《沖虛至德真經鬳齋口義》Vol. 5

This dialogue records a philosophical discussion between King Tang of Shang (founder of the Shang dynasty) and Xia Ge (likely a fictional sage) concerning the origin of the universe. King Tang begins by asking: "Did material existence exist in the most ancient beginnings?" Xia Ge responds: "In the beginning there was nothing at all. Where then did present existence come from? If we speak this way, might future generations regard our present as equally void?"

Tang persists in questioning whether material things have sequences of before and after. Xia Ge explains through the Daoist principle of cyclical recurrence: the end of things may mark another beginning, just as beginnings may imply endings—this cycle knows no boundaries. He candidly admits that while he understands the patterns of the material world, what lies beyond form or precedes events remains unknowable.

Regarding cosmic boundaries, Xia Ge offers a profound insight: if we speak of "non-being" (void), there are no limits; if we speak of "being" (existence), there must inevitably be endpoints. Yet the true mystery lies in this—beyond the infinite there still exists no boundary called "infinity," and within the endless there remains no concept of "end." This formulation resonates strikingly with Zhuangzi's cosmological reflections in the "Free and Easy Wandering" chapter.

The text notes that "Xia Ge" might be a scribal error for "Ji," though the author suggests such nominal discrepancies need not be scrutinized, as such dialogues often serve allegorical purposes. Finally, when Tang inquires what lies beyond the Four Seas, Xia Ge answers from experience: having journeyed east to Yingzhou (the ancient easternmost land), he found its people no different from those of the Central Plains. This response subtly implies the fundamental unity of all things in heaven and earth, echoing the earlier discussion of cosmic boundlessness.

Through this master-discourse format, the passage vividly demonstrates Daoist cosmological inquiry: acknowledging the limits of human understanding while emphasizing a worldview of "limitless infinity," embodying the Daoist commitment to truthful recognition—"to know what you know, and know what you don't know."

This passage employs a series of metaphors to illustrate the boundless vastness of the world and the limitations of human perception. Just as people living in a "camp" can only see others within their camp, and those dwelling in "Bin" territory perceive only their local surroundings, neither group realizes that similar settlements exist east of the camp or west of Bin. If even the inhabitants of the Central States (Qizhou) have such limited vision, how much more lies beyond the Four Seas, the Four Wastes, and the Four Extremes?

The author uses the phrase "Beyond the seas lies the Great Wasteland, beyond which lies the Wuji (Limitless)" to convey the immeasurable expanse of existence. Such descriptions aim to shatter narrow perspectives, echoing the works of Zhuangzi and Liezi that emphasize how all things—great and small—mutually contain each other without end. Consider how tiles rest on rafters, rafters on purlins, purlins on beams, beams on pillars, and pillars upon the earth—this nested relationship extends infinitely outward.

All phenomena exist within this web of mutual containment. Heaven and Earth dwell within the Taixu (cosmic void), yet beyond this void may lie greater spaces encompassing it. Since the space containing all things has no boundary, how could the realm containing Heaven and Earth possibly have limits? Who can definitively claim nothing greater exists beyond our cosmos?

These seemingly exaggerated statements actually serve to break the constrained worldview of narrow-minded, self-interested individuals. Though they may sound fantastical, profound meaning lies beneath the surface. When reading such texts, one shouldn't fixate on literal interpretations but approach them with an open mind.

The passage concludes with the myth of Nüwa mending the heavens, demonstrating that even Heaven and Earth—as mere phenomena among myriad others—possess imperfections. Thus in ancient times, Nüwa smelted five-colored stones to repair the sky's ruptures and severed the giant turtle's legs to prop up the Four Pillars. This further confirms that Heaven and Earth aren't flawless but require adjustment and completion like all things.

This passage recounts two famous mythological tales. The first tells of Gonggong (the ancient water deity) who, after failing in his bid for the throne against Zhuanxu (one of the Five Emperors), angrily crashed into Mount Buzhou in rage. This caused the pillar supporting heaven and earth to break, making the southeastern region of the earth collapse—hence all rivers flow toward the southeast—while the northwestern sky tilted, causing the sun, moon, and stars to move in that direction. However, the author considers these descriptions exaggerated, asserting that celestial movements follow their own subtle patterns understandable only to those versed in astronomy.

The second tale describes the mythical abyss of Guixu east of the Bohai Sea, where all the world's waters converge yet never increase or decrease. Within Guixu stand five sacred mountains: Daiyu, Yuanjiao, Fanghu, Yingzhou, and Penglai. These mountains tower thirty thousand li high, with nine-thousand-li-wide flat summits, each separated by seventy thousand li. Their structures are built of gold and jade, inhabited by pure white animals without blemish, where celestial trees bear fruits of pearls and gemstones—consuming which grants immortality. Countless immortals dwell there, flying daily between mountains to visit one another. Yet these mountains lacked foundations, drifting with the waves and troubling their divine residents. The Heavenly Emperor thus dispatched the sea deity Yuqiang to station fifteen giant sea turtles that took turns supporting the mountains, rotating every sixty thousand years. Later, a giant from the land of Longbo (a kingdom of titans) strode over in a few steps and hooked away six turtles in one cast, causing Daiyu and Yuanjiao mountains to drift north and sink into the polar sea.

