《沖虛至德真經解》Vol. 3

The text recounts two parables. The first concerns Emperor Shun’s evaluation of the Yellow Emperor’s achievements, while the second describes King Mu of Zhou’s mystical encounter with a "transformation master" (化人, huaren).

From the perspective of the Dao (道), Shun observed that the Yellow Emperor’s accomplishments were fundamentally no different from those of tyrants like Jie or the bandit Zhi. Though the Yellow Emperor ushered in an era of peace, his pursuit of fame and merit inherently deviated from the Great Way. The text references Yang Zhu (杨朱), a Warring States philosopher who advocated renouncing worldly honors and wealth—perhaps as a return to the original essence of the Dao that the Yellow Emperor had once followed.

During King Mu of Zhou’s reign, a "transformation master" from the west arrived, possessing extraordinary divine powers. This master could traverse fire and water, penetrate metal and stone, reshape mountains and cities at will, and even influence human thought. The king revered him as a deity, constructing lavish palaces and selecting beautiful women and musicians to entertain him. Yet the master found all mortal luxuries crude and unrefined. In response, King Mu exhausted his treasury to build the "Mid-Heaven Tower" (中天之台), soaring thousands of ren high.

After reluctantly ascending the tower, the master took King Mu on a celestial journey to his own palace—a structure of gold, silver, and jewels floating above clouds and rain, where the food and music surpassed anything in the human realm. The king believed this to be the "Pristine Capital and Purple Palace" (清都紫微), the abode of the Celestial Emperor. Yet to the master, even this splendor resembled mere clods of earth and piles of straw. King Mu lingered there, nearly forgetting his kingdom.

This parable contrasts the earthly and celestial realms, illustrating Daoist transcendence over worldly glory. The transformation master embodies the perspective of one who has attained the Dao: to him, even humanity’s grandest luxuries remain vulgar. The juxtaposition implies that cultivators must rise above material indulgence to pursue higher spiritual realms.

This scripture recounts the encounter between King Mu of Zhou (the fifth ruler of the Western Zhou Dynasty) and a "transformation being" (huaren)—an immortal with miraculous powers—from the Western Paradise. Through stark contrasts, it reveals the fundamental differences between worldly existence and transcendent states.

The transformation being hailed from the Western Paradise, where the West corresponds to the Metal phase in the Five Phases (Wuxing), symbolizing radical transformation. This immortal was essentially the creator of all things, unbound by heaven and earth, capable of altering material forms at will. He could compress the entire cosmos into a single millet grain, condense vast cosmic cycles into fleeting moments, and traverse fire, water, metal, and stone as effortlessly as moving mountains or overturning seas—all mere child's play to him.

King Mu, as a worldly ruler, marveled at these supernatural powers and hosted the immortal with the highest honors: constructing lavish palaces, offering sacrificial animals, and selecting beautiful courtesans to perform ancient musical pieces like "Bearing Clouds" (Chengyun) and "Sixfold Radiance" (Liuying). Yet the transformation being had long transcended sensory pleasures—he dwelled without attachment to abodes, savored without clinging to flavors, and remained utterly indifferent to worldly delights.

Recognizing the king's sincerity, the immortal guided him to visit a celestial palace suspended midair. Built with gold, silver, pearls, and jade, this palace floated among clouds, filled with sights and sounds beyond mortal experience. King Mu initially believed he had reached the Purple Tenuity Palace where the Celestial Emperor resided. But when he gazed down at the human realm, he realized his former palaces were as crude as beehives or anthills. From then on, the king's heart yearned for this higher state, and for dozens of days he refused to return to the mundane world.

Through these striking contrasts, the passage illustrates how realized beings transcend material constraints, while worldly splendor appears to immortals as mere accumulations of dust. The transformation being displayed his powers not for ostentation, but to gradually guide the earthly ruler toward comprehending higher truths.

King Mu of Zhou (the fifth ruler of the Zhou dynasty) was originally an immortal companion from the Celestial Dan Terrace (a Daoist abode of deities), who descended to the mortal realm as an exile. Because he had not yet been deeply tainted by worldly influences, he could still dwell in this sacred place. Though this was considered a lower-tier celestial residence, it remained inaccessible to ordinary mortals—even if one managed to reach it, they would be terrified out of their wits and desperate to flee.

