《沖虛至德真經解》Vol. 2

This passage recounts how the Yellow Emperor came to understand the principles of nurturing life and governing a state through personal experience.

During the first fifteen years of his reign, the Yellow Emperor indulged solely in personal pleasures, immersing himself in sensual delights. As a result, his complexion grew haggard, and his spirit became distracted. The following fifteen years saw him overexerting himself in state affairs, exhausting his energy in governing the people, which similarly led to physical deterioration and emotional imbalance. The Yellow Emperor then lamented: whether indulging in pleasure or diligently ruling the state, any deliberate striving would harm both body and mind.

The text points out that the true essence of life lies in following nature’s course. Deliberately pursuing personal gratification ("nurturing the self alone") or forcibly regulating all things ("governing the myriad beings") leads to a state of "neither tranquility nor joy"—one can neither attain true peace nor genuine happiness. This condition violates natural harmony, resulting in a withered appearance ("his skin grew sallow and rough") and inner turmoil ("his emotions became confused and disordered"). Thirty years of life experience taught the Yellow Emperor that excessive attachment to external things damages both one’s nature (xing) and life (ming).

Thus, the Yellow Emperor set aside state affairs, left his palace, dismissed his guards and musical instruments, reduced his meals, and secluded himself in the Great Hall for three months to cultivate stillness and nourish his spirit. Through fasting and meditative practice ("purifying the mind and subduing the body"), he eventually attained a dream journey to the land of Huaxushi (a legendary utopia). This illustrates that only by relinquishing attachments and returning to nature can one achieve true harmony of body and mind.

This passage recounts the legendary Yellow Emperor's dream journey to the Land of Huaxu, vividly illustrating the Daoist ideal of "natural non-action" (Wuwei).

Through fasting and cultivation, the Yellow Emperor abstained from state affairs for three months. During a daytime slumber, his spirit (Shen) left his body and arrived at Huaxu—a mystical realm in Daoist cosmology. This land lay west of Yanzhou and north of Taizhou, so distant that neither chariots nor boats could reach it; only "spirit wandering" (a meditative state of out-of-body travel) could grant access.

Huaxu was a place wholly aligned with the natural Dao: it had no rulers, and its people harbored no desires. The inhabitants knew neither greed for life nor fear of death, so none died prematurely. Without distinctions between intimacy and distance, they felt neither love nor hatred. Unconcerned with right and wrong, they were untouched by profit or harm. Fire and water could not harm them, blades could not pierce them. They walked upon air, slept in emptiness as if on beds, unhindered by clouds or mist, undisturbed by thunder. Beauty and ugliness stirred no emotions in them, and mountains and valleys posed no obstacles—for all their actions were "spirit movements" (natural functioning through the Shen).

The commentary explains that the northwest direction, in Daoist symbolism, represents the gateway to heaven-earth mysteries and inner contemplation, hence Huaxu's placement there. Though described in spatial terms, this realm ultimately transcends physical boundaries. The text emphasizes that this state is not achieved through forced asceticism or governance, but arises spontaneously. When one attains such natural harmony with the Dao, worldly concepts like desire, good and evil, closeness and estrangement, fortune and adversity, love and hatred—all dissolve completely.

(Note: "Purifying the heart and subduing the form" refers to cultivation methods involving fasting to clarify the spirit and calm the body; "spirit wandering" denotes the Daoist meditative state of out-of-body travel.)

This scripture recounts the legendary tale of the Yellow Emperor attaining profound realization of the supreme Dao through disciplined cultivation. After three months of dedicated meditation practice, the Emperor—physically exhausted yet spiritually open—experienced a miraculous dream upon which he awakened to the understanding that the true "ultimate Dao" cannot be pursued through ordinary human emotions.

The text describes how the Emperor summoned three symbolic figures: Celestial Elder (Tianlao, representing heavenly non-action), Forceful Shepherd (Limu, embodying human governance), and Great Mountain Ji (Taishanji, symbolizing earthly stability). These three correspond to the cosmic triad of Heaven, Humanity, and Earth, illustrating how one who comprehends the Dao can harmoniously govern all creation. During his dream state, the Emperor established communion with divine spirits, transcending worldly attachments, and ultimately attained genuine enlightenment.

A key teaching emphasizes that while the supreme Dao truly exists ("possessing authentic presence and constancy"), it cannot be attained through mundane striving. Deliberate intellectual effort ("seeking techniques through contemplation") ironically obstructs the path. Only when body and mind achieve complete relaxation ("exhausted sleep")—entering dream communion with the numinous—does spontaneous realization occur. Following this awakening, the Emperor governed for twenty-eight years (the number four times seven symbolizing a complete cosmic cycle), establishing an era of unparalleled peace nearly matching the legendary utopia of Huaxu.

This narrative embodies core Daoist cultivation principles: authentic enlightenment requires transcending conventional thought to merge with the Dao through wuwei (non-action) and naturalness. The Yellow Emperor's story further demonstrates how those who embody the Dao spontaneously govern effectively, realizing the ideal of "governing through non-governance."

This passage discusses the relationship between the Yellow Emperor's governance of the world and his spiritual cultivation. It mentions the number "seven times seven equals forty-nine"—a yin number (representing receptivity and contraction) reaching its peak state. Even a sage ruler like the Yellow Emperor could not govern without active engagement (youwei), thus his rule remained bound by celestial patterns.

When the Yellow Emperor withdrew from external splendor to return to his original simplicity, he particularly emphasized the dominance of yin numbers. Practitioners who have not yet attained the state of a zhenren (perfected being) inevitably experience dreams during sleep. Through purification rituals (zhaijiao) and calming the mind, along with regulating the body (referring to cultivation methods), the Yellow Emperor naturally eliminated distracting thoughts and dreams. Without these practices, he would have been troubled by anxieties, subject to the fluctuations of yin and yang—such as dreaming of revelry by day and weeping by night, or dreaming of sorrow by day and hunting by night. Such inversion between dreams and reality would have led him further from the Land of Huaxu (the legendary utopia the Yellow Emperor visited in his dreams).

That daytime thoughts manifest as nighttime dreams is natural, but if the mind is entangled in trivial matters during the day, the spirit remains perpetually bound to the body. The text further elaborates: For a sage, imperial achievements are merely incidental; they act only when compelled by necessity. Even in action, they entrust affairs to the natural course of all things, thus avoiding the burden of forced effort (youwei). Yet once action is taken, as imperial accomplishments are achieved, the great Dao (the Way) recedes into obscurity.

Through the example of the Yellow Emperor, the Liezi illustrates that sages never depart from the supreme Dao in governing the world. However, once the Yellow Emperor ascended the throne and engaged with worldly affairs, disturbances arose—cycles of order and chaos, alternating joy and sorrow—all of which were inevitable.

The Yellow Emperor, as a great master who attained the Dao, could maintain his intrinsic nature undisturbed while engaging with worldly affairs. Through his dream journey to the Land of Huaxu (a legendary utopia visited by the Yellow Emperor in his dreams), he erased all traces of mundane existence. When he practiced fasting, quieted his mind, and withdrew from worldly activities, he nearly reached the state of governance exemplified by Huaxu—so profound that people could no longer perceive his true form. All they could do was trace his legacy and contemplate his teachings.

The passage concludes with the story of Ji Xian (an ancient physiognomist) attempting to read the face of Huzi. When Huzi revealed the state of "never departing from my root" (remaining inseparable from the fundamental Dao), Ji Xian was utterly unable to discern anything and fled in terror. This illustrates the highest realm of an emperor's cultivation of the Dao, and the chapter Ying Di Wang ("Responding to Emperors and Kings") in the Zhuangzi concludes with this very principle.

The Liegu Mountain (where "Guye" signifies temporary withdrawal from worldly distractions) is located on an island at the confluence of rivers and the sea. There dwells a divine being who inhales the wind and drinks dew, abstaining from the Five Grains. His mind is as serene as a deep pool, and his appearance is as pure as a maiden. He neither draws close nor distances himself, yet even immortals and sages willingly serve him as ministers. He neither intimidates nor rages, yet honest and kind-hearted people voluntarily follow his command. Without bestowing favors, all things flourish naturally; without hoarding wealth, he is never in want. In his presence, Yin and Yang are harmonized, the sun and moon shine perpetually, the seasons follow their course, winds and rains come in due measure, crops grow in their time, harvests are abundant year after year, the land is free from calamities, people do not die young, all beings are without flaw, and even ghosts and spirits refrain from mischief.

