehoods—how much more effective would mutual sincerity be? Young people should remember this principle.

The explanation of "sincerity" here is exceptionally profound. Only by understanding this principle can one begin to study the Dao (the Way). "Private servants" refers to personal attendants, known in Zhejiang as "private bodies." "Harsh words" means cruel and malicious speech. In the state of Jin, official promotions were based on personal likes and dislikes. "Wisdom and foolishness" refers to intelligence and stupidity. "Harm from disputes" describes injuries caused by contention. At that time, this had become the prevailing custom throughout the country.

"He Zisheng and Zibo" were the names of two guests. "Beyond the outskirts" means the wilderness, and "old farmer" refers to a village elder. "Three Elders and Five Seniors" were honorific titles for the elderly. "Disheveled clothing" indicates tattered and unkempt attire. "To slight" means to look down upon. "Jostling, pushing, and shoving" describes playful roughhousing. "Exhausted from teasing" means worn out from mockery. "Casual remark" refers to offhand speech. "Uninjured bones" means the body suffered no harm. "Whirlpool" denotes a swirling current in water. "Fang" means "to begin"—here, it marks the point when they began dressing the guests in silk and serving them meat like the others. "Dust cannot blind" means smoke and debris could not obscure their vision.

A truly sincere person harbors no doubts and trusts completely without hesitation. They forget their own physical existence, remain unaware of gain and loss, and perceive no calamities in the world. With single-minded focus, external things cannot harm them. Now that they realize your words were deceitful, doubt arises in their hearts, and external observation becomes confused. Reflecting on how they once dared to enter fire and water, it was merely luck that they escaped burning or drowning. The meaning here is that when the mind is perfectly pure, neither gain nor loss, fortune nor misfortune can sway it—the moment even a trace of calculation arises, such feats become impossible.

The Chan (Zen) Buddhist term "leakage" is apt here. Even beggars and horse doctors can study the Dao (the Way) if their hearts are sincere—that is why one must always step down from the carriage to greet them. This also aligns with the Perfect Enlightenment Sutra's teaching of not looking down upon beginners. "Utmost trust" is equivalent to "utmost sincerity." If belief in falsehoods can have such effects, how much more powerful must genuine sincerity be?

During the reign of King Xuan of Zhou, there was a menial worker named Liang Yang under the Master of Herds (official in charge of animal husbandry), who excelled at taming wild beasts. In his courtyard, even ferocious animals like tigers, wolves, eagles, and owls became docile when he scattered food. These creatures mated in pairs, multiplied in groups, and different species coexisted without attacking one another. Fearing this skill might be lost, King Xuan sent Mao Qiuyuan to learn from him. Liang Yang replied: "I'm but a lowly laborer—what technique could I possibly teach? Yet lest the king suspect me of withholding knowledge, let me share how to tend tigers: Pleasure arises when obeyed, anger when opposed—this is the nature of all blood-and-qi creatures. But emotions never emerge without cause; they always stem from resistance. Tiger keepers dare not offer live prey, lest killing trigger their fury; nor whole carcasses, lest tearing flesh excite their rage. One must discern their hunger cycles and understand what provokes their temper. Though tigers differ from humans, they fawn on caretakers who follow their nature. Thus I never oppose them to provoke anger, nor deliberately indulge them to elicit joy. For excessive joy inevitably turns to rage, and extreme rage circles back to delight—both miss the mark. Now my mind makes no distinction between compliance and defiance, so beasts regard me as their kin. Hence those roaming my garden forget their mountain forests, and those resting in my courtyard forsake their valley dens—such is the principle at work."

(Commentary: This passage illustrates the Daoist philosophy of "no-mind" through tiger-taming. Avoiding live prey and whole carcasses prevents triggering the tiger's predatory instincts. "Making no distinction between compliance and defiance" refers to eliminating subjective discrimination to achieve harmonious coexistence with all things. Later texts note its resonance with Zhuangzi's tiger-taming analogy in the "Human World" chapter—both exemplify aligning with nature's flow through wuwei [non-action].)

This passage illustrates the principles of learning to steer a boat and inner cultivation through metaphorical wisdom. There was an exceptionally skilled boatman whose technique seemed almost supernatural. When asked, "Can boat-steering be learned?" he replied: "Yes. Those who can swim can be taught; proficient swimmers can master it with some practice. But those who can dive—even if they've never seen a boat before—can operate it immediately."