The shape-shifting immortal (the "Transforming Man") visited King Mu again and took him on a journey through the celestial realms. There, looking up, he saw neither sun, moon, nor stars; looking down, he beheld no rivers, lakes, or seas. The dazzling light overwhelmed his vision, and the divine music deafened his ears. Trembling uncontrollably, his organs churning, his spirit in disarray, he begged the immortal to return him. With a gentle push, the immortal sent him reeling as if falling from a great height—only for him to awaken back in his original seat, his attendants still in place, the wine and dishes before him not yet cooled. When he asked his attendants what had just happened, they replied, "Your Majesty merely closed your eyes to rest for a moment." The experience left King Mu in a daze for three months.

Later, when he questioned the immortal about the mystery of it all, the immortal explained, "I only took your spirit (Shen) on the journey—your body never moved. Besides, what difference is there between that celestial realm and your own palace gardens?" Only then did King Mu realize that what seemed like vanishing transformations were merely illusions caused by differences in speed. From then on, he became obsessed with the Daoist path, neglecting court affairs, distancing himself from concubines and ministers, and devoting himself solely to distant travels in search of immortality.

He rode in a chariot drawn by eight divine steeds: in the center were Hualiu and Lü’er, flanked by Chiji and Baiyi, with Zaofu as the charioteer and Shangjue as his companion. The secondary chariot was pulled by Quhuang and Yulun, with Daoli and Shanzi on either side, driven by Baiyao and accompanied by Benrong. They raced a thousand miles to the lands of the Jusou tribe (a western nomadic people), where the locals offered swan’s blood for the king to drink and washed his feet with the milk of cows and horses. After resting, they pressed onward, camping overnight at the southern bank of the Red River, north of Mount Kunlun.

The next day, they ascended to Kunlun’s summit to visit the palace left behind by the Yellow Emperor (the legendary ruler who achieved immortality through Daoist cultivation) and erected a stele in commemoration. Then they paid respects to the Queen Mother of the West (the supreme goddess of Kunlun), feasting and drinking by the shores of the Jade Pond.

This passage recounts the miraculous encounter between King Mu of Zhou and the Queen Mother of the West (a revered Daoist deity), revealing profound truths about spiritual cultivation.

When King Mu sought teachings from the Queen Mother, she responded by singing him a mournful ballad. Though the king traveled ten thousand miles daily, he sighed at sunset: "With insufficient Virtue (De) yet indulging in pleasures, future generations will surely condemn my faults!" While yearning for immortal realms, he could only pursue fleeting worldly joys—yet people mistook him for an attained immortal.

The states of Dao practitioners vary infinitely, but all hinge on "guarding the One" (focusing on original mind). True adepts transcend worldly dust instantly, without gradual progression. For ordinary cultivators, however, celestial visions must first be shown to reveal earthly illusions and worldly burdens, dissolving attachment before ultimate truth can dawn.

In this supreme state: Gazing upward, neither sun nor moon appears, for celestial heights defy description; looking downward, no rivers or seas are seen, as earthly depths elude measurement. Blazing light dazzles eyes—one must observe through "spirit vision" (Shen sight) rather than physical eyes; chaotic noises deafen ears—listening requires "Qi perception" (inner awareness) beyond ordinary hearing. When King Mu beheld immortal palaces, his awe mirrored mortals viewing heavens—yet his immature practice left him mentally overwhelmed, begging to return.

In truth, the immortals never took King Mu beyond the Central Heaven (celestial core)—the shifting visions reflected his fluctuating mind. The wondrous Dao realm exists here and now; sudden awakening transcends mundanity. Divine abodes seem miraculous yet differ little from royal gardens—demonstrating how sagehood and mundanity share one essence beneath different names, like spirit journeys while the body stays. These western immortals aren't novelties startling the world, but natural manifestations of the Dao's flow.

This passage recounts the story of King Mu of Zhou (the fifth ruler of the Western Zhou Dynasty) encountering a Transformation Master (a Daoist immortal capable of shape-shifting). The immortal sought to guide King Mu toward comprehending the true essence of the Dao through extraordinary experiences.

Initially, the Transformation Master displayed sensual pleasures, intending for the king to see through the illusory nature of worldly enjoyments. When King Mu became immersed in these delights, the immortal then took him on a celestial journey through the void, revealing miraculous transformations to demonstrate how all phenomena arise and perish as natural occurrences. Yet the king mistook these visions for reality, believing he had reached the Pure Capital and Purple Tenuity (the Daoist celestial realm) where immortals dwelled, hearing the Heavenly Music of the Broad Plain (celestial melodies).

