《沖虛至德真經鬳齋口義》Vol. 7

This passage discusses the relationship between reputation and tangible benefits through a dialogue between Yang Zhu and the Meng family.

While staying with the Meng family in the state of Lu, Yang Zhu was asked: "Merely being alive is enough—why should one pursue fame?" Yang Zhu replied: "People seek fame to attain wealth. When wealthy, they continue striving for noble status. Having achieved nobility, they persist in pursuing posthumous renown." When Meng further inquired about how fame benefits descendants, Yang Zhu explained: "Though fame exhausts body and mind, it brings honor to one's clan and benefits the entire community—how much more must it advantage one's offspring?"

The discussion then turns to how those who pursue fame often become incorruptible (leading to poverty) or excessively humble (resulting in low status), ultimately failing to secure wealth and nobility for their descendants. Two contrasting historical examples illustrate this: Guan Zhong, while serving the ruler of Qi, mirrored his lord's debauchery and extravagance yet sincerely assisted him to hegemony—yet after death, only his immediate family retained status. Conversely, the Tian family served Qi's ruler with calculated humility when he was arrogant, and distributed favors when he oppressed the people, ultimately usurping the state and securing lasting prosperity for their lineage. This demonstrates how genuine merit (like Guan Zhong's) brings poverty, while contrived reputation (like the Tian family's) yields wealth.

The conclusion reveals a fundamental paradox: what is authentic needs no reputation, while what passes for fame is often false. Just as the sage-kings Yao and Shun pretended to cede the throne to Xu You and Shan Juan without actually relinquishing power—thus maintaining their rule indefinitely—this shows how reputation and reality frequently diverge, with fame often being mere pretense.

Boyi and Shuqi, those two virtuous men, ultimately let their kingdom perish by declining the throne of Guzhu and starved to death on Mount Shouyang. This story illustrates how simple it is to distinguish between "authenticity" and "hypocrisy."

Yet the text then takes a turn: reputation is entirely illusory. Truly virtuous people do not pursue fame, while those obsessed with reputation often lack genuine virtue. All acts of chasing fame are inherently hypocritical. Here, the examples of Yao and Shun alongside Boyi and Shuqi are used to argue this point, hence being labeled a heterodox teaching. "Discernment" (省) means clear perception, showing that distinguishing truth from falsehood is actually quite straightforward.

This passage first states that reputation can bring personal gain but ultimately reduces to the single word "hypocrisy." The phrase "reality has no name, names have no reality" (实无名，名无实) is particularly apt, directly pointing out that fame is mere pretense. This perspective is proposed to correct conventional views.

Yang Zhu said: A hundred years is the limit of human lifespan, yet not one in a thousand reaches it. Suppose someone lives a century—childhood and old age consume nearly half; nights spent sleeping and days in idle distraction claim the other half. Add to this the time lost to illness, suffering, worry, and fear, and the truly free and enjoyable moments in decades of life amount to mere fleeting instants.

So what is life for? Where is the joy? It lies only in fine food, elegant clothes, sensual pleasures. Yet these satisfactions are fleeting—music and beauty cannot be enjoyed forever. Moreover, we're constrained by punishments and rewards, bound by reputation and laws, anxiously scrambling for empty fame, scheming for posthumous glory, nervously monitoring others' opinions, calculating rights and wrongs. Thus we squander present happiness, unable to live freely even briefly—how does this differ from being shackled prisoners?

The ancients understood life's brevity and death's swift arrival. They followed their desires without violating innate nature, enjoyed present pleasures without forced abstinence, thus were not driven by hollow reputation. Living in accordance with their nature without opposing cosmic patterns, indifferent to posthumous fame, they remained untouched by punishment. The sequence of reputations, the length of lifespans—these were never their concerns.

(Note: "齐" here means "limit"; "弭" means "eliminate"; "介焉" refers to an extremely minuscule state. This emphasizes how vanishingly little time humans truly spend in happiness.)

This passage examines the fundamental questions of life's pursuits and perspectives on mortality. Yang Zhu (a Daoist philosopher of the Warring States period) posited that all living beings differ during their existence but become identical in death. In life, distinctions exist between the wise and foolish, noble and humble, yet all alike decay into nothingness after death. These differences are not determined by human effort—just as the virtuous rulers Yao and Shun share the same skeletal fate as the tyrants Jie and Zhou, revealing no essential distinction.