This passage describes numerous mythical realms and creatures, showcasing the incredible diversity between heaven and earth.

In ancient times, the inhabitants of Longbo Country (the land of giants in mythology) were originally thousands of zhang tall. After the Heavenly Emperor grew angry and punished them, they gradually diminished in size. Yet even during the eras of Fuxi and Shennong, the people of Longbo still stood thousands of zhang high. In stark contrast were the residents of Jiaoyao Country (the land of dwarves), who measured merely one and a half chi tall. Northeast of them lived beings called "disputers" that stood only nine cun high. This demonstrates how lifeforms between heaven and earth manifest in countless variations that defy our everyday standards.

The text also records various extraordinary life phenomena: in the south grows the Mingling Tree (a mythical divine tree) that considers five hundred years as a single spring and five hundred more as autumn. The great Chun tree of high antiquity measured eight thousand years as one season. On decaying soil, fungi sprout at dawn only to wither by dusk, while tiny flying insects born during spring-summer rains perish upon seeing sunlight. In the northernmost Minghai (the legendary Celestial Pool) swim enormous Kun fish spanning thousands of li wide, alongside the Peng, a divine bird whose wings resemble clouds draping from the heavens. These creatures were so immense that ordinary people could scarcely imagine them—only Yu the Great witnessed them during his imperial tours, with Boyi (the legendary sage minister) naming them and Yijian (the ancient naturalist) recording them.

These accounts collectively illustrate how transformations between heaven and earth are truly boundless, with lifeforms so fantastical they far exceed ordinary understanding. Just as the gargantuan Longbo people contrast sharply with the diminutive Jiaoyao folk, nature presents extremes in all directions—reminding us never to judge the totality of creation by our limited human perspective.

This passage presents several allegorical tales and Daoist philosophical insights. It begins by noting that ancient texts like the Classic of Mountains and Seas (Shanhaijing), though attributed to legendary figures like Yu the Great and Boyi, are akin to modern claims that Zhang Qian explored the Milky Way—using famous names merely to enhance credibility. Terms like "Yijian" function similarly to "Qi Xie" in Zhuangzi, serving as fictional designations.

The passage then recounts a fable about microscopic creatures called "Jiaoming." These insects are so tiny that whole colonies can alight on a mosquito's eyelash without touching one another, remaining undetected by the host. Even Li Zhu and Ziyu, famed for their keen eyesight, fail to spot them by day, and the sharp-eared Shi Kuang cannot hear them at night. Only the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) and Rong Chengzi, after three months of purification rituals (zhai) on Mount Kongtong, achieved a meditative state of "mental stillness and physical dissolution" (xin si xing fei). In this state, they perceived the Jiaoming with their spirit (shen), seeing them as towering as mountains and hearing their movements thunderous.

This hyperbolic tale illustrates that true understanding transcends sensory perception, requiring inner attunement. As Zhuangzi teaches, listening with the ears is inferior to listening with Qi (vital energy), which in turn falls short of comprehending with the heart-mind.

The text further cites examples of plants altering traits across regions: the "you tree" (similar to pomelo) from Wu and Chu yields sweet-sour fruit with medicinal bark, prized in Qi. Yet when transplanted north of the Huai River, it becomes the bitter trifoliate orange. Mynah birds cannot cross the Ji River, and raccoon dogs perish beyond the Wen River—all due to shifts in earthly Qi (diqi). Though forms vary, each being's intrinsic nature (xing) remains whole and self-sufficient. Why then distinguish big/small, long/short, or same/different? Such distinctions are mere manifestations of nature's transformations (zaohua). All things possess their unique, irreplaceable completeness.

In closing, the passage emphasizes observing the mutability of form and Qi to grasp creation's mysteries. All natures are equal yet distinct—this is the Dao of spontaneity (ziran). The particle "yi" marks the conclusion.

The Taihang and Wangwu Mountains spanned seven hundred square li, towering ten thousand ren (an ancient unit of measurement, approximately eight chi per ren). Originally located south of Jizhou and north of Heyang, these colossal peaks dominated the landscape.

An elderly man named Yugong, nearing ninety years of age, lived facing the northern slopes of these mountains. Troubled by the obstructed passage and the lengthy detours required to travel around them, he gathered his family and proposed: "Let us join our strength to level these two mountains, opening a direct path to southern Yuzhou that reaches the southern banks of the Han River. What say you?"