Later, the Transformation Master took King Mu on another journey, this time revealing the true realm of the Dao. However, the king not only failed to comprehend it but begged to return. This is because the profound Dao transcends physical perception—those who have not attained the Way cannot abide in it permanently. Realizing King Mu would never attain enlightenment, the immortal sent him back to the mortal world. Upon awakening, the king remained despondent for three months. Only after consulting the Transformation Master again did he grasp the principle of celestial travel, finally understanding the Dao of transformation.

From then on, King Mu ceased concerning himself with state affairs, casting off worldly attachments to indulge his spirit in distant wanderings. Riding his eight divine steeds (legendary horses of King Mu), he could travel ten thousand miles in a single day, outpacing even the wind and clouds. Roaming aimlessly, he eventually arrived at the land of the Jusou people (a mythical distant kingdom). The character "sou" (蒐) means "to choose," symbolizing his newfound freedom to follow his heart's desires wherever they led.

This passage employs symbolic imagery to describe stages of Daoist cultivation. The white crane symbolizes purity and transcendence, while oxen and horses represent worldly burdens. Offering crane's blood for the ruler to drink signifies elevating his spiritual awareness; washing feet with livestock milk represents grounding in practical reality. Mount Kunlun (sacred Daoist mountain) embodies the supreme Dao, while the northern bank of the Red River signifies the mysterious state of Yin-Yang harmony.

The cultivator first passes through the land of the Jusou people (symbolizing mundane society) without attachment, and even dwelling at Kunlun's foothills remains temporary. Only upon reaching the mountain's summit does one truly attain the Dao. The Yellow Emperor (venerated Daoist sage-king) once rested at Kunlun yet lost his Mystic Pearl (symbolizing Dao's essence) there, demonstrating how the mountain itself manifests the Dao.

King Mu of Zhou (Zhou dynasty ruler) could ascend Kunlun, but relied on chariots rather than the transcendent roaming of immortals in the cosmic void (Taixu). At best he reached the western extremities, never achieving the celestial wandering of perfected beings. Sages like the Yellow Emperor built palaces leaving no traces; the Queen Mother of the West (supreme female immortal) never actively reveals herself yet hosts feasts at the Jade Pool (celestial realm). Though King Mu could accompany celestial music, he only experienced mundane pleasures, never comprehending the harmonies of heavenly Dao.

Observing sunset (symbolizing Dao's return to origin) resembles witnessing sages withdrawing the Dao to its source. Zhuangzi uses ten suns illuminating all things to represent perfect Virtue (De), while sunset in the west signifies the sage's return to Dao's root. Yet merely watching sunset cannot truly grasp the Dao—thus one ultimately laments insufficient Virtue to reach supreme joy.

The Book of Zhou records that the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) lived to a hundred years but became senile in his later years—this represents later generations recounting his shortcomings. Yet the fact that he enjoyed worldly pleasures during his lifetime while also attaining longevity aligns with what common people call "attaining the Dao and ascending as an immortal."

Examining bamboo slips, stone chamber archives (ancient repositories of texts), as well as classics like the Classic of Mountains and Seas (Shanhai Jing) and Erya, all contain similar accounts. The Yellow Emperor's dreams were journeys of his spirit (Shen), while King Mu of Zhou's transformations also involved distant travels of the spirit—the forms are similar, but the effects differ. The Yellow Emperor's dreams arose from purification rituals (Zhaijiao), calming the mind, and regulating the body (cultivation practices), whereas King Mu's transformations came from the guidance of an extraordinary being. Upon waking, the Yellow Emperor attained spontaneous realization, while King Mu had to seek help from the extraordinary being to return. Thus, after awakening, the Yellow Emperor remained serene and went on to establish the prosperous era of Huaxu, whereas King Mu awoke with lingering regret and spent three months indulging in worldly pleasures.

Lao Chengzi studied the art of illusion with Master Yinwen for three years without receiving transmission, so he requested to leave. Master Yinwen then led him into an inner chamber, dismissed the attendants, and instructed him privately. This illustrates that the very desire to learn illusion is itself an illusion—how could three years exhaust the Dao of transformation? The lack of transmission was precisely because it cannot be conveyed through words. Initially, Lao Chengzi did not understand this principle and sought to depart, yet ultimately he received the secret teachings—"Lao Cheng" (Old Accomplished) signifies one who attains the Dao in later years, while "Yinwen" (Governor of Texts) represents using the Dao to master language and teach the world.