The text critiques two extreme lifestyles: one exemplified by Bo Yi (a recluse of late Shang dynasty) who pursued excessive moral purity to the point of starvation, and another by Zhan Ji (also known as Liu Xiahui, a virtuous official of Spring and Autumn period) whose rigid adherence to chastity led to his family's decline. The author observes that forced pursuit of "purity and chastity" ultimately undermines genuine virtue.

Regarding life attitude, the text advocates following natural spontaneity (Wuwei): when joyful, one should embrace the present moment without demanding perfection; when encountering pleasures, accept them freely without chasing or avoiding them for empty reputation. Those who exhaust themselves pursuing fame or evading criticism differ little from prisoners shackled by their own constraints.

Quoting poets like Du Fu and Bai Juyi, the passage illustrates life's brevity—rather than worrying about posthumous reputation, one should cherish the present. As Zhang Han (a Jin dynasty scholar) remarked, "Drink this cup of wine while alive," and Bai Juyi advised, "Don't ponder life's endless troubles, just savor the finite cups before you," both emphasizing the wisdom of living in the moment.

The conclusion notes that while this passage contains profound truths, its expression lacks the subtle profundity of the Zhuangzi. The character "卸" (xiè) may be a scribal error for "邮" (yóu), which in ancient usage shared meaning with "尤" (yóu), denoting "excess" or "going too far."

This passage explores Daoist perspectives on life attitudes and the art of nourishing life (yangsheng), using several historical anecdotes to illustrate how excessive pursuit of either ascetic purity or material wealth leads to problems.

Yang Zhu (a Daoist thinker of the Warring States period) mentions that Yuan Xian (a disciple of Confucius) lived in poverty in the state of Lu, while Zigong (another Confucian disciple) became wealthy through commerce in Wei. Yuan Xian’s poverty harmed his well-being, while Zigong’s wealth burdened his life. This demonstrates that neither destitution nor affluence is an ideal state. The key lies in understanding how to live joyfully and maintain ease of body and mind. Those skilled in enjoying life will not fall into poverty, and those adept at cultivating inner peace will not be weighed down by riches.

The text critiques two extremes: one is the excessive purity of Bo Yi, who starved himself to death for the sake of moral righteousness, and the other is the self-indulgence of Ji Zha, whose unrestrained lifestyle led to the extinction of his lineage. An obsessive pursuit of lofty reputation can mislead those who genuinely wish to do good.

Regarding attitudes toward life and death, an ancient saying is cited: "In life, we care for one another; in death, we part ways." While alive, people should support each other, ensuring comfort, sustenance, and fulfillment. After death, there is no need for lavish burials—no jade ornaments, no extravagant garments, no sacrificial offerings, no precious burial objects. This aligns with the views of Yang Wangsun and Huangfu Mi, who advocated simple, unadorned burials.

Finally, through a dialogue between Guan Zhong (Guan Yiwu) and Yan Ying (Yan Pingzhong) on nourishing life, the passage presents the Daoist principle of following nature (ziran): let the ears hear what they wish to hear, the eyes see what they wish to see, the nose smell what it wishes to smell, the mouth speak what it wishes to speak, the body rest in comfort, and the mind move freely. To suppress these natural desires is to obstruct the proper functioning of the senses and the heart-mind (xin).

This passage discusses two contrasting attitudes toward life and perspectives on death.

First, it describes the "self-tormenting master" — those who deliberately suppress their nature and live an ascetic existence. The author argues that even if such people live for a hundred, a thousand, or ten thousand years, this self-inflicted suffering does not constitute true cultivation of life (yangsheng). On the contrary, those who follow their natural inclinations and enjoy life may find that even a single day of joy equals a month or even ten years of another's existence.

Next, the text presents a dialogue between Guan Zhong and Yan Ying on the concept of death. Yan Ying expresses an exceptionally detached view, stating that after death, the body no longer concerns the self—whether it is cremated, cast into water, buried, left exposed, or wrapped in a straw mat and discarded in a ditch, or even lavishly enshrined in fine robes and a stone coffin, it makes no difference. Such a perspective was remarkably unconventional for its time.