A commentary explains: "Guye" means temporarily withdrawing from worldly burdens. The sea, akin to the Dao, surrounds this mountain at the river-sea confluence, symbolizing abiding within the Dao. Only a divine being can attain such a state: abstaining from the Five Grains while inhaling wind and drinking dew embodies the Dao's flavorless simplicity; a mind like a deep pool signifies unwavering stillness; a form like a maiden demonstrates harmony with external things without active interference. Neither drawing close nor distancing himself means treating all things as sacrificial straw dogs (indicating impartiality); neither intimidating nor raging preserves an upright Qi-nature. Without bestowing favors yet all things flourish aligns with the Yang Zhu school's principle of "not harming a single hair"; without hoarding yet never lacking resembles their teaching of "not profiting from the world." From the harmony of Yin and Yang to the absence of ghostly disturbances—this is the state Laozi called "peaceful, balanced, and secure."

Finally, it is mentioned that Liezi (Lie Yukou) studied under Lao Shangshi and befriended Bo Gaozi.

This passage recounts the story between Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) and his disciple Yin Sheng, revealing the core Daoist principle that "the Dao cannot be conveyed through words."

Yin Sheng studied under Liezi for several months, repeatedly requesting instruction in Daoist techniques but was consistently refused, eventually leaving in anger. When he returned months later, Liezi pointed out that his fickle mentality demonstrated he hadn't yet grasped the true essence of the Dao. Liezi then shared his own experience studying under his teacher Master Huqiu: For the first three years, he dared not recklessly discuss right/wrong or gain/loss, earning only a glance from his teacher. After five years, he could speak of such matters while making his teacher smile. Only after seven years, when he could speak freely without touching on right/wrong or gain/loss, did his teacher finally take him by the hand to sit together.

The text quotes Zhuangzi's explanation: If the Dao could be verbally transmitted, people would have long shared it with their brothers. Like when ancient sage Wang Ni answered Nie Que's questions, responding "I don't know" four times; or when Wuweiwei remained silent after being asked three times. This illustrates that true "non-action (Wuwei) Dao" cannot be taught through language—it requires prolonged cultivation and personal realization. Yin Sheng always approached learning with resentment, a mentality inherently distant from the Dao's truth. That Liezi ultimately had to explain this exemplifies the Daoist teaching of "wordless instruction."

(Note: The terms "Laoshang" refers to a perfected Daoist who has returned to original simplicity, "Bo Gaozi" represents a virtuous sage, "Huqiuzi" was Liezi's teacher, and "Bohun Maoren" was Liezi's fellow practitioner—all representing idealized personas in Daoist cultivation.)

This passage describes the state attained by advanced Daoist practitioners and the fundamental differences between ordinary people and cultivators.

After nine years of cultivation, the practitioner reaches a state where both self and objects are forgotten. At this stage, the thoughts in their mind and words from their mouth can no longer distinguish between personal gains/losses and those of others; they cannot tell whether their teacher is the one instructing them or their friends are the ones accompanying them. When internal and external become completely fused, the functions of sensory organs merge: eyes become like ears, ears like nose, nose like mouth - all unified. The spirit becomes concentrated while the physical form dissolves; bones and flesh melt away until one cannot feel where the body leans or where the feet step. Like wind-blown leaves or dried husks, it becomes impossible to tell whether the wind carries them or they ride the wind.

The text criticizes a man named Yin Sheng: "Having studied with the master for only a short time, you've already repeatedly harbored resentment and dissatisfaction. When your body won't even receive Qi (vital energy) and your limbs won't be supported by the earth, how could you possibly attain the state of 'treading emptiness and riding the wind'?" Hearing this, Yin Sheng felt deeply ashamed, holding his breath for a long time without daring to speak.

The explanation continues: Right and wrong belong to principles, advantage and harm belong to circumstances. What was considered right in the past may now seem wrong, showing that right/wrong have no fixed standards; what benefits me may harm others, proving advantages have no constant form. Such distinctions arise because humans possess life, physical form, desires, and preferences. The seven emotions and six desires intertwine: eyes chase colors, ears follow sounds, nose pursues fragrances, tongue craves flavors, with body parts functioning independently. Even when using the same eyes to see or ears to hear, different positions yield varying perceptions of light/dark - how much more so for complete unity? Thus we understand that right/wrong and advantage/harm all originate from sensory perceptions, while perception itself depends on the original radiance of one's nature. When innate nature interacts with external phenomena, and phenomena combine with self-awareness, diverse cognitions take form.

Human nature is originally whole and unified. Once divided, it gives rise to the seven emotions and six desires (joy, anger, sorrow, fear, love, aversion, and craving). If these emotions don't attach to external objects, they will instead disrupt the perfect radiance of original nature. Why rely on external things at all? Simply awaken amidst sensory pleasures and desires, returning to original authenticity, and the seven apertures (eyes, ears, nose, tongue, etc.) will naturally withdraw as sensory functions merge into unity. Viewed from this state, the world's myriad disturbances melt away like snow under sunlight, ultimately returning to essential purity. How much more should this apply to our own bodies? This was the cultivation path that enabled Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure of the Warring States period) to ride the wind.

Liezi understood this truth innately, requiring no later learning. Yet to teach posterity, he still demonstrated through gradual practice: first achieving a mind that makes no judgments of right/wrong and a mouth that speaks not of gain/loss, thereby eliminating cleverness and preconceptions. This process resembles progressing from rudimentary practice in the first year to complete mastery by the third. The so-called "daring not" doesn't mean complete absence of thought, but rather not yet reaching the state of "seeing the Dao at a glance." Thus initially, he only earned an approving glance from his teacher Lao Shang (Liezi's master). Only after five years could he naturally contemplate right/wrong and discuss gain/loss—all expressions flowing from his original state.

This scripture discusses the supreme state that Dao cultivators seek to attain. It begins by pointing out that when a person is free from arrogance and miserliness, the Dao (the cosmic truth) will not oppose them. Such individuals naturally reveal genuine smiles, with their thoughts and words remaining perfectly sincere and unfeigned.

However, if one has not cultivated for at least seven years, they cannot achieve a state of complete relaxation without forced control—such a person has yet to master the Dao's adaptability (flexible application). How could they possibly compare to Master Huzi (a legendary Daoist sage)? Therefore, one must allow their thoughts and speech to flow entirely naturally, no longer calculating right and wrong or gain and loss—only then can they sit alongside the enlightened. Yet even when one stops judging right and wrong, they have only reached the state of "non-being" (wu you) and have not yet ascended to the higher realm of "non-non-being" (wu wu), where even the concept of "non-being" dissolves.

Only after cultivating for more than nine years, attaining the Great Mystery (da miao), can one completely transcend judgments of right and wrong, benefit and harm—indifferent not only to others' distinctions but even to their own, fully merging with the Dao. Upon reaching this state, one no longer values innate talent, clings to master-disciple relationships, or even perceives who is teacher and who is friend, achieving perfect harmony both internally and externally.

At this point, the seven apertures (eyes, ears, nose, mouth, etc.) return to their pure, original state, and the entire body becomes as seamless as the void. Living between heaven and earth, one drifts like a leaf or dried husk carried by the wind—unable to distinguish whether the wind moves them or they ride the wind. If one claims to be riding the wind, does the fluttering leaf consciously ride it as well?

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of the Pervading Void and Ultimate Virtue) discusses the distinction between the realm of Dao cultivators and ordinary people.

The state of "riding the wind" is as natural as the wind moving leaves—it requires no deliberate effort. When a Dao practitioner attains this state, though the physical body remains, it becomes as if dissolved, light as a withered leaf or husk. While form still exists, it no longer binds them, having reached the realm of "emptiness" (Xu). However, Zhuangzi considered this not the highest state, as it still relies on external conditions (the wind).

The text critiques Yin Sheng (likely a practitioner) for his improper mindset, filled with resentment and anger, which violates the harmonious nature of the Dao (the Way). Such a person lives as a burden between heaven and earth—even the vast earth cannot bear the weight of their fallen heart. This illustrates how, though all are human, vastly different fates arise from differing states of mind.

Later, Liezi asks Guan Yinzi: Why can perfected persons (Zhiren, those who have attained the Dao) walk through water without getting wet, through fire without burning, and tread heights without fear? Guan Yinzi explains that this is because they preserve their "pure Qi" (the pristine vital energy) and maintain their original, authentic state. True adepts guard inner purity, unaltered by external things, thus becoming impervious to water and fire. In contrast, those relying on cunning or brute force, with minds full of calculation and outwardly projecting strength, cannot even harmonize a small part of their bodies with heaven and earth—let alone approach water or fire.

Only by preserving the inner pure Qi (vital energy) and returning perception to its original state—with sight and hearing turned inward—can one merge with all things, no longer distinguishing water from fire, becoming one with them.