Confucius (Zhongni) explained: We've long discussed this matter without grasping its essence. Swimmers can be taught because they don't fear water; proficient swimmers learn quickly because they understand water's nature; divers need no instruction because they perceive deep abysses as level ground and capsized boats as mere carriage reversals. When the transformations of all things cannot disturb their inner composure, what activity wouldn't such people perform with natural ease?

"Shang Shen" refers to the name of a deep abyss. "Swimmers" are those who float on water, while "divers" are those who submerge beneath it. The boat metaphor reveals stages of inner cultivation: beginners (playing with the surface) grasp only superficial patterns, while true mastery (penetrating the substance) requires reaching the essence. Those unafraid of water can be taught; those familiar with water achieve proficiency through practice; divers—who perceive water as solid ground—require no deliberate study at all.

The passage then shifts to a throwing analogy: one tosses tiles with dexterity, hesitates with belt hooks, and becomes clumsy with gold pieces. The fundamental skill remains identical, yet attachment to external objects creates obstruction. Whoever values material things becomes inwardly constrained. This mirrors the philosophy in the Zhuangzi's "Mastering Life" chapter, though phrased differently. "Throwing" remains constant whether using tiles, hooks, or gold—but when the mind fixates on an object's value, even skilled hands turn awkward.

The core teaching is this: excessive focus on external matters creates internal barriers. True cultivation achieves the "viewing abysses as hills" state—facing danger with the calm of walking level ground, where external changes cannot disrupt inner tranquility.

Confucius was observing the thirty-ren-high waterfall at Lüliang, where the raging torrent and flying spray stretched for thirty li—so violent that even large turtles and crocodiles couldn't swim through it. Suddenly, he spotted a man swimming in the waters and, assuming he was a victim of misfortune attempting suicide, immediately sent his disciples downstream to rescue him. Yet the man surfaced hundreds of paces away, his hair loose, singing as he leisurely swam to the pond’s edge.

Confucius hurried after him and asked, "The Lüliang waterfall is treacherous—when I saw you in the rapids, I thought you were trying to end your life and sent my disciples to save you. But then you emerged singing, and I nearly mistook you for a water ghost! What is your secret to swimming so effortlessly?" The man replied, "There is no secret. I was born in the mountains and grew accustomed to them; I lived by the water and became familiar with its nature. These are instincts formed naturally. I sink with the whirlpools and rise with the currents, completely yielding to the water’s flow without forcing anything—that is my method."

Confucius pressed further, "What do you mean by 'born in the mountains, accustomed to them; raised by the water, familiar with its nature'?" The man explained, "Where I was born among the hills, I adapted to life there; where I grew up by the water, I became attuned to its ways. These things developed naturally—I can’t explain the specifics. Perhaps it’s simply the will of Heaven (天命, Tianming)."

(Note: This passage uses the example of the expert swimmer to illustrate the Daoist principle of "following nature’s course." Just as those raised by water naturally master swimming, cultivation of the Dao must align with innate tendencies, free from forced effort or artificiality. Here, "故" refers to innate nature, "性" to acquired habits, and "命" to Heaven’s endowment—all manifestations of natural law.)

Later, while traveling to Chu, Confucius encountered a hunchbacked old man in the woods catching cicadas with a long pole as effortlessly as picking things up by hand. Confucius asked, "Your skill is remarkable—what is your technique?" The old man said, "Indeed! After practicing for five or six months, if I can balance two clay balls on the pole’s tip without dropping them, I rarely miss. With three balls steady, I fail at most once in ten attempts. And with five balls perfectly balanced, catching cicadas becomes as easy as gathering things from the ground."

This passage presents two parables about concentration and the state of pure unity.

The first story tells of an old hunchback who mastered the skill of catching cicadas with a bamboo pole. He could balance up to five clay pellets on the tip of his pole without them falling, as effortlessly as picking things up from the ground. Standing as steady as a wooden post, his arms remained as still as withered branches. Though heaven and earth were vast and all things numerous, his focus rested solely on the cicada's wings, undistracted by anything else. Confucius, witnessing this, told his disciples: "When concentration reaches its utmost refinement, it attains a divine level—this is what the hunchback has demonstrated." Yet the old man remarked, "You scholars in your wide Confucian sleeves, what do you know of this? Master what you already have before speaking of higher truths." (Here, "wide sleeves" refers to the robes of Confucian scholars, and "hunchback" describes the old man's posture.)