Master Yinwen recounted Lao Dan's (Laozi) words when traveling westward: "The breath (Qi) of all living things, the forms of all existence—in essence, they are all illusory." This statement reveals the profound truth that all phenomena are illusory.

All things in heaven and earth come into being and transform through the interaction of yin and yang Qi. This process of transformation we call "birth" and "death." Those who can perceive the patterns of development in things and adapt according to form are said to understand "transformation" and "illusion." The workings of the Creator (referring to natural laws) are exquisitely subtle, their effects profound and inexhaustible; while illusory transformations dependent on form may appear clever on the surface, their effects are shallow, and thus they arise and perish in the same moment.

Only those who understand that "illusion" and "birth-death" share the same essence are qualified to study the arts of transformation. In truth, both you and I are illusory existences—why then should we deliberately seek to learn such arts?

Fundamentally, birth-death and transformation are like shadows clinging to forms, bubbles floating on water, dew clinging to chives, or the flash of lightning—all are illusory. Those phenomena that are subtle, profound, and inexhaustible we call "birth-death"; those that are obvious on the surface and fleeting in effect we call "transformation." These names are merely forced distinctions made to categorize different manifestations.

Whether subtle or obvious, the ingenuity of their essence remains the same; whether profound or shallow, their fundamental function is equal. So what difference is there between transformation and birth-death? Only by understanding this principle can one transcend the limitations of birth-death and freely master the arts of transformation. Those who wish to learn transformation must first comprehend the fundamental truth that "all is illusory."

Yet we must note that cognition cannot be separated from perception. Those who speak of perception cannot escape the realm of illusion, and those who speak of non-perception are likewise bound by illusion. Thus, to study transformation through cognition and use illusory arts to alter external things—though one may change external objects—one remains trapped in illusion. Only those who truly awaken to their innate nature can dissolve all illusions, with no need to deliberately study such arts. Master Yin Wen did not directly instruct Lao Chengzi precisely because he had truly grasped the essence of transformation.

After returning home, Lao Chengzi contemplated Master Yin Wen's teachings deeply for three months, until he could freely manipulate existence and dissolution, birth and transformation. He could invert the four seasons—making thunder roll in winter and ice form in summer—and interchange the natures of flying birds and running beasts. Yet throughout his life, he never displayed these arts, and thus they could not be transmitted to the world.

All movements dependent on form are illusory; even the exquisite transformations of nature cannot escape illusion. Nature often creates things through human agency, while human transformations must follow natural laws. Nature's transformations cannot be separated from the interplay of yin and yang, and human transformations cannot be separated from numerical principles. Bound by the laws of yin and yang, even reality appears illusory; by exhausting the permutations of numerical principles, one awakens within illusion. Awakening lies within oneself—how can illusion bind you? Those who truly understand this principle need not cling to the arts of transformation.

This passage explores the profound principles of "illusory transformation" (huanhua), the Daoist concept of supernatural abilities to transform all things. Those who truly master this art can alter the four seasons, summon thunder and lightning, create ice and snow, and change the forms of birds and beasts—capabilities that verge on altering the very laws of nature.

Yet the crucial point is that this miraculous power of transformation originates from the "wondrous mind" (miaoxin), the mysterious original heart. Like flowers appearing in the void, though the illusions are visible, the profound truth they embody is the fundamental essence. The surface phenomena can be explained, but the deeper mysteries require prolonged silent contemplation to grasp.

In ancient times, those who studied the art of illusion did not do so to frighten ordinary people, but rather to awaken to the Dao through these transformations. Take Master Yinwen, a Daoist figure—though highly skilled in this art, he never boasted, only saying it was transmitted to him when Laozi journeyed westward.

Liezi, another great Daoist figure, said: "Those truly adept at transformation conceal their methods in plain sight, yet their efficacy is no different from ordinary people." The virtues and achievements of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors may not have relied solely on wisdom and courage, but also on this transformative power of nurturing.