His family voiced their agreement, save for his wife, who raised doubts: "With your strength, you couldn’t even remove a small mound like Kuifu—how much less these massive Taihang and Wangwu Mountains? And where would we put all the earth and stones we dig up?" The others chimed in: "We could dump them by the shores of the Bohai Sea, north of Yintu." So Yugong set out with three generations of his descendants capable of carrying baskets. They chiseled rocks and dug earth, hauling the debris in baskets to the Bohai Sea. Their neighbor, the widow of Jingcheng, had a young son just losing his baby teeth, who eagerly skipped along to help. Their journey took a full year to complete each round trip.

An old man from Hequ, known as Wise Elder, laughed and tried to dissuade them: "How foolish you are! With what little strength remains in your aged bones, you couldn’t even destroy a single blade of grass on these mountains—what hope do you have against all this earth and stone?" Yugong sighed deeply and replied: "Your mind is too rigid—even less perceptive than a widow or child. Though I may die, my sons will remain, and they will bear grandsons, who in turn will bear more sons and grandsons. Our descendants are endless, but these mountains will not grow taller. Why fear we cannot level them?" The Wise Elder had no answer.

When the mountain gods heard of this, they grew fearful that Yugong’s family might truly dig without end, so they reported the matter to the Heavenly Emperor. Moved by Yugong’s sincerity, the emperor commanded the two sons of Kua’e (a mythological giant) to carry away the two mountains—one was placed east of Shuofang, the other south of Yongzhou. From then on, no towering peaks stood between southern Jizhou and the southern banks of the Han River.

(Note: "Taihang" is alternately written as "Taixing" in some texts; "Yintu" refers to a northern region; "changing seasons" signifies the passage of a year; "unwise" denotes a lack of understanding. Though this tale may seem exaggerated, it vividly illustrates the spirit of perseverance. Like the Buddhist parable of the Bodhisattva who saw a man grinding an iron rod by a riverbank, vowing to sharpen it into a needle—though seemingly absurd, it conveys the profound truth of steadfast determination.)

This passage presents several Daoist parables and philosophical reflections. First, it discusses the principle of cultivation for attaining the Dao: human life is like sharpening a blade—one cannot rush the process. Just as a Great Master (cultivator) must repeatedly contemplate to realize the Dao, Su Dongpo also remarked, "Proceed gradually—what cannot be accomplished in ten years?" This spirit of perseverance aligns with the diligence of ancient sage-kings like Yao and Shun, Tang of Shang's "daily renewal," and King Wen of Zhou's "purity without cease."

Next, it recounts the myth of Kuafu chasing the sun: Kuafu, overestimating his strength, pursued the sun to the valley of sunset (Yugu), where he was overcome with thirst. After draining the Yellow River and Wei River, he sought to drink from the great northern marsh but perished of thirst along the way. His staff transformed into the Deng Forest (peach grove), spanning thousands of miles. The author suggests such myths are ancient tales of wonder preserved in Daoist texts like the Liezi as allegorical material.

Finally, through a dialogue between Yu the Great and Xiage, it explores the Dao of nature: Yu states that all things in heaven and earth are governed by the sun, moon, stars, and seasonal changes, and only sages comprehend these patterns. Xiage adds that some phenomena exist beyond these natural laws—their very being embodies the Dao's spontaneity (Ziran), which even sages struggle to fully grasp. Notably, the text observes that Xiage, who converses with both Tang of Shang and the earlier Yu in the Liezi, may be a Daoist adept who lived for centuries.

(Note: The "Tai Sui" mentioned refers to a hypothetical celestial body in ancient astronomy; "Kua’e Shi" is a mythical giant; the "Deng Forest," or peach grove, symbolizes longevity in Daoism.)

Yu the Great said that all physical things in the world, whether short-lived or long-lived, contain within them the principles of nature. Only sages can fully comprehend these truths. He further stated that some forms of life exist without relying on the dual energies of Yin-Yang or the movements of the sun and moon—such as pebbles and stones within rocks. Do they need the Qi of Yin-Yang? Ants and earthworms in the soil—do they depend on the light of the sun and moon? The mushrooms that sprout at dawn and wither by dusk, or the cicadas of summer—are their short lives due to being killed? The pines and cypresses of the southern mountains—do they achieve longevity through guidance? Birds that feed on fat and insects that gnaw on reeds—do they wait for the ripening of the five grains? Animals like oxen and horses—do they rely on silk or cotton for warmth? Creatures that fly—do they need carts or boats to travel? These are all phenomena formed naturally, beyond the scope of conventional reasoning. Even sages cannot fully grasp them.