The second story recounts a man by the sea who loved seagulls and played with them daily, so much so that hundreds of gulls grew close to him. His father said, "I hear the gulls follow you—catch a few for me to play with." The next day, when the man returned to the shore, the gulls only circled in the air and would not land. Thus it is said: The highest speech is wordless; the highest action is wuwei (non-action). To interpret such things with ordinary understanding is shallow.

Both stories illustrate that when a person reaches a state of absolute focus, free from distracting thoughts, they naturally merge with all things. The first story demonstrates the power of concentration through the cicada-catching skill, while the second shows how even a hint of cunning disrupts natural harmony. The phrases "concentrated stillness entering the divine" and "guarding pure Qi" refer to the Daoist cultivation state where self and object are forgotten.

This passage illustrates the Daoist philosophy of "non-action" (Wuwei) and "non-knowing" through several parables.

The first story uses seagulls as a metaphor. It describes how seagulls may circle hundreds of times without landing, yet the moment a human entertains the thought of capturing them, the birds instinctively sense this intention and fly away. This demonstrates how even the slightest mental distraction reveals the workings of cosmic principles (tianji), making it impossible to attain the state of complete unity between self and nature. The parable vividly illustrates that the highest form of speech is silence, the most profound action is non-striving, and the truest knowledge is maintaining a state of innocent awareness—all referring to the natural state of being free from calculating thoughts.

The second story tells of Lord Xiang of Zhao encountering a remarkable man during a hunt. While hunting in Zhongshan with a retinue of one hundred thousand men, Lord Xiang set fire to the forest. From within a stone cliff emerged a man who walked freely through smoke and flames. The crowd thought him a ghost, but upon closer inspection found him perfectly human. When asked how he could dwell within stone and traverse fire, the man simply replied: "What is stone? What is fire?"—demonstrating his state of non-discrimination toward all things.

When Marquis Wen of Wei heard of this, he questioned Confucius's disciple Zixia about the man's identity. Zixia quoted Confucius: "Those who achieve harmony with all creation cannot be harmed by external things, hence they move freely through metal, stone, water and fire." The Marquis asked why Zixia didn't practice this himself, to which Zixia admitted he hadn't yet purified his mind sufficiently. When asked why Confucius didn't demonstrate such abilities, Zixia explained that the Master could do so but chose not to—a response the Marquis greatly admired.

Here, the concept of "harmony" (he) refers to complete integration with natural creation. Like the story of Shang Qiu Kai who could walk through fire, this illustrates how those truly united with the Dao (the Way) perceive no distinctions between things—not even between stone and fire. This state of "knowing without conventional knowledge" represents the supreme wisdom revered in Daoist tradition.

This passage recounts the story of Liezi and the divine shaman Ji Xian, revealing the Daoist cultivation state of "no-mind and no-trace."

A shaman named Ji Xian came from Qi to Zheng, capable of predicting people's life and death, fortune and misfortune with precision down to the year, month, and even ten-day period. The people of Zheng were terrified and avoided him, but Liezi admired him greatly. Returning to his teacher Master Huizi, he said, "I originally thought your mastery of the Dao was supreme, but now I see there are even greater adepts." Huizi replied, "What I've taught you so far is only superficial—I haven't yet transmitted the essence. How can you presume to have attained the Dao? It's like having a hen without a rooster: how could it lay fertile eggs? You're always eager to flaunt Daoist arts in the world, so of course others will see through you. Bring him to meet me tomorrow."

The next day, after their encounter, Ji Xian emerged and told Liezi, "Your teacher is about to die—he won't last ten days. I saw his complexion like damp ashes (a sign of impending death)." Liezi wept as he reported this to Huizi. The master explained, "What I showed him just now was the 'Earthly Stillness' state (a meditative trance as silent as the earth), where Qi stirs but does not yet move. That's why he saw the appearance of death. In truth, this was my deliberate display of the 'Blocked Virtue' (a feigned death state)."