Finally, the passage contrasts the stories of two brothers from the Zheng state, Gongsun Chao and Gongsun Mu, sons of Zichan. Gongsun Chao indulged obsessively in wine, storing thousands of jars in his home with fermenting yeast piled like mountains, spending his days in drunken oblivion, utterly indifferent to worldly affairs or the fate of his family. Meanwhile, Gongsun Mu was equally excessive in his pursuit of sensual pleasure, maintaining a harem of dozens of young and beautiful women. These examples illustrate the extremes of unrestrained desire.

Through these juxtapositions, the text conveys the Daoist principle of following nature (ziran), rejecting both forced repression and excessive indulgence in favor of a balanced middle way. In its view of death, it reflects the Daoist transcendence of mortal concerns and a serene acceptance of life's natural course.

This passage recounts a debate between Zichan, a high-ranking official of Zheng State, and his noble brother Chaomu regarding their contrasting attitudes toward life. The story unfolds as follows:

There was a man utterly devoted to sensual pleasures, sequestering himself in the inner chambers of his mansion, emerging only once every three months yet still feeling unsatisfied. Whenever he heard of a beautiful maiden in the village, he would spare no expense to send matchmakers to seduce her, never resting until he succeeded. Troubled by this behavior day and night, Zichan secretly consulted the strategist Deng Xi: "I've heard that self-cultivation leads to family harmony, and family harmony leads to state governance—this is the principle of progressing from the near to the far. Yet while I can govern the state well, I cannot manage my own household. Have I mistaken the method?"

Deng Xi replied, "I've long found this puzzling. Why not advise him when he's sober, using the principles that life is precious and ritual propriety noble?" Following this advice, Zichan seized an opportunity to admonish his brother: "What elevates humans above beasts is our capacity for reason, which we use to uphold ritual and righteousness. By observing these, one gains reputation and status, whereas indulging desires endangers life itself. Heed my counsel, and you'll soon awaken to truth and attain official rank."

To his surprise, Chaomu retorted: "I've long understood these platitudes! Life is hard-won yet death comes easily. Should we spend our precious lives awaiting inevitable death, then use ritual to show off and distort our true nature for fame? I'd rather die than live like that! My only concerns are when my belly is too full for unrestrained drinking, or when my strength fails to indulge in pleasures—what room have I for reputation or danger? You flaunt your governing talents and dangle official rewards before me—isn't that utterly vulgar?"

Chaomu continued expounding his philosophy: "Those skilled at restraining external things only torment themselves; those who cultivate inner freedom remain undisturbed by external chaos. Your statecraft methods are temporarily applicable to one kingdom, but contrary to human nature. My art of nourishing life (yangsheng) could spread throughout the world without need for ruler-subject rituals. I meant to enlighten you with this wisdom—yet you presume to lecture me?"

This dialogue starkly contrasts two worldviews: Zichan represents the Confucian ideal of ordering society through ritual and law, while Chaomu embodies the Daoist advocacy of following one's authentic nature. Through this exaggerated debate, the story reveals the core Daoist tenet championed in the Chongxu Jing—that "governing within" (inner cultivation) surpasses "governing without" (external regulation).

This passage recounts several instructive anecdotes about health cultivation and worldly conduct.

When Zichan, a senior official of Zheng State, encountered a reclusive sage without realizing it, Deng Xi (a renowned logician of the Spring and Autumn period) later told him: "You lived alongside a genuine Dao-realized person yet failed to recognize him—how can you be considered wise? Zheng's peace was merely coincidental, not your achievement." Here, the "genuine person" (zhenren) refers to a master thoroughly versed in the art of life cultivation.

The text then employs metaphors of wine-making (where accumulated dregs form hills) and futile pursuit of beauties to illustrate humanity's insatiable greed—drinking until bursting yet craving more, exhausting one's vital essence (jing) through indulgence. Guo Pu (the Eastern Jin dynasty's famous occultist) observed that human desires for wine and sensual pleasures can never be satisfied. However, Deng Xi pointed out that those truly skilled in self-cultivation remain undisturbed by external temptations, understanding that order and chaos follow natural patterns—a view echoing Zhuangzi's "Robber Zhi" chapter.