The Grand Duke (an ancient deity governing the year) presides over the passage of time, and people still use this concept today, showing that such understanding has existed since antiquity. The point here is: some things in the world can be explained by common principles, while others transcend them—this is precisely the profound mystery of the transformations of heaven and earth.

While regulating the waters and lands, Yu once lost his way and mistakenly entered a country near the northernmost reaches of the Northern Sea, countless thousands of miles from the Central Plains. This land, called the Kingdom of Ultimate North, had no boundaries or limits, no wind, rain, frost, or dew, and no birds, beasts, insects, fish, or plants. The land was flat on all sides, with a central mountain shaped like an overturned jar, called Mount Huling. At its summit was a circular opening called the Nourishing Cavern, from which flowed a miraculous spring called the Divine Fountain. Its fragrance surpassed that of orchids and pepper, and its sweetness exceeded fine wine. The waters divided into four streams that spread throughout the land, where the climate was mild and free of plagues. The people were gentle and harmonious, neither contentious nor aggressive, with soft hearts and pliant bones, free from arrogance or envy. The young and old lived together as equals, with no distinction between ruler and subject; men and women mingled freely, with no need for matchmakers or betrothal gifts. The people dwelled along the waters, neither plowing nor planting; as the land was warm, they neither wove nor wore clothes. They lived to a hundred years and died naturally, with no premature deaths or illnesses. The population flourished endlessly, knowing only joy without the sorrows of aging or sickness. Their custom was to love music, spending their days hand in hand, singing in turns without tiring. When hungry or thirsty, they drank from the Divine Fountain—drinking too much would intoxicate them for ten days before they awoke. Bathing in its waters made their skin smooth and fragrant, the scent lingering for over ten days.

"Ultimate North" signifies the northernmost extreme, where "Qi" means the limit and "boundary" is nonexistent—this land had no borders or end.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of Perfect Virtue in the Void) presents several narratives and discourses about distant, wondrous lands.

The first section describes extraordinary sights witnessed by Yu the Great: towering peaks like Fanghu and Yuanjiao (legendary mountains of immortals), and a miraculous spring (shenfen) whose single source divided into four streams encircling the entire realm. The people there were gentle and non-contentious, living in harmony where all things flourished abundantly.

The second part recounts King Mu of Zhou's journey: during his northern expedition, he encountered a marvelous kingdom where he lingered for three years, forgetting to return to his court. Even after coming back, he remained wistful for months, losing appetite and abstaining from female companionship. The narrative invokes the legend of King Mu's Eight Chargers to authenticate this account.

The third segment features a dialogue between Guan Zhong and Duke Huan of Qi. When the Duke contemplated abandoning Qi for that exotic land, Guan Zhong dissuaded him by extolling Qi's vast territory, prosperous culture, and military might, questioning why one would envy barbarian regions. Privately, however, Guan Zhong suggested the place might transcend mortal reach—hinting it could be a celestial realm beyond ordinary perception.

The concluding passage compares regional customs: southerners with cropped hair and bare torsos, northerners in fur-lined hooded coats, and central plains dwellers wearing ceremonial caps and robes. Different lands yield different products; some people farm while others trade, all following natural rhythms—just as one wears furs in winter and hemp in summer, boats on water and carts on land. These represent spontaneous ways of living in accordance with the Dao.

(Note: "Fanghu and Yuanjiao" refer to mythical immortal mountains; "shenfen" denotes a magical water source; "Eight Chargers" were King Mu's divine steeds; "Zhongfu" was Duke Huan's honorific for Guan Zhong)

This passage discusses two main themes: the diversity of customs across different regions, and the relativity of human understanding.

First, it describes strikingly different funeral customs among various nations: In the eastern land of Zhexiu, people eat their firstborn son believing this ensures the health of subsequent children, and abandon their wives after elders' deaths, claiming one shouldn't live with a "ghost wife." The southern Yanren people of Chu strip flesh from deceased relatives before burial, considering bone interment alone as true filial piety. Western Yiqu inhabitants of Qin cremate their dead on pyres, viewing rising smoke as the soul's celestial ascent. What rulers consider governance, commoners practice as custom—neither perspective being inherently strange.

Through these examples, the text illustrates how customs vary across Heaven and Earth, cautioning against viewing Central Plains traditions as uniquely superior. What we cherish might repel others—a perfectly natural principle.

Next, the Confucian anecdote about two children debating the sun's distance demonstrates cognitive relativity: One child argues morning's large sun (chariot-canopy sized) proves its proximity compared to noon's smaller (plate-sized) appearance; the other counters that morning's coolness versus noon's heat indicates the opposite. Even Confucius couldn't adjudicate, mirroring the Jin dynasty prince's debate about whether Chang'an or the sun lay farther—showing judgments of distance and truth resist singular standards.