Through this episode, Huizi illustrates a key principle: those who truly attain the Dao leave no traces and can manifest different states according to circumstances. A shaman can only perceive the phases a cultivator actively displays, never penetrating the essence of the Dao. Just as a hen requires a rooster to produce fertile eggs, cultivating the Dao demands the interplay of emptiness and substance. Clinging to appearances only obscures the true meaning.

This passage discusses the shifting states of Daoist cultivation and the diviner Ji Xian's misjudgments regarding the practitioner Huizi.

The phrase "damp ashes" metaphorically describes the practitioner's state of withdrawn vitality—like thoroughly soaked embers that appear extinguished yet conceal latent life force within. "Earth Pattern" (Diwen) and "Heavenly Soil" (Tianrang) are both names of cultivation visualization methods (focused meditation practices). The former refers to a budding state of subtle movement, while the latter signifies the realm of natural Wuwei (non-action).

The diviner Ji Xian made three different assessments upon seeing Huizi:

1. During the first encounter, observing Huizi in the "Blocked Virtue" (Dudeji) state—a cultivation phase of sealed vitality—he mistook it for lifeless stagnation.

2. The second time, witnessing the "Heavenly Soil" realm (where vitality sprouts from the feet), he wrongly interpreted it as a sign of recovering health.

3. In the third meeting, faced with the "Supreme Equilibrium Without Trace" (Taichong Mozhen)—a state of perfectly balanced Qi (vital energy)—he could discern nothing and requested to observe again another day.

Huizi demonstrated three cultivation states:

• "Blocked Virtue" seals vitality;
• "Heavenly Soil" allows vitality to emerge naturally;
• "Supreme Equilibrium" achieves complete harmony.

This mirrors Mencius's teaching: "Be fully engaged without forcing the outcome" (专注但不刻意). Practitioners must maintain subtle vitality within apparent stillness, embodying transformation within restraint. The diviner, limited to surface appearances, could not grasp these profound layers of cultivation.

This passage discusses the concepts of "Taichong" (the primordial void state of the universe) and "Nine Abysses" (metaphorical representations of nine types of water pools). "Taichong" refers to the Great Void, representing the undifferentiated state of chaos. "No signs" indicates the absence of any discernible traces. "Balance" refers to an equilibrium state—when the Qi (vital energy) operates between movement and stillness, reaching a point of balance before coming to rest. Spirit-mediums consider this state insufficient for true purification (a state of clarity), as half-movement and half-stillness do not yet signify complete tranquility.

The passage then elaborates on nine distinct types of water pools: the whirlpool formed by a circling whale, the still pool, the flowing pool, the overflowing pool, the cascading pool, the swirling pool, the obstructed pool, the spring-fed pool, and the pool with shared origins but divergent flows. These nine pools serve as metaphors for different stages of meditative cultivation. What is now called "contemplation" in Buddhism was referred to metaphorically as "abyss" in ancient times.

Three primary states are particularly explained: the whale's half-still, half-moving circling corresponds to "balanced Qi mechanism" (harmonized vital energy); the still water represents "blocked De (Virtue/Power) mechanism" (a state of sensory withdrawal); and the flowing water symbolizes the "mechanism of goodness" (benign vitality). The forms of these pools metaphorically depict different mental states during cultivation—for instance, overflowing water surges upward, cascading water flows downward, and obstructed water remains stagnant.

Finally, it is noted that most of these water names originate from the Erya (an ancient lexicon), likely added by later commentators. Some annotations suggest these water states symbolize how a sage's mind responds to external phenomena with movement and stillness, advance and retreat, but this interpretation is not entirely accurate.

This passage recounts the story of Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) studying the Dao under his teacher Master Hu Zi. When Master Hu Zi demonstrated profound Daoist states to Liezi, a diviner named Ji Ming came to visit. Master Hu Zi intentionally manifested an ethereal, unfathomable condition—appearing at times like scattered thatch, at other times like turbulent waves—terrifying Ji Ming into fleeing. Master Hu Zi explained that this was because he had displayed the state of "never departing from my ancestral source" (the root of the Dao), an elusive serenity that follows the natural flow, leaving others unable to grasp it.

Later, realizing he hadn’t truly entered the gate of the Dao, Liezi returned home and secluded himself in cultivation for three years. During this time, he personally tended the fire to cook for his wife and fed the pigs with the same attentiveness as serving people, performing tasks in a state of selfless absorption. He discarded cleverness and artifice, returning to his simple, innate nature. His whole being became as still as a wooden puppet, with all edges and distinctions smoothed away, maintaining this state of unity with the Dao for the rest of his life.