Laozi said that a person of profound virtue (De) is as innocent as a newborn infant. This is what we call "preserving pure Qi" — maintaining the pristine state of one's primordial nature. In this condition, poisonous insects won't sting them, fierce beasts won't attack them, and birds of prey won't strike them.

Liezi (Ji Yu) tells us: All things possessing form, appearance, sound, or color belong to the category of "objects." How much difference can there really be between objects? They all remain at the level of superficial phenomena. What truly transcends all things is that formless, imageless source.

Interpretation: Forms, appearances, sounds, and colors all belong to the phenomenal world. All things emerge from emptiness, initially existing as flowing Qi before manifesting physical form. The "Great Simplicity" (Taishu, the fundamental elements of matter) doesn't even reach the level of "Great Beginning" (Taishi, the primordial state of the cosmos), let alone the even earlier source. Only by transcending concrete material forms can one reach the most fundamental origin—this is what Laozi meant by "there was something undifferentiated and complete" (the undivided primordial state).

The true Dao exists in a formless condition, abiding in the unchanging origin. Those who fully comprehend this principle have already transcended distinctions between right and wrong—they cannot be judged as "correct" or "incorrect." This is the true state of those who have attained the Dao.

Such individuals dwell in the most natural degree (the depth that is no-depth), resting in the eternal law without beginning (the cycle without starting point), moving in harmony with the patterns of creation and dissolution. Laozi described the characteristics of Dao as "meeting it, one cannot see its head; following it, one cannot see its back"—this is the meaning of "the cycle without starting point." They follow the rise and fall of all things, participating in the eternal circulation. Able to preserve their inner authenticity while maintaining harmony with external phenomena—this is the state of complete Dao attainment.

By maintaining single-minded purity, nurturing primordial Qi, and cultivating profound virtue, one can commune with the source of creation. Interpretation: A unified mind doesn't fragment, abundant Qi doesn't dissipate, and profound virtue doesn't collapse. Reaching this state allows one to wander with the Creator—this is the meaning of "penetrating to where things are created."

Such individuals preserve their natural, complete essence—their spirit remains unbreached. How could external things possibly disturb them?

This passage discusses the state of "spiritual wholeness" (shen quan), where when a person's spirit is fully concentrated, external phenomena cannot harm them.

It uses the analogy of a drunkard falling from a cart—though injured, they do not die. This is because, in their intoxicated state, their spirit is in a state of undifferentiated chaos, free from fear and pain, thus preserving their inner spiritual integrity. Ordinary people, when sober and faced with danger, panic and suffer harm, while the drunkard, unaware and unperturbed, survives unharmed.

The spirit gives rise to the body, and the body houses the spirit. If the spirit remains undiminished, wholeness is preserved; if the body remains unharmed, its integrity is maintained. The spirit diminishes through excessive awareness, and the body suffers harm through conflict with external things. Those who truly understand the Dao of "spiritual wholeness" cannot be harmed even by fire or water, let alone a fall from a cart.

The sage (one who has attained the Dao) can conceal their spirit within the workings of Heaven (Dao), making them impervious to harm from external things. This is the secret to long life and enduring vision (chang sheng jiu shi). The key lies in maintaining the purity and wholeness of the spirit, undisturbed by external fears of life and death. The drunkard achieves this state accidentally through alcohol, while the true Daoist cultivates it deliberately through practice, attaining the realm of "spiritual wholeness."

Lie Yukou (a prominent Daoist figure) demonstrated his archery skills to Bohun Wuren (an enlightened master). Drawing his bow to its fullest extent, he balanced a cup of water on his elbow before releasing the arrow. As soon as the first arrow was loosed, the second was already nocked, followed immediately by the third. At this moment, he stood as steady as a wooden statue. Yet Bohun Wuren remarked, "This is merely deliberate archery, not the state of shooting without conscious intent. Let us climb a high mountain and stand on a perilous rock at the cliff's edge, with a thousand-foot chasm below—could you still shoot like this?"

Thereupon, Bohun Wuren ascended the mountain and stood on the precarious rock, his heels hanging over the void, calmly inviting Lie Yukou to join him. Lie Yukou, terrified, prostrated himself on the ground, sweat pouring down to his heels. Bohun Wuren said, "A truly enlightened person can gaze upon the blue heavens above and probe the yellow springs below, their spirit (Shen) reaching all directions while their vital energy (Qi) remains unshaken. Your eyes are now wide with fear, revealing that your mind is still bound by terror."

This passage illustrates that drawing the bow to its limit demonstrates technical mastery, balancing water on the elbow shows steadiness, and firing arrows in rapid succession reveals refined skill. Such achievements stem from undivided focus, as stable as a wooden statue. Yet this is only deliberate archery—the true "shooting without intent" lies in inner cultivation. Deliberate archery fixates on external objects, while effortless archery maintains inner stillness. The former may succeed or fail, but the latter transcends success and failure altogether.

Lie Yukou's terror and sweating expose his attachments. The high mountain, precarious rock, and deep chasm themselves pose no threat—not all who climb such heights meet danger. But those who cling to life and fear death, overly concerned with external things, become victims of their own dread, perishing unknowingly. The truly enlightened preserve their original nature. Though they too climb mountains and face abysses, their spirit (Shen) remains inwardly anchored, unshaken by height or depth, maintaining the calm of a wooden statue. Their spirit (Shen) pervades all directions while their vital energy (Qi) stays constant—this is the principle.

Liezi (i.e., Lie Yukou) was once said to ride the wind, having attained considerable progress on the Daoist path. This story serves as a warning to practitioners not to rest content with superficial understanding.

This story tells of Fan Zihua, a man skilled at cultivating fame whose reputation commanded respect throughout the State of Jin. Though holding no official position, his influence surpassed even the Three High Ministers. Those who gained his favor would rise in status, while those who displeased him would be cast down. Visitors to his household received treatment comparable to an imperial court audience.

Zihua kept a retinue of followers whom he constantly pitted against each other in contests of wit and strength. The strong bullied the weak without concern for injuries, and this relentless competition became their daily amusement, eventually shaping the very character of their state. Among them were two elite retainers named Hesheng and Zibo, who once lodged overnight at the rural home of a farmer called Shang Qiu-kai. Late at night, as they discussed Zihua's formidable power—how he could make the living die and the dead live, turn the rich poor and the poor rich—Shang Qiu-kai, suffering from hunger and cold while hiding beneath the north window, overheard them. Borrowing provisions and shouldering a bamboo basket, he went to seek Zihua's patronage.

Zihua's aristocratic retainers, dressed in white robes and riding in fine carriages, looked down upon Shang Qiu-kai with contempt when they saw his aged and frail appearance, sallow complexion, and shabby clothing. They proceeded to torment him in increasingly inventive ways, yet Shang Qiu-kai never grew angry. These retainers employed various tricks to mock him, seeking to demonstrate their superiority. Had Shang Qiu-kai reacted with shame or resentment, it would have perfectly suited Zihua's purposes. But by responding with unwavering sincerity and refusing to be provoked, he rendered their schemes meaningless.

Here the examples of Confucius and Bohun Wuren (the Daoist ideal of an enlightened being) illustrate that truly virtuous individuals never flaunt their abilities. Bohun Wuren appeared foolish yet embodied great wisdom—like the Daoist sage Liezi, who could stand atop great heights without fear. While Zihua's disciples played their mind games, Shang Qiu-kai's genuine sincerity left them powerless to continue.

This passage recounts the story of Shang Qiu-kai, a man who attained miraculous abilities through his pure-hearted sincerity and faith.

Initially, people mocked and teased Shang Qiu-kai, yet he remained entirely unperturbed. Later, members of the Fan family decided to test him. First, they asked him to jump from a high platform. Without hesitation, Shang Qiu-kai leaped, landing as lightly as a bird in perfect safety. This occurred because he harbored no doubts and maintained absolute sincerity in his heart, allowing his body to become weightless. It resembles how a drunken man might fall from a carriage yet remain unharmed.

Thinking this was mere coincidence, the onlookers then pointed to a river bend, claiming precious pearls lay hidden there. Shang Qiu-kai plunged into the water and indeed retrieved the pearls. This illustrates how a sincere heart can resonate with all things. Mysterious objects like pearls—the harder one consciously seeks them, the more elusive they become. Only someone like Shang Qiu-kai, acting without ulterior motives and with perfect sincerity, could obtain them.