Finally, the text elevates "equilibrium" (jun) as the universe's supreme principle, illustrated by suspending heavy weights with hair strands: When force distributes evenly, even massive loads won't snap the hair; uneven distribution breaks seemingly light burdens. This underscores balance's fundamental importance.

The passage illustrates the core Daoist concept of "equilibrium" through several parables. The first analogy compares it to suspending heavy weights with a single hair: when weight is evenly distributed, even something as fine as a strand can bear immense force; yet once balance is lost, even the strongest material will snap. This echoes Gongsun Long’s theory of "a hair lifting a thousand jun" — while ordinary people dismiss it as impossible, those who grasp its principle understand its feasibility.

Next comes the story of Zhan He fishing. Using a single silk thread as his line, a slender needle as his hook, and a thin bamboo rod, he managed to haul in a cart-sized fish. When King Chu inquired about his secret, Zhan He likened it to Pu Juizi shooting down two flying birds with a light bow and fine string, emphasizing that the key lay in "focused intent and evenly applied force." After five years of disciplined practice, he achieved a state of undistracted concentration and precise control, making the bait drift like dust or foam in the water — so natural that the great fish swallowed it without suspicion. This demonstrates how weakness can master strength, and lightness can overcome heaviness. Govern a state with such principles, and the world becomes effortlessly manageable.

The passage also alludes to Gonghu of Lu and Qiying of Zhao seeking the famed physician Bian Que for treatment, hinting that healing and statecraft share the same logic: both require balancing Yin-Yang. These stories collectively expound Laozi’s teaching that "the soft and weak vanquish the hard and strong." When the mind remains serene, free from rigid distinctions between strength and weakness, gentleness can indeed subdue force. Like the hunchbacked old man effortlessly catching cicadas, success lies in focused tranquility.

This story recounts the miraculous tale of the renowned physician Bian Que performing a heart-swapping operation between Gong Hu and Qi Ying. Both men sought treatment from Bian Que, who discerned that their ailments weren't physical but temperamental—Gong Hu was thoughtful yet indecisive, while Qi Ying acted impulsively without strategy. Using an anesthetic, Bian Que rendered them unconscious for three days and exchanged their hearts. Upon awakening, their personalities had switched: Gong Hu returned to Qi Ying's home claiming his wife, and Qi Ying went to Gong Hu's household doing the same, causing great confusion. Only after Bian Que explained the situation was the dispute resolved.

Through this exaggerated narrative, the story illustrates how human temperament is shaped by innate constitution (Qi) and is difficult to change voluntarily. As the Song Dynasty philosopher Cheng Hao observed, all suffering originates in the heart-mind (Xin), and true healing must begin there. The Liezi uses this parable to address the nature of innate temperament (Xing), while Cheng Hao emphasizes rational cultivation—only by guiding temperament with reason can one attain genuine spiritual freedom.

The subsequent account describes the musician Hu Ba, whose zither playing could make birds and beasts dance. Inspired, Zheng State's Shi Wen sought him as a teacher but failed to produce harmonious music for three years. Dismissed by his master, Shi Wen set aside his instrument and lamented: "It's not that the strings are untuned or the compositions unmastered, but that my heart lacks enlightenment, and my Qi cannot resonate with the zither." Through continued dedicated practice, he eventually grasped the Dao of music—playing the Shang mode in spring could summon autumn winds to make plants fruit, while playing the Jue mode in autumn could invoke spring breezes to revive withered trees. This demonstrates that true artistry requires unity of heart-mind (Xin), vital energy (Qi), and technique. When inner cultivation reaches perfection, even nature responds in harmony.

This passage recounts two marvelous tales about the power of music.

The first story describes the wondrous states achieved by Shi Wen when playing the qin. When he played the zhi mode (one of the ancient five tones) in winter, the sunlight suddenly grew intensely hot, causing solid ice to melt instantly. When he played the gong mode (the fundamental tone among the five), gentle breezes arose, auspicious clouds appeared, sweet dew descended, and sweet springs bubbled forth. His teacher Shi Xiang marveled, saying: "Your qin artistry has reached such perfection that even Shi Kuang's famous qingjiao mode and Zou Yan's (Yin-Yang master) flute techniques cannot compare—they would have to come holding their instruments to learn from you."

The text explains the Dao of qin playing: poor performance stems from an unsettled mind; fingers must press the strings steadily and tune them precisely. True artistry lies not in the strings or sounds themselves, but in the perfect coordination of heart and hand that transcends the instrument. Playing seasonally appropriate tones produces miraculous effects: performing autumn modes in spring summons autumnal qi, winter modes in summer brings wintry energy, and so forth. The five tones correspond to the seasons: shang mode belongs to autumn, jue to spring, yu to winter, zhi to summer, while gong harmonizes the qi of all four seasons.