The text also describes how Liezi, on his way to the state of Qi, turned back and encountered Bo Hun Wu Ren (a Daoist sage). Bo Hun asked why he had returned, and Liezi explained that in ten shops selling congee, five had spontaneously offered it to him first—a gesture that unsettled him. Bo Hun remarked that if such a thing could disturb him, it showed Liezi still had attachments in his heart and hadn’t yet attained true detachment.

These stories illustrate how Daoist practitioners must eliminate concern for external fame and gain, reaching a state where self and objects are both forgotten. Phrases like "standing alone like a block of wood" and "carving away ornament to return to simplicity" describe essential stages of Daoist cultivation.

This passage discusses the problems that arise when one's inner cultivation becomes outwardly visible. The story tells of a man named Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure), whose sincere self-cultivation naturally manifested in his speech and demeanor, creating a radiant presence that compelled people around him to respect him—even more than they would honor their elders.

The text uses the metaphor of a beverage vendor: though the vendor's profits are meager, they still attract trouble. How much more so for a ruler governing a state, or someone like Liezi with profound cultivation? Bohun Maoren (an enlightened Daoist master) observed this situation and warned Liezi: "People are now flocking to you, but this may not be a good thing." Sure enough, before long, Liezi's doorstep was crowded with visitors' shoes.

Bohun Maoren deliberately visited Liezi but stood at the door without speaking and then left. Liezi, barefoot, chased after him to seek advice. Bohun Maoren pointed out: "The problem isn’t that you attract followers—it’s that you can’t prevent them from following you. Your cultivation should flow naturally, but now it has become deliberate display. This will only bring misfortune. The flattery of your followers is like poison, yet neither you nor they realize it."

The passage explains several key concepts:

• "Inner sincerity not yet resolved" (内诚不解) refers to accumulated sincerity that hasn’t fully integrated.
• "Form revealing radiance" (形谍成光) describes cultivation manifesting as brilliance in one’s bearing.
• "Outwardly pacifying hearts" (外镇人心) means this external display subdues people’s minds.

As the Chan master Zhaozhou (a renowned Tang Dynasty Zen monk) once said, "When cultivation lacks true power, even ghosts and spirits see through it." When cultivation becomes performative, it invites disaster. The text also notes that the greater one’s reputation grows, the harder it becomes to maintain genuine practice.

(Note: Proper names explained—Bohun Maoren: a Daoist sage; Liezi: a central Daoist figure; Zhaozhou: a famous Tang Dynasty Chan master.)

This passage examines a common phenomenon in the world: people often pursue profit, yet few truly achieve substantial gains. Here, the text contains one more "无" (negation) character than Zhuangzi's original, altering the meaning. "赢" here signifies profit. Powerful individuals in society can easily influence others, while a humble beverage vendor—who lacks such social leverage—nevertheless showed me profound respect.

Consider rulers who, upon reaching exalted positions, often exhaust their wisdom and inevitably seek talented advisors to assist them, hoping these ministers will contribute their abilities to achieve success. This is what the text calls "exploiting others' concerns" ("𩐆其所患"). "效" here means "to contribute." Foolish people delight in such dynamics, hence the exclamation "善哉观乎" ("Well observed indeed!"), praising one's unique insight in this regard. The subsequent "汝止矣" ("You may stop now") suggests there's no need to travel afar—people will naturally come to follow and revere you as their teacher.

"处止也已" functions as a modal particle, while "保守也" refers to guarding one's gate after attracting followers. The use of "保" (guard) already implies insufficiency, as the fool's perspective reaches yet another level. "户外之屦满" vividly depicts crowds of students arriving—so many that shoes fill the doorway. "敦杖蹙之乎颐" describes leaning on a staff with chin resting thoughtfully upon it. "賔者" (attendants) "提屨而走" (carry shoes while running)—since ancient people removed footwear when sitting on mats, the attendants rush barefoot in their eagerness to greet the fool.

"废药者" refers to teachings that enlighten like good medicine. "废" (cease) means "enough"—indicating "stop here." Earlier, the text mentioned people would follow you, yet you cannot prevent their dependence, as Zhuangzi said: "Forgetting oneself is easy; making others forget you is hard." The "而" in "而焉用之" refers to you—"用为" questions why your actions move people so profoundly.