The greatness of Heaven and Earth lies in their ability to transform all things; the transcendence of sages lies in their understanding of the principles of transformation. Heaven and Earth nurture the myriad beings through the interplay of Yin and Yang and the alternation of cold and heat, yet they never deliberately flaunt unseasonal thunder or snow to show off. Similarly, true masters do not use bizarre illusions to dazzle the crowd.

Thus, the teachings of sages may seem ordinary, yet their efficacy matches that of ordinary people. Lao Chengzi, though skilled in the art of transformation, never revealed it in his lifetime; Confucius, though capable, never flaunted his abilities—both embody this principle. The ancient sages, from the Three Sovereigns to the Five Emperors, were sometimes humble, sometimes bold, all adapting to the changes of their time. Outwardly, they appeared to rely on wisdom and courage, but in truth, they aligned with the ineffable subtlety of the Dao. Ordinary people see only their achievements, failing to grasp the profound mysteries of transformation within—which is why they remain unqualified to discuss the true art of governance.

In the waking state, humans experience eight types of perceptions, while in dreams they encounter six distinct categories. The eight waking perceptions are: 1) recalling past events; 2) taking deliberate action; 3) achieving success; 4) suffering loss; 5) experiencing sorrow; 6) feeling joy; 7) encountering new beginnings; 8) facing endings and death. These all arise from the interaction between the physical body and the external world.

The six dream categories include: 1) ordinary dreams (zhengmeng); 2) nightmares (emeng); 3) wish-fulfillment dreams (simeng); 4) hypnagogic dreams between sleep and wakefulness (wumeng); 5) joyful dreams (ximeng); and 6) fearful dreams (jumeng). These all stem from the activities of the Shen (spirit).

Though human waking perceptions and dream phenomena manifest differently, their root cause lies in mental activity. Those who don't understand the origin of these perceptual changes become confused when events occur, while those who comprehend their underlying principles can discern their causes. Understanding these causes eliminates fear.

Dreaming reflects the workings of the Shen. The supreme Dao of spirit transcends even the transformations of Yin-Yang. Human Shen depends on physical form and is influenced by the dual Qi of Yin and Yang. When this balance is disrupted: excessive Yin Qi causes dreams of crossing great waters with terror; excessive Yang Qi brings dreams of traversing fire and being burned; when both are excessive, one dreams of life-and-death struggles. Overeating leads to dreams of giving, while hunger produces dreams of taking. Those with light bodies dream of flying, while those with heavy bodies dream of drowning. Sleeping on belts brings snake dreams, and hair caught by birds induces dreams of flight. When Yin Qi is about to peak, one dreams of fire; impending illness brings dreams of eating. Drunkards have anxious dreams, while celebrants dream of weeping.

These dream phenomena demonstrate how human spiritual activity resonates with all things between heaven and earth, with internal Yin-Yang transformations manifesting through dreams. Those who truly comprehend the great Dao regard even life and death with equanimity—how much more so the distinction between dreams and waking?

When well-fed, we dream differently than when hungry—this shows how desires influence us. Sometimes we dream of soaring through the skies, other times of drowning—these are signs of illness eroding our spirit (shen). Dreams of serpents or flight reveal how external phenomena disturb our heart-mind.

In cold darkness, one dreams of fire; in sickness, one dreams of food—demonstrating how dreams often invert reality. The intoxicated may sing in sorrow, dancers may weep mid-performance—proof that joy and grief transform into one another. Human life is fleeting, split evenly between day and night. Without preserving pure primordial qi, we fluctuate with time, assailed day and night by the interplay of yin-yang and the myriad phenomena. The body toils without rest, the spirit (shen) depletes endlessly—a lifetime of busyness ending in dissolution with all things. Should this not awaken our vigilance?

Studying the principles of waking and dreaming is as natural as observing day and night. Though dreams manifest through spiritual activity, they're ultimately driven by the body. Yet this bodily influence isn't autonomous—we ourselves permit the body to dominate us. In dreams we don't know we're dreaming; awakening reveals the truth, yet soon we plunge back into dreams, mistaking them for reality. As days and nights cycle endlessly, humans spend lifetimes between waking and dreaming without grasping the truth. Like our reactions to fire/water or gain/loss—all fundamentally illusory yet capable of stirring real emotions. The awakened recognize dreams, but dreamers can't recognize wakefulness—thus waking is truer. Waking actions remain confined to thought, yet dreams foresee beyond thought—in this sense, dreams prove more numinous. Daily wakefulness follows order, while nightly dreams fracture into discontinuity. The boundary between dream and wake lasts but a moment, yet their difference is vast—how much more so the greater transformation of life and death? Only those who've attained the Dao escape nature's constraints.