Later, when the Fan family's storeroom caught fire, Shang Qiu-kai rushed into the flames without hesitation to retrieve silk brocades, emerging without even a speck of ash on his body. Only then did the people realize he was a man who had attained the Dao (the Way). They apologized and asked for his secret. Shang Qiu-kai replied: "I possess no special arts, nor do I myself understand why these things happen. But there is one thing I can tell you..." Through these miraculous events, the story demonstrates how maintaining a state of childlike purity and doubt-free "sincere faith" can enable one to transcend ordinary limitations and achieve harmony with the Dao.

There were two men living in my household who always claimed the Fan family wielded immense power—capable of making the living die and the dead revive, turning the rich poor and the poor rich. I believed every word and traveled a thousand miles to join them. But upon arriving, I realized all your claims were deceitful. Only now do I see how foolish I was—I couldn’t even discern where to place my body or grasp the balance of gain and loss.

The human heart should remain pure and single-minded, undisturbed by external things. Now I’ve finally seen through your tricks! My mind is filled with suspicion, yet outwardly I feign respect. Only then did I realize how fortunate I was not to have been burned by fire or drowned in water before. The thought still makes me break into a cold sweat—how could I dare approach fire or water again?

(Commentary) Finding a precious pearl in water is rare enough, yet the retainers of the Fan family remained skeptical. Only when someone could walk through fire unharmed did they believe it was the work of a divine being who had attained the Dao. In truth, diving from great heights into water without injury might be due to chance or skill—experienced swimmers can do it. But raging fire makes no distinction between good and bad; everything thrown into it turns to ash. Unless one cultivates until body and mind unite with the Dao, how could flesh and blood withstand the flames?

Shang Qiukai (the protagonist) always claimed to know nothing of Daoist arts—he didn’t even understand how it happened himself. Precisely because he relinquished all attachments and maintained a mind of pure simplicity, he aligned with the great Dao, and external things could not harm him. If one harbors suspicion and constant vigilance, the inner turmoil is like being scorched by fire—how could one then enter flames unharmed? Panic and fear are like drowning—how could one then emerge from water dry?

From then on, whenever the disciples of the Fan family encountered beggars or grooms on the road, they dared not slight them and would invariably dismount to pay respects.

(Commentary) Even a man of power like Zihua (the Fan family leader) could treat beggars and grooms with courtesy because he understood that authority is not the true Dao. Those of genuine virtue may appear foolish—they can humble themselves, refusing to demean even the lowly. This is the transformative power of utmost sincerity. When Shang Qiukai’s mind was wholly focused in sincerity, it was no different from the purity of one who has attained the Dao. But the moment suspicion arose...

The deluded common folk thus realize that the most profound Dao resides within their own hearts, requiring no external seeking. Those who truly comprehend the Great Dao do not undergo gradual cultivation processes. The difference between madmen and sages lies solely in whether they can restrain distracting thoughts in a single moment. This crucial point exists within the space of a single breath—how could one not treat it with utmost care?

Zai Wo (a disciple of Confucius), upon hearing this teaching, reported it to Confucius, who said: "Do you not understand? Those of perfect sincerity can move all creation. They can shake heaven and earth, influence spirits and deities, traverse the six directions without obstruction—how could their attainment be limited to merely walking through danger unharmed, entering water without drowning, or passing through fire without burning?"

The commentary explains: What ordinary people call sincerity is but minor faith that hasn't reached purity. The truly sincere person harbors no self-doubt within and suspects nothing in the external world. Their mental state becomes so transparent it offers no resistance, so pure it contains not a trace of impurity, thus resonating with heaven and earth's vastness and assisting in their transformative work. Even barbarian lands become passable, tiny fish and animals become influenceable. This is what's meant by "shaking heaven and earth, influencing spirits and deities, traversing the six directions without obstruction." As for figures like Wei Sheng (who drowned keeping a promise) or Bao Jiao (who burned himself maintaining integrity)—was this the fault of sincerity itself? No, it was stubborn adherence to superficial integrity, not true sincerity.

Take Shang Qiu Kai—even when facing falsehoods he didn't resist, how much more so when dealing with mutual sincerity? Young students should remember this principle.

The commentary further explains: When one maintains personal sincerity, even false external matters appear genuine; when the heart harbors confusion, even favorable circumstances feel obstructive. The key to self-cultivation lies in maintaining sincerity, yet the sage's benevolent salvation must await mutual sincerity to complete. Like the immortal sages recorded in "The Questions of Tang" who could freely travel among five sacred mountains within a day and night—were these not examples of mutual perfect sincerity? Telling young students to remember this principle shows the Dao makes no distinction between old and young—youth should cultivate diligently rather than wait until old age to hear of the Great Dao.

The name "Zi Hua" originally meant outward glory with inward emptiness, perfectly describing those who pride themselves on fame and power. "Shang" represents the restraint of sound, "Qiu" signifies elevated terrain, and "Kai" denotes the opening of all things—combined they form "Shang Qiu Kai." This man initially could enter water and fire unharmed, yet ultimately believed they could never approach him again—showing he'd lost his original perfect sincerity.

During the reign of King Xuan of Zhou, there was a livestock official named Liang Yang who excelled at taming wild animals. In his courtyard, he would place food where even fierce beasts like tigers, wolves, eagles, and owls became docile. These animals mated and reproduced, with different species living together peacefully without attacking each other. Concerned this skill might be lost, King Xuan sent Mao Qiuyuan to learn from Liang Yang.

Liang Yang said: "I'm but a humble servant—what secret techniques could I possibly teach? Yet since the king commands, I'll explain my method for taming tigers. All creatures rejoice when their nature is followed and rage when it's opposed—this is the innate disposition of all blood-and-Qi beings. But their joy and anger never arise without cause; they emerge only when their fundamental nature is violated."

"When feeding tigers, I never give them live prey, lest they grow violent from killing. Nor do I offer whole carcasses, fearing they'll become fierce from tearing flesh. One must discern their hunger cycles and understand their anger patterns. Though tigers differ from humans, they bond with caretakers who follow their nature. Oppose their nature, and they'll attack. Thus I neither oppose them to provoke anger nor indulge them to create false joy. For excessive joy turns to rage, and excessive rage circles back to joy—both extremes are harmful."

"Now my mind makes no distinction between compliance and opposition, so beasts regard me as one of their own. The animals in my garden don't yearn for mountain forests, nor do those resting in my courtyard miss deep valleys—this is the principle of following nature's course."

This passage reveals a fundamental law of life: all blood-and-Qi beings share common innate tendencies. From a human perspective, ancient health cultivation held that blood resides in the heart while Qi circulates through the lungs, completing thirteen thousand cycles daily. The essence of nurturing life lies in maintaining balanced Qi and blood—neither forcibly pursuing pleasure nor suppressing emotions, but preserving the body and mind in natural equilibrium.

This passage elucidates the principles governing the circulation of Qi (vital energy) and blood within the human body, along with methods for nurturing life through emotional regulation. A person breathes approximately fifteen hundred times daily, with Qi and blood circulating continuously—flowing through the body's surface during waking hours and retreating to the internal organs during sleep. This process is exquisitely subtle; even minor deviations can lead to illness, and severe imbalances may prove fatal. Qi and blood follow the natural order of movement and cannot be forcibly reversed.

Where there is Qi and blood, there will inevitably be states of harmony and conflict, giving rise to emotions like joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure—or even extreme sentiments such as resentment, gratitude, and malice. Yet what distinguishes humans from animals is this: while we cannot defy the laws governing Qi-blood circulation, we can regulate it; while we cannot alter our inherent nature, we can temper it. This constitutes the cultivation of those who follow the Dao (the Way). Even when emotions arise, such individuals maintain perfect equilibrium.

In contrast, birds and beasts act solely by instinct. Armed with claws and fangs, they attack when cornered. Expecting them to coexist peacefully with humans without mutual harm is exceedingly difficult. Yet even fierce creatures like tigers, wolves, eagles, and owls—sharing the same Qi-blood dynamics as humans—possess minds not so different from ours. By understanding their temperaments, feeding them regularly, and respecting their natural behaviors without violating their boundaries, even these can be tamed.

The key lies in transcending the duality of harmony and conflict within one's heart. Mere superficial accommodation of an animal's moods—without enabling it to forget those moods—is like the cyclical interplay of Yin-Yang: temporary compliance may work, but ultimately provokes their fury. Only when humans themselves exhibit neither joy nor anger, making no distinction between harmony and opposition toward all things, will animals regard them as kin. The reason birds and beasts flee in panic, hiding in high mountains and deep forests where they feel secure, stems precisely from their fear of human interference.

This passage reveals the wisdom of following natural dispositions through two illustrative stories.