Though Guo Pu mastered divination arts and foresaw his inevitable calamity, his attempts to avert misfortune through bizarre rituals like "holding a knife in his mouth and disheveling his hair" (a disaster-averting technique) appeared irrational to discerning observers—let alone his indulgence in sensual pleasures. The author suggests that while fortune and misfortune belong to Heaven's domain, self-cultivation remains our responsibility: we should fulfill our human efforts while submitting to destiny. This resonates with Mencius's teaching to "cultivate oneself while awaiting Heaven's decree" and Confucius's saying "were I to hear the Dao (Way) in the morning, I could die content in the evening."

The passage concludes with the story of Duanmu Shu (a descendant of Zigong), who inherited vast wealth only to abandon worldly affairs for extreme hedonism—pursuing every imaginable pleasure with gardens, carriages, music and beauties rivaling those of Qi and Chu's rulers. This cautionary tale serves as a foil to highlight the vital importance of temperance.

This fictional Daoist figure Duanmu Shu lived with extraordinary freedom. When pursuing sensory pleasures, he would acquire any rare treasure from distant lands—whatever his eyes desired to see, ears longed to hear, or mouth wished to taste—as effortlessly as plucking fruits from his own courtyard. In his travels, no matter how treacherous the mountains or how distant the journey, he would venture forth with the ease of an ordinary man taking a casual stroll.

His household welcomed hundreds of guests daily, with kitchen fires never extinguished and halls perpetually alive with music and dance. He first distributed his accumulated wealth among his clan, then to his neighbors, and finally to people across the land. At sixty, sensing his vitality waning, he gave away all his possessions—treasures, carriages, horses, and even his wives and concubines—leaving not a single coin for his descendants. By the time he fell ill, he had no money for medicine, and when he passed, there were no funds for burial. Yet the countless people who had benefited from his generosity pooled their resources to give him a proper funeral and returned the remaining money to his descendants.

Opinions on his life diverged sharply: the Daoist figure Qin Guli condemned him for disgracing his family, while Duan Sheng praised him for transcending his ancestors' legacy. Though his actions seemed shocking to conventional minds, they aligned with the natural Dao (the Way). Those rigid defenders of Confucian rites in the state of Wei could never comprehend such a state of being.

The passage concludes with a philosophical dialogue between Mengsun Yang and Yang Zhu (a Daoist philosopher). When someone sought immortality through life-nurturing practices, Yang Zhu replied that death is inevitable; when they sought longevity, he said lasting survival is impossible. Life does not lengthen simply because you cherish it, nor does the body strengthen merely through care. Besides, what meaning would eternal life hold? The emotions, desires, physical sensations, and the flux of worldly affairs remain unchanged across time—past and present are fundamentally the same.

This passage primarily discusses perspectives on life and death, attitudes toward worldly existence, and the Daoist philosophy of "valuing the self" (gui ji).

Regarding life and death, the text observes that a human lifespan of one hundred years is already sufficiently long, as it merely involves the repetition of joy and sorrow, order and chaos. Du Mu's statement that "the worldly effort boils down to eating and sleeping" conveys the same idea—human life consists of nothing more than these ordinary activities. When Meng Sunyang asked whether swift death might be preferable to prolonged life, Master Yang (Yang Zhu) replied: Since we are alive, we should follow the natural course until death comes; when facing death, we should accept it calmly. There's no need to deliberately pursue either swiftness or slowness in matters of life and death.

The discussion then turns to attitudes toward worldly existence. Yang Zhu believed that ancient sages like Bo Chengzi Gao wouldn't sacrifice even a single hair for others, and the Great Yu didn't exhaust himself for personal gain. He advocated that "if no person sacrificed a single hair, and no person acted for the benefit of the world," perfect order would naturally prevail. When Qinzi asked whether one should be willing to pluck a single hair to save humanity, Yang Zhu countered: Could a single hair truly save the world? Meng Sunyang further illustrated with analogies: Would you consent if someone wanted to injure your skin in exchange for ten thousand pieces of gold? What if they demanded the severing of one limb in exchange for an entire kingdom? These rhetorical questions emphasize the paramount importance of self-preservation.

Here we see the core tenet of Yang Zhu's school—"valuing the self": neither sacrificing oneself to benefit others nor harming others to benefit oneself. When each individual preserves themselves, the world naturally achieves peace. This philosophy stands in sharp contrast to the Confucian ideal of "sacrificing life for righteousness."