Yet understanding the principles of dream and wakefulness early renders life and death's comings and goings insignificant.

(Liezi, "King Mu" chapter, part 2) Liezi said: Spiritual (shen) resonance generates dreams; physical contact creates facts. Thus daytime thoughts become nighttime dreams—this is the mutual interaction of spirit and form. Those whose spirit remains focused find illusions and dreams naturally vanish. The truly awakened speak no empty words; those who truly understand dreams chase no illusions. The ancient perfected persons (zhenren), awake forgot themselves, asleep dreamed nothing—could this be mere talk?

Both waking thoughts during the day and dreams at night are activities of the spirit (Shen). When people dream, their hun (ethereal soul) and po (corporeal soul) interact; when awake, their physical form stretches freely. The alternation of day and night operates continuously, while the transformations and movements of all things resemble illusory flowers in the sky—appearing and vanishing spontaneously. Thus, those attached to wakefulness cannot comprehend the great Dao (the Way), and those lost in dreams cannot penetrate the principles of reality.

Although both human spirit and physical form interact with external phenomena, their root lies in creations of self-awareness. Therefore, neither the deluded thoughts of wakefulness nor the self-directed actions of dreams are caused by external factors—the key lies solely in whether the spirit remains focused and concentrated. The so-called "perfected person" (zhenren), one who has attained the Dao, never departs from the source of life, their spirit perpetually gathered. They neither cling to life nor despise death; they neither rejoice at birth nor resist demise. They do not use human will to oppose the Dao of Heaven, nor do they employ artificial means to interfere with nature. Coming and going freely, they remain unbound by the transformations of all things, unattached to either dreams or wakefulness. Thus, they forget themselves when awake and experience no dreams when asleep.

Far to the west, in the southernmost region, lies the ancient land of Gummang, where the two energies of yin and yang do not intermingle, resulting in no alternation of cold and heat. The light of sun and moon does not reach there, so there is no distinction between day and night. The people neither eat nor wear clothes, spending most of their time asleep—waking only once every fifty days. They consider their dream experiences real and regard waking perceptions as illusory.

At the center of the Four Seas lies the Central Kingdom, spanning the Yellow River north and south, crossing Mount Tai east and west, covering over ten thousand li in circumference. Here, yin and yang harmonize distinctly, producing the cycle of seasons; the boundary between day and night is clear, manifesting sunrise and sunset. The people vary in wisdom and folly, all things flourish and multiply, talents and skills abound, and hierarchies of ruler and subject are maintained through rituals and laws—daily activities too numerous to count. They regard waking actions as real and dream visions as illusory.

Far to the east, in the northernmost region, lies the land of Fuluo, where the climate is perpetually scorching, illuminated only by the residual light of sun and moon. The land yields no bountiful crops, so the people eat roots and wild fruits, never cooking with fire. Their temperament is fierce and unyielding—the strong prey on the weak—valorizing martial prowess over moral righteousness. They are constantly active, rarely resting, and remain mostly awake with little sleep.

Commentary: The southernmost region of the west corresponds to the kun and dui positions in the Bagua (Eight Trigrams)—kun symbolizing earth and dui representing marsh. All things follow the principle of earth's nurturing embrace, tending toward stillness and rest.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of the Ultimate Virtue of Profound Emptiness) describes the characteristics of several distinct nations. The people of Gumang Country in the southwest regard events in dreams as reality, believing this to reflect ancient ways. In contrast, the inhabitants of Fuluo Country in the northeast remain perpetually awake without sleep, as their land's abundant resources allow for communal living. The Central Kingdom follows the balanced principles of Yin-Yang, with alternating day and night, warmth and cold. There, people consider waking experiences real and dreams illusory—all governed by the cyclical transformations of Yin and Yang.

The text then recounts the story of a Zhou dynasty man named Yin, who busied himself managing his estate while his servants toiled from dawn till dusk without rest. One elderly servant, utterly exhausted, groaned through his daytime labor but would collapse into deep sleep at night, often dreaming he was a monarch enjoying luxury and power—only to wake and resume his drudgery. When others consoled him, he replied: "A human life spans a hundred years. Though I suffer as a slave by day, my nights as a king bring joy. What grievance could I hold?"