The first story concerns Liang Yang's secret to taming wild animals. While people typically avoid crowds to escape trouble, if animals perceive humans as kin, they naturally coexist with us. Like Liang Yang (an animal trainer during King Xuan of Zhou's reign) who didn't confine beasts in remote mountains but let them roam freely in courtyards, the animals became docile. Though King Xuan admired Liang Yang's skills, he failed to apply this principle to governing his people. In truth, ruling a state resembles animal taming - by following the people's innate nature (what Daoism calls "zai you" 在宥), a peaceful society naturally emerges. The success of Maoqiu Garden (the animal training ground) lay precisely in its alignment with creatures' natural tendencies.

The second story features a dialogue between Yan Hui and Confucius. Observing a ferryman's extraordinary boating skills at a crossing, Yan Hui heard the boatman explain: "Swimmers can learn boating quickly, expert swimmers master it faster, but true masters of water ('mei ren' 没人 - diving experts) can operate boats instantly without prior experience." Confucius elaborated: swimmers can be taught because they understand water; expert swimmers learn quickly because they forget water's dangers; while diving adepts perceive deep waters as hills and capsizing as mere cart reversals - no peril can disturb their Shen (spirit).

The conclusion emphasizes: since water bears boats, understanding this fundamental principle matters more than mechanically copying a boatman's techniques. Just as skilled swimmers attain boatmen's proficiency without formal training, this illustrates the importance of aligning with nature's essence. Both stories demonstrate how grasping fundamental principles surpasses superficial imitation, echoing Daoist teachings about Wuwei (non-action) and harmony with natural patterns.

This passage reveals the Daoist wisdom of "Great skill appears clumsy" through vivid analogies.

A person who cannot swim fears water, worrying about drowning—how could such a person ever learn to handle a boat? In contrast, those familiar with water's nature can teach the fearful, while those at ease in water can effortlessly steer vessels even without prior experience. Having forgotten both water's dangers and the boat's existence, they move with natural ease. Just as crossing water resembles overcoming obstacles, governing the world is like guiding people safely by boat. Only those who have attained the Dao (the Way) can maintain perspective amidst worldly complexities, navigating changes with grace. Yan Hui (Confucius' most accomplished disciple) achieved this sage-like composure precisely because he grasped this principle.

The text then employs a gambling analogy: When betting with pottery shards, one's technique remains nimble; with silver hooks, tension arises; with gold at stake, the mind becomes utterly confused. Though the skill remains identical, excessive focus on external gains and losses renders the mind clumsy. The greater the desired prize, the tighter the mental grip becomes—until wisdom vanishes and skill falters. True skill resides within, while external objects are mere tools. One who regards gold as no different from pottery shards maintains dexterity regardless of stakes. Yet this cannot be forced; only Dao-attainers reach such natural equipoise. What the world considers skillful often constitutes great clumsiness—hence the paradox that supreme skill appears awkward.

The story of Confucius at Lüliang Falls further illustrates this truth. There, where torrents plunged from dizzying heights—so fierce even fish and turtles struggled—a man swam with effortless grace. Assuming suicide intent, Confucius sent disciples to rescue him, only to watch the man emerge hundreds of paces downstream, shaking his hair dry while singing. Asked how he navigated waters even aquatic creatures found impassable, the swimmer replied: "I follow the current rather than fight it, yield to whirlpools rather than struggle—this is why I move freely." The lesson is clear: true wisdom lies in harmonizing with nature's patterns rather than forceful opposition.

The passage presents two parables that embody the Daoist wisdom of "following what is natural" in spiritual cultivation.

The first story tells of Confucius encountering an elderly man skilled at swimming in Lüliang. The old man explains his mastery: "When born in the mountains, I adapted to mountainous living; when dwelling by water, I became accustomed to aquatic ways—these developments occurred naturally (ming, one's innate nature), not through deliberate practice. Just as water insects swim by nature, I simply follow water's patterns without forcibly altering its flow." Confucius marvels that this represents true attainment of the Dao (the Way).

Here, the concept of "ming" is crucial in Daoism, referring to the inherent nature of all things. Through prolonged interaction with water, the old man achieves the state of "being at ease with water's nature," surpassing even crocodiles and turtles—a direct result of aligning with natural tendencies.

The second story describes Confucius observing a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas with a bamboo pole in Chu, his movements as effortless as picking up objects. The man shares his secret: after five or six months of practice—first balancing two clay balls on the pole tip without dropping them, then increasing to three, then five—he reached a state where, though heaven and earth remain vast and countless things exist, his vision focuses solely on cicada wings while his arm becomes as steady as a dead branch, ensuring perfect accuracy. Confucius tells his disciples: "This demonstrates the principle of 'concentrated attention and gathered spirit (shen).'"

The hunchback's training method proves particularly insightful: using stacked clay balls to cultivate focus parallels modern athletes training stability on balance beams. His achievement embodies the Daoist ideal of "undivided concentration"—eliminating external distractions to become fully immersed in the present. The old man's final words to Confucius carry profound meaning: "You scholars in wide sleeves and broad belts should first cultivate your fundamental duties before discussing profound truths."

This passage presents two parables illustrating the state of "forgetting both self and objects" (wuwoliangwang).

The first story tells of an old hunchback whose cicada-catching skills were divinely perfected. Standing as steady as a tree stump, holding his arms as motionless as withered branches, he completely forgot his own existence—his vision focused solely on the cicada's wings. Such concentration allowed him to catch swiftly flying cicadas as effortlessly as picking up objects. Confucius praised this as the state where "undivided focus condenses into spiritual power" (yongzhibufen, nai ning yu shen)—when consciousness becomes wholly concentrated, one attains harmony with the Dao. Though physically disabled, the old man transcended bodily limitations through this absorption.

The second story describes a seaside man who loved seagulls, playing with them daily until they grew completely trusting. One day his father asked him to catch one, and the next morning the gulls circled warily overhead without landing. This shows how possessive thoughts disrupt natural harmony. The highest truth lies in "the ultimate speech being wordless, the ultimate action being non-action" (zhiyan quyan, zhiwei wuwei)—maintaining a pure, desireless mind.

Both stories reveal the core of Daoist cultivation: internally releasing self-awareness and utilitarian motives (forgetting self), while externally abstaining from coveting objects (forgetting things), thereby attaining the pure state of mutual oblivion. Like the cicada catcher merging completely with his environment, or the gull-lover preserving his desireless heart, only thus can one interact naturally with all things and enter the cultivation realm of "guarding pure Qi" (chunqi zhi shou). The text uses "fragmenting one's form" (zhili qixing) to describe adepts transcending physical limitations, and "not speaking or acting" (buyan buwei) to emphasize the importance of Wuwei (non-action) and naturalness.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of Perfect Virtue in the Highest Void) expounds profound insights on the relationship between self and phenomena. The text states: Why should I rely on words to convince others or actions to make things clear in cultivating myself and engaging with the world? Those who consider themselves clever are in fact profoundly limited in their understanding. The story of Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) being astonished when five taverns competed to host him illustrates this very principle.

The passage then recounts a parable: When Lord Xiang of Zhao led a hundred thousand men hunting in Zhongshan, they set fire to the mountains, and the blaze spread across a hundred li. Suddenly, a man emerged from a stone cliff, walking freely through the flames and smoke. Everyone thought him a ghost, yet when the fire subsided, he stepped out composed as if nothing had happened. Intrigued, Lord Xiang detained him for observation and found his appearance, facial features, breath, and voice entirely ordinary. Asked how he could dwell within stone and traverse fire, the man countered: "What is stone? What is fire?" When Lord Xiang explained that the place he emerged from was stone and the path he walked was fire, the man simply replied: "I don't know."

The commentary explains: We are bound by external phenomena because we habitually perceive things through distinctions rather than merging with the myriad beings. Originally, there is no separation between phenomena and self—division arises from our cognition. Recognizing something as stone makes us perceive it as solid and impenetrable; identifying fire makes us deem it scorching and unapproachable. Yet for one devoid of such conceptual knowledge, the hardness of stone or heat of fire simply doesn't exist. Only by reaching a state of no-knowledge, no-thought—where the mind retains not a trace of distraction—can one fully unite with all existence. In this complete fusion, the boundary between self and phenomena dissolves, and external things can no longer obstruct. Like the man who walked through stone and fire, he not only lacked understanding of how this was possible but didn’t even possess the concepts of "stone" or "fire." This is true "not-knowing." Without knowing what stone or fire are, how could they hinder him?

Later, when Marquis Wen of Wei heard of this and asked Zixia (a disciple of Confucius): "What kind of man was that?" Zixia replied: "My teacher spoke of those in harmony with all existence—whom no phenomenon can harm or obstruct, who may pass through metal and stone, tread water and fire." The Marquis asked: "Why don’t you practice this?" Zixia said: "To empty the mind and abandon cleverness—I’m not yet capable. But I can attempt to explain the principle." The Marquis pressed: "Why didn’t Confucius do this?" Zixia answered: "The Master could, yet chose not to." Hearing this, the Marquis was greatly pleased.