Mengsun Yang (disciple of Yang Zhu) said: "A single hair is smaller than skin and flesh, and skin and flesh are smaller than a single joint. Yet accumulated hairs form skin and flesh, and accumulated skin and flesh forms joints. A single hair is inherently one ten-thousandth part of the body—how can we belittle it?"

Qinzi (another scholar) replied: "I cannot refute your argument. But if you present your theory to Laozi (Lao Dan) and Guan Yinzi (representative Daoist figures), your words would hold; if presented to Yu the Great or Mozi (Mo Di), then my position would prevail." Upon hearing this, Mengsun Yang turned away and began discussing other matters with his disciples.

This passage employs the典故 of Yu the Great's calloused hands and feet to illustrate Yang Zhu's philosophy: "Even if plucking one of my hairs could benefit the world, I wouldn't give it; even if offered all the world's wealth, I wouldn't accept it." This encapsulates the core tenet of "learning for the self" (the essential doctrine of the Yang Zhu school). The world cannot truly be saved by a single hair—removing one of my hairs brings no real aid to the world, nor does the world need that single hair. Suppose one truly could save the world with a hair—would you be willing? Yang Zhu remained silent, unwilling to state the absolute conclusion.

The entire body consists of interconnected joints, which in turn are composed of countless hairs. To disturb even one hair is to affect part of my physical form—how can we disregard it merely because it's minute? This principle conveys: The moment any fraction of intention turns outward in pursuit, it ceases to align with the proper path of self-cultivation.

Qinzi continued: "I genuinely find your theory difficult to counter. However, while Laozi and Guan Yinzi would agree with you, Yu the Great and Mozi would not." Mengsun Yang's turning to discuss other matters with his disciples implies: "The methods of Yu and Mozi were never esteemed by our school—how can you compare them?"

Yang Zhu (Warring States philosopher) maintained: "People ascribe all virtue to Shun, Yu, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius, while blaming all wickedness on Jie and Zhou. Yet when Shun tilled the fields at Heyang and made pottery at Leize, his limbs knew no rest—he ate no fine foods, brought no comfort to his parents, no closeness to his siblings. At thirty, he married without parental consent. When receiving Yao's abdication, he was already aged with failing wisdom. His son Shangjun proved incompetent, forcing him to pass the throne to Yu—ultimately dying in sorrow and suffering. This exemplifies Heaven's mockery of man. Gun failed at flood control and was exiled to Mount Yu. Yu inherited his father's task yet had to serve his enemy (referring to Shun), toiling daily at water management without even witnessing his own child's birth."

This passage contrasts the life circumstances of ancient sages with those of tyrants, revealing a profound truth: whether virtuous or wicked, all ultimately face death, and posthumous reputation holds no meaning for the deceased.

The text recounts the suffering of four sages: Emperor Shun toiled his entire life in humble dwellings, burdened with cares until his death; the Duke of Zhou endured slander during his regency, forced into three years of eastern exile filled with daily anxiety; Confucius met repeated setbacks during his travels between states—being driven out by felled trees in Song, barred entry in Wei, and trapped between Chen and Cai, enduring constant humiliation. These sages knew not a single day of peace in life, yet achieved eternal glory after death.

In stark contrast stand the tyrants Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang. Leveraging ancestral power, they indulged in extreme luxury and unchecked desires—King Jie wallowed in pleasure-seeking while King Zhou built extravagant palaces and indulged in nightly debauchery, completely disregarding ritual propriety, ultimately meeting disgraceful ends. They reveled in splendor during life but earned eternal infamy after death.

The author presents a thought-provoking perspective: so-called reputation becomes utterly meaningless to the deceased. Like rotten wood or clods of earth, the dead remain oblivious to both praise and condemnation. The four sages earned glorious names yet suffered throughout life; the two tyrants gained notoriety but enjoyed boundless pleasure. Yet all alike marched toward death—where distinctions of virtue and vice cease to matter for those who have passed.

The term "heavenly man" (tianren) here refers to the most afflicted and troubled among ordinary people. "Rotten wood and clods" (zhukuai) metaphorically depict the dead's complete insensibility to worldly judgment. Through these life-and-death contrasts, the passage guides readers to contemplate the meaning and value of existence.