Yin himself, consumed by household worries, grew physically and mentally drained. At night, he suffered nightmares of being a servant—beaten, scolded, and groaning until dawn. Troubled, he sought advice from a friend, who said: "Your noble status and wealth far surpass others'. That you dream of servitude at night simply reflects the natural alternation of suffering and joy. How could one claim all blessings?" Taking this counsel, Yin lightened his servants' burdens and eased his own anxieties, gradually recovering his health.

Through this juxtaposition of dreams and reality, the parable illustrates how life's joys and sorrows follow natural patterns. Excessive pursuit of one extreme leads to imbalance, while measured adjustment brings harmony to body and mind.

This passage explores the alternating relationship between form (xing) and spirit (shen), and the interplay between waking reality and dreams through two illustrative stories.

In the cycle of day and night, human physical form and spiritual consciousness alternate their activity. Those who excessively engage their shen (spiritual activity) during the day allow their physical form to rest, hence at night their spirit rests while the body moves. Conversely, those who exhaust their physical form by day experience heightened spiritual activity at night while their body recuperates. This follows the natural principle of Yin-Yang waxing and waning, where things reverse upon reaching their extremes. The story of Yin Xi (Laozi's disciple) and his servant demonstrates this alternation of labor and rest, yet their inability to harmonize waking and dreaming states stems from failing to comprehend this principle.

Some fail to perceive the patterns of growth and decline in phenomena, believing only waking consciousness to be real while dismissing dreams as illusory. They pursue worldly gains during daylight hours yet remain ignorant of the joys and sorrows experienced in dreams. If dreams were truly devoid of perception it might not matter, but since dreams contain the full spectrum of emotions—joy, anger, grief, pleasure—how can we simplistically deem them false? When Yin Xi came to understand this truth and consulted his friend, it was likely his primordial spirit (yuanshen, the innate consciousness) that first attained this realization. Subsequently, by reducing his servant's labor and lessening his own mental preoccupations, his ailments improved. This illustrates how progressively diminishing mental activity—reaching the cultivation state of "diminishing and diminishing again"—allows the primordial spirit to consolidate, causing dreams to naturally dissolve rather than merely alleviating symptoms.

The second story tells of a Zheng woodcutter who, while gathering firewood, encountered a startled deer. After killing it, he hid the carcass in a ditch beneath plantain leaves, fearing discovery. Though initially elated, he soon forgot the hiding place and assumed it had been a dream. As he muttered about this on his way home, a passerby overheard and retrieved the deer. The man told his wife: "A woodcutter dreamed of catching a deer but didn't know where it was—now I've found it, proving his dream was real." His wife countered: "Did you dream of a woodcutter getting a deer? Was there truly a woodcutter? Now that we have the deer, who exactly was dreaming?" The husband replied: "The deer is in my hands—why concern ourselves with whose dream it was?" Meanwhile, the woodcutter, unwilling to accept the loss, dreamed that night of both the hiding place and the man who took his deer. Upon waking, he followed his dream's guidance and successfully reclaimed his prize.

Both narratives examine the porous boundary between waking and dreaming, illustrating the Daoist perspective that both states are manifestations of consciousness not requiring rigid distinction. Through cultivation practices that reduce mental agitation, one may transcend the duality of waking and dreaming altogether.

This passage recounts a famous case from the State of Zheng concerning the boundary between dreams and reality, embodying profound Daoist philosophy.

A woodcutter claimed to have hunted a deer and hidden it, only to later forget the hiding place and assume it was just a dream. Another man, overhearing the woodcutter's sleep-talking, found the deer. When the two men disputed ownership, even the judge (Shishi) couldn't determine the truth and suggested splitting the deer in half. Upon hearing this, the ruler of Zheng sighed: "Is the judge also dividing deer in a dream?" Consulting his prime minister, he received the reply: "Only the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) and Confucius could distinguish dreams from waking reality. Since they're no longer with us, let's follow the judge's decision."

The text observes: People generally consider waking experiences real and dream experiences illusory. Yet we often forget things done while awake—isn't this just like dreams? Sometimes dream experiences feel intensely real—doesn't this resemble waking life? The key lies in how conscious actions during wakefulness are easily forgotten, while unconscious dream experiences often feel more vivid. Fundamentally, there's no difference between dreaming and waking—insisting on distinguishing them is itself delusion.