This passage primarily elucidates the Daoist state of "forgetting both self and phenomena" (wu wo liang wang), demonstrating that dissolving conceptual distinctions allows complete unity with existence. The man traversing stone and fire, precisely through his absence of knowledge, transcended ordinary limitations.

This passage elucidates the Daoist concept of "harmony" (和) and its interconnectedness with all things. It explains that fixation on "being" (有, concrete existence) or obsession with "non-being" (无, emptiness) cannot achieve true harmony. Authentic harmony neither denies "being" nor clings to "non-being," transcending their duality. Just as stone maintains its hardness and fire its heat without mutual destruction, this exemplifies the principle of all things coexisting.

Confucius's disciple Zixia had heard this teaching but couldn't fully relinquish intellectual attachments. In truth, Confucius wasn't incapable—he chose not to act. True capability lies not in forceful action but in following nature's course through wuwei (无为, non-action). Like unaware plants that naturally thrive amid the mutual conquest of water, fire, metal, and stone.

Humans, as the most spiritual beings, receive the harmonious Qi (气) of heaven and earth, bridging yin and yang. Though appearing unperceptive, they're fundamentally united with all things, thus moving freely among metal, stone, water, and fire. Consider nature: birds that fly, fish that dive, insects hidden in wood, and fire-dwelling rodents—all manifest yin-yang interactions. If creatures possessing mere fragments of yin-yang can achieve this, how much more so sages who integrate both principles?

The passage concludes with the story of Ji Xian, a diviner from Zheng who could predict life, death, and fortune down to exact dates. While Zheng's commoners fled at his sight, the Daoist sage Liezi became fascinated. This illustrates how ordinary people fear extraordinary powers, while Daoist practitioners perceive their deeper mysteries.

This passage recounts the story between Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure), his teacher Huzi (Master Huqiu), and a shaman named Ji Xian.

Initially, Liezi believed Huzi’s mastery of the Dao had reached its peak, only to later discover that there were even more profound realms beyond. In ancient times, those who cultivated focused spiritual awareness and could commune with divine forces were called "wu" (shamans). Ji Xian was one such exceptional shaman who possessed extraordinary intuitive abilities from a young age. He could discern people’s innermost thoughts and foresee life-and-death events, fortune, and misfortune—ordinary people regarded him as the highest authority.

Huzi said to Liezi: "You’ve only learned the superficial doctrines in words but have yet to grasp the true essence. It’s like having only a female bird without a male—how could offspring be produced?" In other words, Liezi was confronting the mundane world with half-understood Daoist techniques, which would inevitably be seen through by a shaman like Ji Xian.

Later, Liezi brought Ji Xian to meet Huzi. After their first encounter, Ji Xian declared that Huzi would not live beyond ten days, describing him as lifeless like damp ashes. Liezi wept and reported this to Huzi, who explained that he had intentionally displayed the "earthly pattern" (a state of stillness) to Ji Xian, allowing him to perceive only a sealed-off vitality.

After their second meeting, Ji Xian changed his verdict, saying Huzi could now recover, having glimpsed a turning point amid the stillness. Huzi clarified that this time, he had manifested the "harmony of heaven and earth," letting Ji Xian perceive the stirring of vitality from the soles of his feet.

By the third meeting, Ji Xian was utterly unable to read Huzi’s state, admitting that Huzi’s spirit was too unsettled for any divination. This exchange demonstrated how a true Daoist adept could freely manifest different states of being, leaving even the most skilled shaman bewildered. Through this, Huzi taught Liezi a crucial lesson: genuine Daoist practice lies not in superficial techniques but in mastering the unfathomable essence of transformation.

This passage recounts how Liezi's teacher Huzi demonstrated nine different states to reveal the realm of Dao (the Way), ultimately confounding the physiognomist Jixian who prided himself on reading people's fortunes.

Huzi first showed Jixian the state of "supreme equilibrium without trace" (Taichong Mozhen) - the fundamental condition of Dao. He then used nine forms of water as metaphors: the whirlpool stirred by whales, the still pond, the flowing river, the flooding torrent, the splashing waves, the gushing spring, the converging deep pool, the diverging streams, and the fertile marsh waters. Though these nine water states differed in appearance, their essence remained water.

When Jixian visited again the next day, Huzi manifested the state of "never departing from my source" (Weishi Chu Wu Zong), appearing like grass bending with the wind or duckweed floating with the current. Completely baffled, Jixian fled in terror.

The commentary explains: The demonstrated states depended on Huzi, while the perception depended on Jixian. When showing "earth patterns" (Diwen - the yin-oriented quiescent state), he appeared lifeless; when manifesting "heavenly soil" (Tianrang - the yang-oriented active state), he seemed vibrant. But the supreme state was "supreme equilibrium without trace," where internal harmonious Qi (vital energy) filled heaven and earth, responding to myriad changes while maintaining stillness - just like the nine water states that change form while preserving their watery nature.

Attaining this realm means entering the mysterious state beyond life and death. Jixian could only comprehend the level of birth and death, remaining utterly incapable of grasping this transcendent Daoist realm. The nine water transformations serve as metaphors for Dao's manifold manifestations, illustrating how realized beings adapt to circumstances while their fundamental nature remains constant.

This passage recounts the cultivation journey and spiritual attainments of Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure).

The text begins with a metaphor illustrating that although the profound Dao (the Way) may seem mysterious and elusive, it permeates all things like sunlight—only people often fail to perceive it. Master Huzi (Liezi’s teacher) took emptiness as his foundation, dwelling in lofty detachment without opposing worldly conventions, which is precisely why others could not fathom his spiritual state.

The passage then describes Liezi’s condition after his cultivation: for three years, he never left his home, personally cooked for his wife, and treated pigs and people with equal regard. He no longer acted with deliberate effort, returning to simplicity and authenticity. In solitude, his outward appearance seemed dull and rigid, yet his inner being was clear and luminous. This state severed external distractions, dissolved self-awareness, abandoned cleverness, and restored his original nature, allowing him to remain constant amid the world’s ceaseless transformations.

Later, while traveling to the state of Qi, Liezi abruptly turned back and encountered Bohun Wuren (a Daoist sage). Liezi confessed that he had been frightened—ten shops selling broth had competed for his patronage, with five offering it freely. Bohun Wuren pointed out that this was because Liezi’s inner cultivation had outwardly manifested, influencing others to disregard the elderly and vie for his favor. The broth vendors, though engaged in humble trade with meager profits, had acted with excessive eagerness—a clear sign of the problem.

Through Liezi’s experiences, this passage expounds the Daoist principle of "returning to the root and recovering one’s true nature": only by dissolving inner attachments and refraining from deliberate display can one attain unity with the Dao.

This passage recounts a story about Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) and the profound principles it embodies:

Human nature is like water—it solidifies into ice when frozen, yet melts back into flowing water when warmed. In its frozen state, form becomes fixed; in its melted state, it regains fluid freedom. The mind of one who has attained the Dao resembles ice about to melt, returning to its original clarity without need for deliberate pursuit of external brilliance. When a person becomes attached to their own cleverness, they become bound by external things and appear artificial. Like the vendors selling thin gruel who, despite meager profits, easily disrespect their elders and ultimately invite all manner of troubles.

On his journey to the state of Qi (a major central plains kingdom), Liezi was astonished when five gruel vendors competed to host him, causing him to turn back midway. This astonishment differs fundamentally from the worldly fear of "being flattered or insulted." Bohun Wuren (a Daoist sage) praised Liezi for excelling at introspection and maintaining his authentic nature. Sure enough, soon many came seeking Liezi's company until the area outside his house was filled with visitors' shoes.

Later, Bohun Wuren stood leaning on his staff facing north (symbolizing transcendence of worldly affairs), resting his chin in contemplation for a long while before departing without a word. Liezi ran barefoot to the gate seeking instruction, demonstrating his eagerness for the Dao while still failing to grasp the teaching of "non-speaking." Bohun Wuren pointed out: "Didn't I say people would come to depend on you? This isn't something you can control. Why deliberately try to move others? Such attempts only bring unnecessary complications."

Through these everyday scenes, the passage illustrates that Dao cultivators should preserve their natural disposition without consciously seeking external validation or followers. True wisdom transcends worldly concerns, unattached to verbal expression, while seekers must relinquish their urgency to comprehend the ultimate truth.