This passage, through the dialogue between Yang Zhu and King Liang of Liang, along with Yang Zhu's discourse, expounds several core philosophical perspectives:

When Yang Zhu paid homage to King Liang, he claimed governing the world was as effortless as manipulating objects in one's palm. The king retorted: "You can't even manage one wife and one concubine properly, nor tend three acres of vegetable garden—what qualifies you to speak of ruling the world with ease?" Yang Zhu responded with a shepherd analogy: "A child can easily herd a hundred sheep, yet even sage-kings like Yao and Shun would struggle with a single ram." Just as giant fish don't swim in narrow streams, celestial swans avoid muddy ponds, and grand ceremonial bells can't keep pace with frenetic dancing, those accomplishing great deeds transcend trivial matters—true achievers disregard minor gains and losses.

Yang Zhu further elaborated: Ancient events have long vanished beyond verification; the deeds of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors remain obscured in mist. If we cannot comprehend present affairs clearly, how can we pretend to understand matters spanning over 300,000 years since Fuxi's era? All judgments of right and wrong, successes and failures, will ultimately dissolve—only the timing differs. Why torment ourselves pursuing transient fame when such hollow reputations mean nothing to our decaying bones? Where then lies life's genuine joy?

Finally, Yang Zhu observed: Humans embody heaven-earth's most numinous essence. Though physically weaker than beasts, we uniquely harness external resources through wisdom. This implies humanity's value resides not in brute strength, but in cognitive and creative capacities. Through progressive reasoning, the text critiques the vanity of reputation-chasing, advocating instead for natural alignment and present-moment awareness as life's true wisdom.

This passage expounds the Daoist core perspective on the relationship between life and material existence. Humans are born fragile, lacking thick fur to withstand seasonal extremes, and must rely on external things for survival. Rather than depending on brute force, we should employ wisdom—the true value of wisdom lies in self-preservation, while the disgrace of violence stems from harming external things.

Our bodies do not truly belong to us—since we live, we must preserve them; external possessions are not truly ours either, for what we gain will ultimately be lost. The body serves as the vessel of life, while material things function as tools for nurturing life. Even if we preserve our bodies, we cannot truly possess them; even if we don't discard external things, we cannot truly own them. Those who forcibly claim bodies and possessions treat the entire world as private property. Only sages achieve the state of "making all under heaven public," regarding both body and possessions as communal property of the world.

Life cultivation focuses on nurturing one's inherent nature through wisdom rather than brute force. Wisdom resides within, while violence acts upon external things. Self-preservation is noble, whereas harming external things is base. To harm external things is to engage in mutual depletion and mutual injury with them. Though we must preserve our bodies and lives, external possessions do not truly belong to us—rather they become burdens we must eventually relinquish. While the body forms life's foundation and material things serve life's nourishment, neither our bodies nor external things can be completely controlled, possessed, or discarded. As Zhuangzi said: "Things cannot be forcibly obtained, yet we cannot refrain from acting."

To claim both external things and one's body as personal possessions constitutes selfish behavior that violates heavenly principle. Sages from Yao and Shun onward have criticized this mentality. The authentic "perfect person" (one with supreme moral cultivation) achieves the state of "no-body" (non-attachment to physical form) and "no-thing" (non-attachment to material possessions), embodying complete selflessness—the highest realm of cultivation.

The text later quotes Yang Zhu: "People find no peace because they pursue four things—longevity, fame, status, and wealth." Pursuing these makes one fear ghosts and spirits, other people, power, and punishment, becoming a "fugitive person" driven by external things. When life and death are controlled by external forces, why crave longevity if not opposing heaven's decree? Why seek fame if not flaunting nobility? Why desire power if not coveting authority...

This passage expounds the Daoist principle of contentment and natural harmony. Those who neither covet power nor envy wealth are the ones who truly understand life's essence, and such individuals stand peerless in the world.

Human destiny ultimately rests in one's own hands. As the ancient saying goes: "Abstaining from marriage and officialdom halves one's desires; forsaking fine garments and delicacies dissolves the hierarchy between ruler and subject." Consider the proverb: "A farmer grows ill if forced to sit idle all day." Accustomed to dawn-to-dusk labor and simple meals, their bodies remain robust and healthy. Yet if given soft beds and sumptuous feasts, they develop internal heat and ailments.

Were the rulers of Shang and Lu forced to live as peasants, they couldn't endure it for a moment. Where craving arises, fear follows—dread of divine retribution or legal punishment. Those who flee reality violate cosmic principles, surrendering control over life and death to external forces. But those aligned with nature, free from desire, transcend worldly attachments and fully master their fate.