When people are moved and drawn to you, it must stem from your inability to conceal yourself, allowing extraordinary qualities to manifest outwardly. Hence the phrase "感动欢愉源于特异" ("being moved by joy arises from uniqueness"). In this state, not only do your external expressions become unconcealable, but your inner self will inevitably be affected and unsettled—particularly unbeneficial. "无谓" means "unbeneficial," with an added sense of "especially so."

The friends who associate with you haven't mastered their studies; their words remain superficial—thus called "petty discourse" ("小言"). Their harmful statements cannot admonish or correct you, leaving you ultimately incapable of genuine awakening.

Yang Zhu (a Daoist scholar of the Warring States period) was traveling south to Pei when Laozi (the founder of Daoism) was journeying west to the state of Qin. The two met in the outskirts of Liang. On the road, Laozi looked up to the sky and sighed, saying, "At first I thought you could be taught, but now I see it's impossible." Yang Zhu remained silent at the time.

Upon arriving at the inn, Yang Zhu washed and tidied himself, then respectfully approached Laozi on his knees, saying, "Earlier, Master, you sighed and said I was unteachable. I wanted to ask why but feared disturbing your rest. Now that you have time, may I ask where my fault lies?"

Laozi replied, "You always carry yourself with such arrogance (suīxū refers to a haughty demeanor)—who could possibly get along with you? Those who are truly pure appear as if flawed ('The greatest purity seems sullied'—Dà bái ruò rǔ), and those of true virtue (De) always feel inadequate." Hearing this, Yang Zhu's expression changed dramatically, and he respectfully said, "I accept your teaching."

What followed was quite interesting: Previously, when Yang Zhu stayed at inns, the host would welcome him respectfully, the owner would personally prepare his bed, the wife would hand him towels, other guests would yield their seats, and even the cooks would vacate the stove for him. But after his realization, people treated him as an ordinary guest, even competing with him for seats.

Here are key explanations: When Laozi said "The greatest purity seems sullied," he meant the wise deliberately conceal their wisdom; "abundant virtue seems insufficient" refers to having virtue (De) without boasting. "Yíng jiāng" means welcoming and seeing off guests; "jiā gōng" refers to the innkeeper; "yáng zhě" is the cook. People previously respected Yang Zhu because his haughty demeanor made him stand out. After Laozi's guidance, he withdrew his sharp edges and returned to ordinary behavior, so people no longer treated him specially.

Later records also describe Yang Zhu's observations at an inn in the state of Song: The innkeeper had two concubines, one beautiful and one plain, but the plain one was favored while the beautiful one was neglected. The innkeeper explained, "The beautiful one thinks herself beautiful, so I don't find her so; the plain one knows her plainness, so I don't find her plain." This story mirrors a parable in the Zhuangzi, illustrating how self-importance causes one to lose their true nature.

This passage explores two essential life principles: the wisdom of humility in conduct and the philosophy that softness overcomes hardness.

Regarding humility, the text observes: A person with virtue (De) who does not boast will be welcomed wherever they go. As Zhuangzi said, those who consider themselves beautiful are actually self-promoting, while those who recognize their shortcomings demonstrate true humility. The author connects this to Mencius' criticism of Yang Zhu (a Warring States period philosopher) and his doctrine of "self-interest," speculating that Yang Zhu might have initially studied Laozi's teachings before developing his own school.

The discussion on softness overcoming hardness elaborates on Laozi's philosophy: The world has constant principles of victory and defeat. The constant way of victory is softness, while the constant way of defeat is hardness. Though this truth appears simple, people often fail to comprehend it. Those who rely on brute strength always seek to overpower weaker opponents, but when encountering stronger adversaries, they inevitably fail and face danger. Conversely, those who adopt a soft approach willingly take the lower position and avoid contention, thereby preserving themselves.

Applying the way of softness to self-cultivation maintains inner victory; employing it in governing brings success. True strength doesn't come from external dominance but through the wisdom of non-contention (Wuwei) and taking the lower position—achieving both personal fulfillment and worldly accomplishments. This seemingly passive attitude actually contains profound wisdom for navigating life.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "overcoming hardness with softness" in navigating life's challenges.