The second tale tells of Xue Tan learning singing from Qin Qing. Before completing his training, Xue fancied he had mastered the art and prepared to leave. Qin didn't detain him, but when bidding farewell at the outskirts, he beat time while singing a mournful melody that shook the forest trees and resonated through the clouds. Only then did Xue realize his inadequacy, begging to continue his studies—he never again spoke of returning home. Qin later told friends: "When Han E (the legendary singer) journeyed to Qi and sang at Yongmen Gate for food, her voice lingered around the beams for three days after she departed." Both stories illustrate how music, when perfected, can resonate with Heaven and Earth to produce miraculous transformations.

This passage recounts several miraculous tales about music and craftsmanship, illustrating how extraordinary effects can be achieved when skills reach their pinnacle.

First is the story of Han E’s singing. After being humiliated at an inn, Han E wept with a lingering, sorrowful voice, moving the entire village to tears and leaving them unable to eat for three days. Later, when she returned and sang a joyful tune, the villagers became so elated that they danced with delight, completely forgetting their previous grief. To this day, the people of Yongmen (a place name) excel at singing, having preserved and imitated Han E’s vocal techniques.

Next is the tale of Bo Ya playing the qin. When Bo Ya envisioned towering mountains while playing, Zhong Ziqi remarked, "Majestic as Mount Tai." When Bo Ya imagined flowing water, Zhong Ziqi said, "Vast as the great rivers." When Bo Ya performed the Rainstorm Melody (Linyu Cao) or the Collapsing Mountain Sound (Bengshan Yin), Zhong Ziqi grasped the full meaning behind each piece. Bo Ya marveled that Zhong Ziqi understood his heart so completely—no musical expression could be hidden from him.

Finally, the passage mentions King Mu of Zhou encountering a craftsman named Yan Shi during his western travels. Yan Shi claimed he could create all manner of wondrous objects and was willing to undergo any test to prove his skill.

These stories all demonstrate that when an art or craft reaches a divine level of mastery, it can produce effects beyond the ordinary. The underlying implication is clear: if music and craftsmanship can achieve such marvels, how much more profound must be the realm pursued by Daoist cultivators? This is the deeper meaning concealed within these tales.

King Mu of Zhou said to Yanshi: "Tomorrow bring your creation with you, and we shall admire it together." The next day, Yanshi arrived with his mechanical performer. King Mu asked, "Who is this accompanying you?" Yanshi replied, "This is an artificial entertainer I crafted, capable of singing and dancing."

To the king's astonishment, this "person" walked, sat, and moved indistinguishably from a real human. When its chin was pressed, it sang in perfect rhythm; when its arms were raised, it danced in harmony with the melody—every movement fluidly followed the performer's will. King Mu initially believed it to be a living person and summoned his favorite consort Shengji and palace maidens to watch the performance.

Near the act's conclusion, the mechanical figure suddenly winked flirtatiously at the royal concubines. Enraged, King Mu ordered Yanshi executed. In terror, Yanshi immediately disassembled the figure before the king—revealing it was merely constructed from leather, wood, lacquer, and pigments. Upon close inspection, the king saw internally crafted replicas of liver, gallbladder, heart, and lungs, while externally it had simulated tendons, joints, and hair—every component meticulously complete. When reassembled, the figure performed exactly as before.

The king experimented by removing the "heart"—whereupon the figure fell silent; extracting the "liver" rendered it blind; taking out the "kidneys" left it unable to walk. Only then did King Mu's anger turn to delight, exclaiming, "How can human artifice rival the Creator's work!" He then commanded the figure be transported to the palace in a secondary carriage.

The record further notes that even renowned craftsmen like Gongshu Ban (Lu Ban)—creator of cloud-ladders—and Mozi—maker of wooden kites—when their disciples Dongmen Jia and Qin Guli later reported Yanshi's achievement, these masters never again boasted of their skills, devoting their remaining years to quietly perfecting foundational techniques.

(Note: Mount Yan mentioned in the text lies west of Kunlun Mountain. "Presenting it" implies offering tribute, while "a scholar's attire" suggests the figure's refined craftsmanship mimicked aristocratic realism. Through the mechanical man's construction, the passage metaphorically illustrates the Daoist philosophy of "form and spirit in harmony," implying the human body itself is but a temporary coalescence of elemental forces.)

This passage recounts several parables about skill cultivation, emphasizing that only through intensely focused training can one attain extraordinary mastery.

The text mentions correspondences between human organs: the liver corresponds to the kidneys, and the mouth corresponds to the heart. These connections are not artificially imposed but arise naturally. Similar concepts exist in Buddhism's "Four Elements" (earth, water, fire, wind) theory. Human ingenuity can surpass the workings of nature, yet nature's craftsmanship is already profoundly exquisite.