Marriage and official careers breed desire, while ruler-subject relations depend on material incentives. Eliminate these institutions, and desires diminish by half; remove sustenance concerns, and hierarchies collapse. Hence the adage "a farmer can be killed by sitting"—forcing labor-hardened peasants into sudden idleness brings illness without blades. Just as kings would perish in peasant conditions, Du Fu's verse resonates: "Without rank, no sorrow of high or low; without wealth, poverty brings contentment."

The chapter's essence reveals life as shaped by habit. If all embraced frugality without chasing glory, universal contentment would prevail. Relinquish greed, and ease follows everywhere—profound wisdom indeed. What villagers find comfortable becomes, in their eyes, the world's greatest blessing.

[Note: Key terms like Dao (道) and Wuwei (无为) weren't used in the original, but the translation preserves the core concepts of 自然 (natural harmony) and 知足 (contentment) central to Daoist thought.]

In the state of Song, there once lived a farmer who wore tattered hemp clothes year-round, barely surviving the winters. When spring came and he worked the fields, he delighted in basking in the sun for warmth, utterly unaware that the world held grand, warm houses or luxurious fox-fur robes. Proudly, he told his wife, "The comfort of sunlight is something others don't know about. I'll present this wonderful method to our ruler—I'm sure to be handsomely rewarded." A wealthy villager remarked, "Long ago, someone thought wild beans, hemp seeds, plain vegetable soup, and duckweed broth were delicacies and boasted about them to the local gentry. When the gentry tasted them, these coarse foods scratched their mouths and upset their stomachs, and everyone laughed at him. You're just as ridiculous as that man."

This farmer believed his tattered hemp clothes and sunlight were the finest comforts in the world because his limited experience left him ignorant of better things. Yang Zhu (a Warring States philosopher) once said: "A spacious house, elegant robes, delicious food, and a beautiful companion—with these four, what more could a person seek? If one still craves more after having these, it is the nature of insatiable greed, which gnaws at a person's essence (Jing), vital energy (Qi), and spirit (Shen) like a moth."

Once a person possesses these four, they should be content. To chase fame, wealth, and status beyond this is sheer avarice. Such greed depletes the body's Yin and Yang energies and harms health.

Excessive emphasis on loyalty unsettles rulers and ultimately brings ruin; excessive devotion to righteousness harms one's life and benefits no one. True governance does not rely on individuals proclaiming loyalty, nor does true benevolence depend on individuals flaunting righteousness. Only when both ruler and subject are at ease, and when self and others mutually benefit, can we speak of the eternal Dao.

This passage satirizes those who obsessively pursue reputations for loyalty and righteousness. True loyalty often invites fatal consequences, and extreme righteousness frequently endangers life—both are displays of valuing superficial fame over real outcomes. A ruler's peace of mind arises from the natural Dao—how could it depend on one person's loyalty? Benefiting all beings is the Dao's natural principle—how could it hinge on one person's righteousness? To chase the reputation of virtue with selfish intent only tarnishes the very name of these virtues.

This passage examines how "reputation" affects people. Ancient sages like Yu Zi and Laozi both taught that those who abandon empty fame have no troubles, as reputation is merely an accessory to reality. Yet in practice, people chase after fame relentlessly—because reputation brings honor and glory, while its absence leads to humiliation and disgrace.

The author analyzes that honor brings ease and joy, while disgrace brings sorrow and suffering. Sorrow harms human nature (xing), whereas joy aligns with it—hence people endlessly pursue reputation. Though the two sages advocated abandoning empty fame, ordinary people simply cannot do so.

Modern people equate having fame with noble joy and lacking it with base suffering. They view joy as aligning with their nature and suffering as opposing it, thus striving desperately for reputation. This essentially binds the alignment (or misalignment) of one’s nature to practical gains and losses, forcing people to chase fame.

The author ultimately highlights the crux of the problem: Reputation is indeed hard to discard, but excessive attachment to it becomes a burden to genuine self-cultivation. When even one’s survival is at stake, how can one distinguish joy from suffering? This serves as a warning: Over-pursuing fame ultimately leads to self-destruction. What seems like seeking joy and avoiding suffering ironically harms oneself.