The text begins by observing a profound paradox: when one constantly feels inadequate in ability, they become capable of accomplishing anything; when one feels unworthy of responsibility, they become fit to shoulder the world's burdens. This illustrates the principle of "achieving victory through non-victory, assuming responsibility through non-assumption."

Master Zhou (an ancient Daoist figure) taught: "To become strong, one must guard with softness; to become powerful, one must preserve through pliancy." Prolonged accumulation of softness leads to strength, just as accumulated weakness transforms into power. By observing how a person accumulates these qualities, we can foresee their future fortunes or misfortunes.

Brute force can only overpower those weaker than oneself—when meeting equals, it fails. But the way of softness remains invincible even against stronger opponents, demonstrating immeasurable power. Laozi similarly stated: "An army that grows too strong invites destruction; trees that grow too rigid become prone to breaking." Tender things flourish with vitality, while hardened things hasten toward demise.

Maintaining softness paradoxically preserves lasting strength; preserving humility sustains enduring power. Failure to cultivate these qualities invites disaster. Thus, by observing one's manner of accumulation, we discern their destined path.

The text then employs metaphors of weapons and trees: nations relying on military might inevitably perish, just as rigid trees snap easily while supple vines and willow branches bend without breaking. Chapter 76 of the Dao De Jing uses the life cycles of humans and plants to illustrate this principle.

Finally, the passage notes that outwardly similar people may differ inwardly, while those sharing inner likeness may appear dissimilar. Sages value purity of heart-mind (Xin), whereas ordinary people judge by superficial resemblance. Humans instinctively gravitate toward those who look alike while shunning difference—even a human form may harbor a beast's heart, yet mere physical similarity earns acceptance. This reveals how easily people become deluded by appearances.

This scripture reveals a profound truth through comparing humans and beasts: appearances cannot determine essence, for what truly matters is one's inner character.

Creatures with wings, horns, sharp claws, or fangs, capable of flight or swift movement, are called beasts. Yet beasts may not lack human kindness—it is merely their forms that create distance. The text points out that although humans differ in appearance from beasts, if their hearts are equally cruel, that is the true tragedy. The sages value not outward form but inner virtue.

The text cites ancient sage-kings like Fuxi, Nüwa, Shennong, and the rulers of Xia, who, despite having extraordinary features such as serpent bodies with human faces or ox heads with tiger noses, possessed lofty De (Virtue). In contrast, tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang, though human in appearance, harbored hearts as savage as beasts. This demonstrates that judging wisdom by appearance alone is futile.

The Yellow Emperor used military force to command bears and fierce beasts in battle, while Yao and Shun employed music to make all creatures dance—proof that sages understood the methods of communicating with all beings. In truth, beasts possess wisdom akin to humans: they know to reproduce, nurture their young, seek warmth in winter, and gather in groups. In ancient times, humans and beasts coexisted peacefully; only in the age of emperors did they begin to separate. By the decadent era, beasts could only hide to survive.

Finally, the text mentions the land of Jieshi in the east, where people understood the language of livestock. This shows that the divine sages of antiquity truly comprehended the nature of all things and knew how to communicate with all living beings. They first communed with spirits, then enlightened the people of all lands, and only afterward tamed the beasts—embodying the Daoist belief that "all things possess spirit."

This passage explores the principles of mental cultivation through a comparison between animals and humans. The author observes that creatures with blood and Qi (vital energy) like birds, beasts, and insects possess minds not far removed from human consciousness. The ancient sages understood this truth, which is why their teachings encompassed all beings without exception.

Three illustrative examples are given: the Three Sovereigns (Fuxi, Shennong, and the Yellow Emperor), though differing in appearance from ordinary people, embodied the virtue (De) of great sages. Conversely, tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang, or rulers like Duke Huan of Qi and Duke Mu of Qin, while bearing human form, harbored bestial hearts. The text further cites animal trainers who command beasts through force or summon birds with specific calls, demonstrating human-animal similarities. Examples include trained bears and tigers clearing paths, or the legendary strongman Ju Wuba directing birds of prey—all proving animals' capacity for cultivation.