Several examples of remarkable skill are then cited: the "èr chē" (secondary chariot), "yún tī" (siege ladders), and "fēi yuān" (wooden flying kites)—ingenious inventions akin to the "snow peak wooden ball." Though master craftsmen like Lu Ban and Mozi believed their skills had reached perfection, compared to the legendary artisan Yanshi, they still fell short. Thus, they never dared boast of their abilities in their lifetimes.

The passage details the story of Ji Chang learning archery: Fei Wei, a disciple of the ancient archery master Gan Ying, taught Ji Chang. Fei Wei first demanded Ji Chang master the foundational skill of "not blinking." For two years, Ji Chang lay beneath a loom, staring at the treadle until even an awl pricking his eyelid wouldn't make him flinch. Next, Fei Wei had him practice "seeing the small as large"—tying a louse to a window with yak hair and gazing at it daily. After three years, the louse appeared as large as a chariot wheel, while other objects loomed like mountains. Finally, Ji Chang shot through the louse's heart with a swallow-horn bow and northern reed arrow without breaking the hair. Overjoyed, Fei Wei slapped his chest and exclaimed, "You've grasped the essence!"

These stories illustrate that mastering a skill requires disciplined, step-by-step training in fundamentals. Just as the physician Bian Que could "see people through walls" after rigorous study, only by achieving such intense focus can one become a true expert. Those unwilling to endure this arduous process will never comprehend such heights of mastery.

After Ji Chang mastered Fei Wei's archery skills, he believed only Fei Wei remained as his equal in the world. Thus, he sought to eliminate him. When the two met in the wilderness for an archery duel, their arrows collided midair and fell without even stirring dust. Fei Wei exhausted his arrows first, while Ji Chang had one remaining. When Ji Chang loosed his final shot, Fei Wei deflected it perfectly with a thorn tip, not a hair's breadth off. Moved to tears, they cast aside their bows, embraced on the road, and swore a father-son bond. They cut their arms to seal an oath, vowing never to pass on their peerless skills.

The phrase "exchanging shots on the road" describes their arrows meeting and falling simultaneously, leaving no dust unsettled. Deflecting an arrow with a thorn tip with flawless precision demonstrates astonishing mastery. "Cutting arms" refers to the blood oath. Though the tale seems fantastical, a man named Xiang Youhuai knew an elder called Xuan Lufen, who in his seventies still won first place yearly in seasonal military archery contests. Xuan recalled encountering Wang Xin in Liu'an Mountain as a youth. When Wang drew his bow, Xuan—armed only with a short wooden spear—challenged: "I'll stand still for three shots. Miss, and you submit." Wang's three arrows were all knocked aside, forcing his surrender. Later, as Guangzhou's military commander, Wang's former subordinates corroborated the story exactly as Xuan told it. Thus, Ji Chang and Fei Wei's duel may not be fictional.

Consider also Zaofu learning charioteering from Master Taidou. For three years, Zaofu showed utmost reverence while Taidou taught him nothing substantial. Only when Zaofu redoubled his humility did Taidou say: "As the ancient verse goes—the bowmaker's son first learns basket-weaving, the blacksmith's son begins with leather-sewing. Watch my walking. Master this, and you'll command six reins to steer six steeds." Taidou then erected narrow wooden stakes spaced precisely for footsteps, traversing them effortlessly. Zaofu mastered the technique in three days, leaving Taidou awestruck.

This passage describes the charioteering art of Taidou, an ancient master of horsemanship. The core philosophy emphasizes that true mastery lies not in external control, but in achieving perfect unity between man and horse through mental attunement.

When instructing his disciple, Taidou stressed: "You learn quickly, but the essence of charioteering lies in spiritual communion. Just as your footsteps naturally follow your mind's intention when walking, so too must charioteering become an extension of your being." He taught the importance of harmonizing the reins (control ropes) and bit (metal mouthpiece), where subtle lip movements adjust speed while maintaining precise mental measurements and perfectly calibrated hand pressure. When the charioteer's mind merges with the horse's will, movement becomes effortless—advancing and retreating with natural grace, executing turns with perfect form, and traveling long distances without strain.

The true secret lies in: perceiving the horse's response through the bit, transmitting commands through the reins, sensing force through the palms, until all becomes one with the mind. At this level of mastery, one needs neither eyes to see nor whips to drive. With tranquil mind and upright posture, the six reins (for six-horse chariots) remain perfectly ordered, all twenty-four hooves (six horses) strike with precision, and every turn or maneuver flows in perfect rhythm. The chariot leaves no extraneous wheel marks beyond its path, the horses require no extra space beyond their hoofprints—whether traversing treacherous valleys or open plains, all terrain becomes equally manageable to the perfected charioteer.