This passage recounts two Daoist cultivation stories that illustrate how practitioners must transcend worldly understanding to attain the state of "no-mind" (wuxin).

The first story concerns Liezi, a prominent Daoist figure. While he maintained basic Virtue (De), he had not yet reached the supreme state of "higher Virtue." He constantly sought to persuade others through verbal debates, thereby depleting his spirit (Shen)—like arguing all day with worldly people wearing shoes outside his door. Such deliberate displays of uniqueness were ultimately meaningless. Those who associated with him remained mired in mundane affairs, with none truly understanding him. These trivial disputes were like curing illness with poison—utterly ineffective—leaving everyone confused and incapable of genuine mutual comprehension.

The second story describes Yang Zhu, a Daoist scholar, visiting Laozi (Lord Lao). Initially, Laozi believed Yang Zhu could be taught, but upon meeting him, he sighed in disappointment: "Now I find you unteachable." Yang Zhu dared not ask why at the time. Only after settling in did he respectfully rinse his mouth, tidy his appearance, remove his shoes, and kneel forward to seek guidance. As Confucius once said: "Only those who have truly attained the Dao (Way) can humble themselves before others; if such humility is insincere, one cannot grasp the true essence." Yang Zhu's reverent gestures demonstrated his sincere pursuit of the genuine Dao.

Laozi finally remarked: "All day you glare wide-eyed (suisui xuxu) and carry yourself with pomp—who could possibly associate with you like this?" This critique targeted Yang Zhu's excessive artifice, which had caused him to lose the natural spontaneity of Daoist non-action (Wuwei). True cultivation should resemble the highest Virtue—leaving no trace—and ultimately arrive at the realm where "the constant Dao has no mind."

A person's character is most vividly revealed through their eyes, for the gaze cannot conceal the malice within. The eyes symbolize the "Li trigram" (one of the Bagua) and serve as the dwelling place for the dual spiritual forces within the body. When those who have attained the Dao meet, a simple exchange of glances suffices for mutual understanding. Those skilled in reading people often discern character through subtle expressions between the brows. Just as Yang Zhu (a Warring States period philosopher) had shifty, unfocused eyes, leading Laozi to deem him unteachable. Thus the Yellow Emperor's Classic states: "The key to perceiving human nature lies in the eyes."

Those truly upright and magnanimous appear humble instead, while those of profound De (Virtue) often seem lacking. The purest white appears as if stained, the highest virtue seems incomplete. Such individuals possess serene gazes, their eyes calm as still water when interacting with others—how could they possibly exhibit Yang Zhu's restless, wandering eyes?

Upon hearing this, Yang Zhu's countenance changed dramatically, and he respectfully said, "I have received your teaching." When he first traveled, innkeepers would welcome him reverently—the master would prepare his mat, the mistress bring towels and combs, other guests would yield their seats, and even the fire-tenders would vacate the hearth. Yet after completing his studies, returning travelers would compete with him for seating.

This "yielding" was never mere courtesy, nor was the "competing" simple conflict. Having comprehended the truth and returned to his original nature, those who once yielded now treated him as an equal. Just as the distance between Qin and Liang states remains unchanged, the inn being the same establishment and Yang Zhu the same man, yet people's attitudes transformed completely. This demonstrates how the supreme Dao subtly alters one's form and bearing, often without conscious awareness.

Like chasing external things when journeying to prosperous Pei, yet returning to innate nature when coming home—yielding and competing are but different manifestations along the path of departure and return.

When Yang Zhu lodged at a Song state innkeeper's home—a man with two concubines, one beautiful and one plain—the plain one was favored while the beauty was neglected. Puzzled, Yang Zhu inquired, and the young host replied: "She who considers herself beautiful—I see no beauty; she who thinks herself plain—I see no plainness." Yang Zhu told his disciples: "Remember this principle. If virtuous people could shed their self-aggrandizing mindsets, where would they not be welcomed?"

This passage expounds the core Daoist principle that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong." It observes how people's partiality leads them to favor beauty and despise ugliness, yet the Dao (the Way) remains impartial like nature itself. The text illustrates this through the parable of a beautiful concubine in an inn who loses respect by flaunting her looks, while the plain innkeeper gains esteem through natural humility. Laozi teaches that when people fixate on defining beauty, they simultaneously create the concept of ugliness—the problem lies not in beauty itself, but in our attachment to such distinctions.

The world presents two paths of conduct: the soft way that consistently prevails, and the forceful way that often fails. Ancient sages understood that those who bully others to assert dominance ultimately endanger themselves, while those who yield avoid harm. Cultivating softness perfects the self; governing with it brings stability to the realm. Master Zhou (an ancient worthy) advised: True strength must be rooted in pliancy, for when softness accumulates to its extreme, it transforms into unshakable firmness. Observing developmental patterns reveals fortune and misfortune—force can only overpower what is weaker, while the power of softness is immeasurable. As Laozi states: Overly sharp weapons break easily, rigid trees snap sooner; it is the supple creatures that endure.

The passage concludes: Softness constitutes the foundation of the Dao. By preserving this root, one becomes invincible. Applying this principle to self-cultivation and statecraft ensures blessings without calamity. Though never contending for precedence, none can surpass such an approach—this constitutes the way of enduring vision. The Yi Jing's (Book of Changes) counsel to "yield adaptively while exercising discretion" and Zhuangzi's metaphor of "forgetting the fish-trap after catching the fish" (transcending means after achieving ends) both resonate with this truth. Both Laozi's and Master Zhou's writings particularly emphasize this teaching, while the cited ancient wisdom confirms its timeless validity.

This passage explores the relationship between appearance and wisdom, cautioning against judging by outward looks. It states that a person may have childlike features yet possess mature wisdom, or appear grown yet remain childish in mind. The sages value inner wisdom over external form. Ordinary people often befriend those who resemble them physically while distancing those who look different—a limited perspective.

We commonly define humans as upright-walking creatures with hair and teeth, yet humans may harbor bestial instincts. Conversely, beasts with different appearances may possess human-like hearts. Ancient sages like Fuxi, Nüwa, and Shennong bore extraordinary features—snake bodies with human faces—yet embodied sacred virtue (De). In contrast, tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang had human forms but beastly hearts. This proves essence cannot be judged by appearance alone.

When the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) battled the Flame Emperor (Yandi), he commanded bears and other fierce beasts in warfare—dominating creatures through force. When Emperor Yao had his music master Kui play melodies, beasts danced in unison and phoenixes paid homage—transforming animals through harmony. This reveals that beasts share spiritual connections with humans, though most lack the means to communicate. Sages, understanding the patterns of all things, can guide them accordingly.

The text concludes by observing beasts' innate wisdom resembling humans': they know reproduction, maternal bonds, seeking warmth, and orderly communal living—instincts requiring no human instruction. Through comparing humans and beasts, this passage illuminates the need to see beyond appearances and recognize inner nature.

In the most ancient times, humans and animals lived together in harmony, coexisting peacefully and traveling as companions. When the age of imperial rulers began, animals started to flee in fear. In later generations, creatures hid themselves to escape human harm. Nowadays in the eastern land of Jieshi, there are people who understand the language of domestic animals—a manifestation of their extraordinary wisdom.

The sages of high antiquity fully comprehended the nature of all beings and could interpret the speech of every creature. They gathered and domesticated animals, treating them with the same consideration as humans. First communicating with spirits and deities, then with people from all directions, they ultimately tamed even the birds, beasts, and insects—all creatures possessing blood and qi (vital energy). These sages understood that the minds of these beings differed little from human consciousness, thus their transformative influence left nothing untouched.

Commentary explains: From the era of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors to the reigns of Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou, the world's virtue (De) progressively declined. The harmonious coexistence of humans and animals in primordial times existed because of the sages' transformative teachings. Now that the age has changed, animals flee and hide in fear. Even if sages were to appear today, they could only ensure birds and beasts find their proper places. Only by returning to the age of sages could one truly comprehend the Dao of the sages.

In the Song state, there was a monkey keeper who maintained a large troop of primates. He understood their minds, and they comprehended his intentions. When his family fortunes declined and he needed to reduce their rations, he first deceived them: "Three acorns at dawn and four at dusk—will this suffice?" The monkeys grew furious. Then he said, "Then four at dawn and three at dusk." The monkeys rejoiced. This shows how even crude deception can achieve control over creatures.

(Supplementary note: This passage contrasts ancient and modern times to illustrate the transformative way of the primordial sages. The primordial harmony between humans and animals existed because sages could comprehend the nature of all things. In later ages when human hearts lost their ancient purity, animals distanced themselves from mankind. The concluding "three at dawn and four at dusk" allegory satirizes how later generations employed manipulative tactics rather than the sages' genuine sincerity in dealing with creation.)