The passage then recounts the fable of "The Monkey Keeper of Song": A Song state monkey trainer could understand his charges' minds. When facing hardship, he first deceived them by promising "three acorns at dawn, four at dusk," angering the troop. Later reversing the order to "four at dawn, three at dusk" pleased them—the same total distributed differently. This illustrates how sages guide ignorant masses with wisdom, just as the keeper manipulated monkeys with strategy, showing no fundamental difference between the approaches.

The conclusion delivers the core message: if even animals could be cultivated in antiquity, while modern people remain as unenlightened as beasts, this stems from lacking sage guidance. The text conveys the author's lament over moral decline—contemporary humans may wear human forms but have lost human nature, becoming inferior even to ancient teachable animals.

This passage illustrates two distinct approaches to worldly wisdom. The sages employed wisdom to guide ordinary people, much like using a cage to contain flocks of birds, subtly educating the masses through imperceptible influence so they became transformed without realizing it. Zhuangzi's metaphor of "neither right nor wrong" presents a contrasting perspective, forming a counterpoint to this didactic method.

The story of Ji Shengzi training fighting cocks for King Xuan of Zhou carries profound meaning. After ten days of training, the king asked if the rooster was ready to fight. Ji Shengzi replied it wasn't – the bird still bluffed and swaggered arrogantly. After another ten days, he reported the rooster still reacted to external disturbances. Ten days later, though the cock's gaze had grown sharp, its energy remained too aggressive. Finally, after forty days, the rooster became as steady as a wooden statue, completely undisturbed by its surroundings, causing other roosters to flee at the sight of it. This demonstrates that true mastery requires no bluster – inner tranquility represents the highest attainment.

The encounter between Hui Ang and King Kang of Song is equally illuminating. The king bluntly stated his preference for brave, strong men over those who advocated humaneness and virtue (De). Hui Ang cleverly responded that he knew methods to make even the courageous fail in their thrusts and the strong miss their strikes. When the king showed interest, he further explained techniques to make men unwilling to strike at all, finally proposing ways to make all people willingly offer their devotion. These methods far surpassed mere physical prowess, reaching what's called "the state beyond four accumulations." Ultimately persuaded, King Kang recognized that ruling through virtue (De) was superior to ruling by force.

Both stories convey the same truth: genuine power lies not in external ferocity but in internal cultivation. Just as the fighting cock must achieve the "wooden rooster" state, governing a nation must transcend brute force to reach the higher plane of moral influence.

The passage describes how Confucius (Kong Qiu) and Mozi (Mo Di), though possessing no fiefdoms, were revered like sovereigns, and though holding no official positions, were honored as teachers by all under heaven. Men and women would crane their necks and stand on tiptoe, willingly following them. Now, the ruler of Song commands ten thousand chariots—if he truly aspires to emulate these sages, the entire state could benefit, achieving a realm even higher than that of Confucius and Mozi. The King of Song, hearing this, fell silent. Hui Ang (the debater) then bowed and withdrew. The king remarked to his attendants, "How masterfully persuasive! This guest has convinced me with reason."

This content shares similarities with the "Discourse on Swords" chapter in the Zhuangzi, both exploring the principle of "appearing non-contentious yet achieving victory." Blades that cannot pierce and strikes that cannot wound may seem engaged in conflict, yet there are moments when victory remains elusive. Those who dare not stab or strike at all still harbor competitive thoughts in their hearts. The highest realm is exemplified by Confucius and Mozi, who had no desire to contend with others yet inspired genuine reverence and devotion from all under heaven—this is the transformative power of "nurturing others with goodness" (yi shan yang ren), the supreme art of governance. Thus, it is called "above the four levels of contention" (si lei zhi shang), transcending the four stages of competitive engagement.

The phrases "stamping feet" (die zu dun zu) and "raising one's voice" (qing kai) depict the king's agitation before being persuaded, while "rapid speech" (ji yan) refers to speaking swiftly. The final exclamation "how persuasive!" (bian yi) praises Hui Ang's eloquence, acknowledging that the debater truly excelled in using reason to win the king's sincere acceptance.

(Note: This passage reflects the Warring States period philosophy of "contentious non-contention" (bu zheng zhi zheng), contrasting the moral influence of Confucius and Mozi with rule by force, asserting that governing through virtue (yi de fu ren) represents the highest form of statecraft. The "four levels of contention" (si lei) denote a progressive hierarchy of competitive states, from physical conflict to the absence of contentious intent.)