The text later notes that "Taidou" was a legendary charioteer, while "Qiuji" possibly refers to ancient bamboo tools (used in bow-making or metallurgy), though its exact meaning remains obscure. The passage employs metaphors—comparing charioteering to learning basket-weaving before bow-making, or mastering metallurgical fundamentals—to illustrate how basic footwork forms the foundation. Particularly noteworthy details include: "twenty-four hooves" denoting six-horse teams, "spinning along rope-thin paths" describing nimble turns in narrow spaces, and "tranquil mind, upright posture" highlighting the charioteer's composed mentality. The ultimate achievement is described as leaving no traces beyond wheel tracks, needing no extra ground beyond hoofprints, and traversing all terrain—steep or level—with equal ease as walking flat land.

This passage recounts a parable about vengeance and divine swords. In the state of Wei lived a tyrant named Hei Luan who murdered Qiu Bingzhang due to personal enmity. Qiu's son Lai Dan vowed to avenge his father, but being physically frail—counting rice grains when eating and relying on wind currents when walking—he stood no chance against Hei Luan. The latter possessed Herculean strength and was impervious to weapons: blades bounced off his neck, arrows glanced off his chest, and he regarded Lai Dan as helpless as a newly hatched chick.

Lai Dan's friend Shen Ta heard that Kong Zhou of Wei possessed three divine swords handed down from Shang dynasty emperors: the first, "Light-Devouring Blade," was completely invisible and left no trace when slicing objects; the second, "Shadow-Bearing Blade," flickered at dawn and dusk with only faint sounds when cutting; the third, "Night-Tempered Blade," cast shadows without light by day and light without form by night, with wounds healing instantly. These swords had remained sheathed through thirteen generations.

Though Kong Zhou explained none could kill, Lai Dan insisted on borrowing the least of them—the "Night-Tempered Blade." After seven days of purification rituals, he received the sword kneeling at daybreak. The tale suspends here with profound implication: how might this seemingly harmless blade aid the weak against the strong? The allegory reveals how Daoist practitioners, though appearing fragile, can overcome worldly might by mastering the Dao's mysteries—much like tightrope walkers who defy common logic yet harmonize with celestial principles.

This passage recounts the strange tale of Lai Dan's quest for vengeance. Armed with a sword, Lai Dan sought revenge against his enemy Hei Luan, who lay drunk beneath a window. Lai Dan struck three blows from Hei Luan's neck to his waist, yet the man showed no reaction. Believing his foe dead, Lai Dan withdrew, only to encounter Hei Luan's son at the doorway. He thrust his sword three times at the youth, but the blade passed through as if through empty air. The son merely laughed and said, "Why do you foolishly wave at me three times?" Realizing the sword couldn't harm anyone, Lai Dan sighed and departed.

When Hei Luan sobered up, he scolded his wife: "You let me lie in the draft while drunk—now my throat aches and my back is sore." His son added, "Earlier at the door, Lai Dan waved at me three times, leaving me feeling unwell with stiff limbs. Were they cursing us?"

Several key points are explained here: The "art of ritual domination" (yansheng zhi shu) refers to ancient shamanistic practices of subduing others through curses or magic. The text mentions three swords by name, all associated with local domination rituals. These spells work best during liminal hours—either at dawn ("the transition between night and dawn") or dusk ("the boundary between light and dark"). When the sword strikes, it "passes through void," leaving only light and shadow without physical effect.

The passage further supplements with an anecdote about King Mu of Zhou: When campaigning against the Western Rong tribes, they presented him with the legendary "Kunwu" sword and "fire-washed cloth." The sword could slice through iron like mud and cleave jade effortlessly. The cloth required cleansing by fire—turning crimson in the flames while stains reverted to the fabric's color; shaken out, it emerged white as snow. These accounts demonstrate that marvelous objects truly exist, implying Lai Dan's experience wasn't fabricated and that Daoist practitioners might indeed wield extraordinary arts. The entire narrative illustrates how seemingly absurd stories contain profound meanings—they aren't merely exaggerations.

This passage discusses the limitations of human cognition. Master Xiao remarks: The royal disciple (likely referring to a certain practitioner) excessively trusts his own judgment, thereby contradicting the truth.

Two examples are given to illustrate this point: First, the forging of refined steel (referring to high-quality metal repeatedly tempered) – crimson blades (sharp red weapons) are crafted from the purest metal. Second, while no one today has seen a sword capable of cutting jade, people have witnessed fire-washed fabric (likely referring to specially treated cloth). These marvelous things truly exist in the world, yet the royal disciple, trusting only what he has personally seen, arbitrarily dismisses all legendary marvels as falsehoods, thus distorting the truth.

The author concludes: People often use their limited knowledge to challenge greater truths – such individuals do not truly comprehend the Dao (the Way). Through concrete examples, the entire passage critiques the cognitive attitude of stubbornly clinging to narrow experience while denying the unknown.