The sage governs the foolish masses with wisdom, much like a monkey trainer manages his troop. Though the names and substance remain unchanged, he manipulates their emotions of joy and anger.

This passage explains that the use of emotional extremes lacks proper balance. After joy inevitably comes anger, and after anger often returns joy. When distributing chestnuts, the monkey trainer keeps the total quantity constant yet controls the troop's emotions through rationing—first deceiving them into crouching with delight, then deliberately provoking them to leap in anger, all to ultimately return them to joy. Had he simply offered "four in the morning and three at night," he'd receive no gratitude but only provoke resentment.

The monkeys' emotions aren't feigned, for "three plus four" always totals seven. Yet from their perspective, they'd rather feast in the morning and endure hunger at night—thus the mere distribution ratio naturally manipulates their moods. From the cosmic perspective, after differentiation from the Supreme Void (Taiji, the cosmic origin), the numerical pattern of "three for heaven, four for earth" emerged, a mathematical law no creature can escape.

Those ignorant of numerical principles become governed by them; those who discern them wield them. This applies not only to monkey emotions—even the methods of rulers who govern through entertainment, despised by sages, operate by manipulating the masses through highs and lows. In truth, even the sage's governance unavoidably treats the world as a cage, though his application of numerical principles proves more refined, creating differences in governance depth.

At the ultimate level, all cosmic transformations—day and night, waking and dreaming, winter and summer, life and death—follow the pattern of the "Great Expansion Number" (the fifty yarrow stalks used in divination, with forty-nine employed). If we call the monkeys deluded for being manipulated by emotions, then all things exist in delusion; if human emotions are deemed reasonable, how can we condemn the monkeys' reactions? People laugh at monkeys controlled by their trainer, unaware they themselves dwell in cages—this constitutes true delusion. As Mencius said: "The soldier who retreats fifty paces laughs at one who retreats a hundred."

Monkeys by nature are clever, volatile and hard to tame, yet can be beguiled by simple numerical games like "three and four"—how much more so other creatures? This perhaps suggests...

This passage illustrates the Daoist wisdom of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)" through two allegorical tales.

The first story tells of a monkey keeper who had to ration his monkeys' food due to insufficient provisions. This mirrors how sages employ wisdom to govern people only when the world declines and virtue (De) becomes deficient - such measures are taken as a last resort.

The second story about training fighting cocks is particularly striking: Ji Xiazi trained roosters for King Xuan of Zhou. When first asked about progress, the cock still bluffed with false bravado; after ten days, it still reacted to shadows; another ten days later, it remained aggressive. Only at the final stage did the cock become still as wood - so formidable that other chickens fled at sight. This demonstrates true mastery doesn't rely on external displays, but on complete inner stillness that achieves "victory without combat."

Like the ultimate fighting cock that appears wooden yet maintains perfect inner tranquility, the pinnacle of "non-contention" cultivation naturally makes opponents retreat without confrontation. Similarly, sages transform people not through coercion, but through the influence of their own cultivated virtue.

Daoism teaches that true power stems from inner cultivation. Just as the heart serves as the body's "Crimson Palace" (Daoist term for the heart) where the Vermilion Bird (symbolizing fiery southern energy) resides, sages nurture their inner essence, remaining content without greed. Thus none in the world can contend with them. Ordinary people focus only on externals - like admiring the Vermilion Bird's plumage while missing its true power.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing recounts the story of Hui Ang's skillful persuasion of King Kang of Song. The king, who valued martial prowess above all, had no interest in benevolent governance. When Hui Ang first approached him, King Kang stamped his feet and coughed impatiently, declaring his preference for brave and strong men over moralistic platitudes.

Displaying remarkable wisdom, Hui Ang tailored his argument to the king's temperament through four progressive stages:

First, he proposed: "I possess a method whereby neither spear thrusts nor blows can harm a man." This immediately captured the king's attention, appealing directly to his martial interests.

Second, he deepened the argument: "I know a way to make even the bravest warrior dare not stab you, and the strongest man dare not strike you. Not from lack of ability, but from unwillingness."

Third, he advanced further: "I have a method to eliminate even the thought of harming you from men's minds."

Finally, he revealed the highest wisdom: "I possess the means to make all people under heaven love you joyfully and work for your benefit. This surpasses mere physical strength by far."

Hui Ang concluded by citing Confucius (Kong Qiu) and Mozi (Mo Di) as exemplars—though lacking kingdoms, they commanded respect like sovereigns through their virtue. As an actual ruler, King Kang could achieve even greater renown by following their example.

Left speechless, the king later confessed to his attendants: "This visitor's rhetoric has convinced me. His arguments were irrefutable."

Commentary notes Hui Ang's mastery of strategic persuasion. By initially appealing to the king's martial inclinations, then gradually elevating the discussion to Confucian and Mohist principles of benevolence, he achieved what direct moralizing could not. Though contrary to the king's nature, the reasoning proved unassailable. This illustrates how effective counsel requires first meeting the listener where they stand, then skillfully guiding them toward higher truth.

This passage explores two core concepts: the value of debate and the realm of sagehood as exemplified by the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi).

Regarding debate, the author cites the example of famous Warring States period rhetoricians Zhang Yi and Su Qin, whose persuasive arguments traveled across states. Though the rulers of the six kingdoms recognized them merely as skilled debaters, none could refute their reasoning, ultimately adopting their counsel and maintaining over a decade of stability in the Central Plains. This illustrates how the right and wrong of debate itself cannot be easily judged—even the works of Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) inevitably bear traces of debate, which is simply an expressive method in writing.

The second part elucidates the realm of sagehood through the story of the Yellow Emperor. Zhuangzi considered imperial achievements as merely the "leftover tasks" of sages—not that such accomplishments were unimportant, but that the Daoist methods of sages were so profound that imperial achievements seemed as insignificant as husks or straw by comparison. Yet it is precisely through these imperial achievements that sages manifest their sagehood; the people look up to sages because they bring peace and order to the world. Just as heaven and earth nurture all things through auspicious signs, sages appear quiescent yet perceive and respond to all worldly affairs, governing through "responding to imperial ways" (ying diwang zhi dao).

The author traces history: After the Divine Farmer (Shennong), the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun arose successively, during which the "Dao" became concretized as "De" (Virtue/Power) and the title "Huang" (august sovereign) was demoted to "Di" (emperor). As first among the Five Emperors, the Yellow Emperor bore the responsibility of governance—his achievements in spreading education paled before Yao's, and his virtue in aiding the world fell short of Shun's luminous integrity. Yet he had comprehended the ultimate principles of existence. When he began contemplating statecraft, the transformations of fortune and misfortune emerged. Initially joyful at the people's support, he later grew concerned about governing the realm. Facing such internal and external challenges, how could one avoid calamity without purifying virtue through zhaijiao (Daoist purification rituals) to commune with the divine? Only the Yellow Emperor could purify his heart-mind, harmonize with form without straying from the Dao, thus remaining unharmed even amid the whirlpools of honor and disgrace, benefit and loss.

This passage describes the ideal governance of ancient sage rulers. When the Yellow Emperor ruled the world, his state attained the perfection of the legendary Hua Xu nation (ruled by the mythical sovereign Hua Xushi) and the transcendental purity of the divine beings from Mount Guye (the fabled immortal mountain). The Yellow Emperor's way of governance reached the highest realm of Daoist practice, as wondrous as Liezi's (a prominent Daoist figure) legendary ability to ride the wind.

Those who attained the Dao maintained pristine primordial Qi (vital energy), while the wisdom of sages resonated with the heavenly Dao. Shang Qiukai (an ancient worthy) achieved harmony with all things, and Liang Yang (the legendary animal tamer) transcended distinctions of compliance and opposition - these were the fundamental reasons for their ability to transform all beings.

The ferryman could navigate treacherous rapids, the Lüliang warriors could swim through waterfalls, the hunchbacked elder could catch cicadas with a bamboo pole, and the Zhao people could walk through stone and fire - all these demonstrated their profound resonance with heaven, earth and the myriad things. For those who reached such a state, what in all under heaven could trouble them? The Yellow Emperor's attainment of sage-kingship precisely came from mastering this great Dao. Therefore, when Liezi expounded on Daoist methods, he often took the Yellow Emperor as his exemplar.

The text maintains that all true emperors and kings deeply understood this Dao. Though Liezi's "Yellow Emperor Chapter" also references Yang Zhu's (a Warring States philosopher) view that the deeds of the Five Emperors seemed dreamlike and illusory, and that both sages and fools ultimately perish, when speaking of Emperor Yao... (original text fragmentary)