The author continues: We Central Plains people obsess over distinguishing dreams from wakefulness, but if we explained this concept to people from remote regions (like the ancient Mang and Fu Luo tribes), they might completely disagree. In this case, the woodcutter first mistook reality for a dream, then dreams for reality; the deer-taker exploited his words to present reality as a dream. Truth and falsehood, right and wrong became so entangled that legal arbitration became necessary.

The passage concludes: Those truly enlightened understand day and night each claim half of existence—privileging wakefulness over dreams or vice versa are both mistaken. Only sages like the Yellow Emperor and Confucius truly comprehend this principle. This reflects the Daoist philosophy of "equalizing all things" (Qi Wu Lun), which maintains that dreams and wakefulness, truth and illusion, are ultimately relative states.

This passage presents two allegorical tales about cognition and healing.

The first story illustrates how standards for judging right and wrong are difficult to establish. Like two officials dividing a deer—while appearing to be a necessary compromise—both parties exist in a semi-conscious state, neither fully believing nor fully doubting. Though not yet reaching complete transcendence, this approach to conflict resolution is still commendable. While all concrete things have their proper classifications and rules, using these standards to determine truth can lead to endless disputes.

The second tale tells of a middle-aged man named Hua Zi from Yangli in the Song state who suffered from amnesia. He would forget by evening what he'd taken in the morning, lose his destination while walking, and forget to sit down at home. His family consulted diviners, summoned shamans for prayers, and sought medical treatment—all to no avail. Eventually a Confucian scholar claimed he could cure it, demanding half the family's wealth as payment. The scholar explained this illness couldn't be treated by divination, prayers or medicine—it required transforming the patient's consciousness. He subjected Hua Zi to various deprivations: letting him freeze to recognize the need for clothing, starve to understand hunger, and sit in darkness to value light. After seven days of solitary confinement, the chronic condition miraculously disappeared.

The commentary explains: Conditions involving human emotions respond to divination; matters of benefit and harm may yield to prayers; illnesses from cravings can be medicated. But this profound amnesia—where even the existence of heaven and earth went unfelt—naturally resisted such methods. Only by reawakening fundamental needs could primal instincts be restored. This demonstrates how some ailments require treatment at the root level of consciousness.

This passage reveals that Hua Zi's "forgetfulness" was actually a symptom of illness-induced cognitive impairment, not a genuine transcendence of worldly concerns. That's why the Confucian scholar was overjoyed to discover his condition could be cured. Had it been true enlightenment beyond worldly attachments, not even the Creator could have intervened—how could such shallow medical skills of a Confucian possibly remedy it?

The text sharply criticizes Confucianism for using its system of poetry, books, and rituals to "dig people's graves" (a metaphor for destroying natural human nature), identifying it as the deepest root of harm to the Dao (the Way). This Confucian doctrine leads people away from genuine learning toward hypocrisy, subtly causing them to lose themselves without realizing it. The Confucian scholar even considered his method profound, insisting on treating the patient alone. After seven days, Hua Zi's originally natural, undisturbed state was disrupted—he regained ordinary human desires like seeing, hearing, and eating. Though cured of his long-standing illness in a single day, he lost something far more precious.

Upon realizing this, Hua Zi flew into a rage, punishing his wife and children while chasing the Confucian scholar with weapons. When questioned by the people of Song, he explained: "In my forgetful state, my mind was so clear and empty I couldn't even perceive whether heaven and earth existed. Now suddenly regaining memory, decades of gains and losses, survival and death, joy and anger all flooded back. I fear these worldly thoughts will continue disturbing my mind—can that fleeting clarity ever return?"

When Zi Gong heard this and found it strange, he reported it to Confucius, who replied this realm was beyond his understanding and had Yan Hui record it. The commentary notes: True nature is hard to encounter, while hypocrisy has long corrupted people. Those who truly delight in their original essence remain unmoved by all things—even family bonds can be relinquished. Such genuine nobility is incomparable; Confucian teachings aren't worth clinging to. Hence Hua Zi punished his family and expelled the scholar upon awakening.

Originally, Hua Zi recognized the value of "forgetfulness," having transcended worldly ties. Now he fears external distractions may forever deny him inner peace—how much worse for those ignorant of forgetfulness's joy, constantly entangled in right and wrong? Hua Zi's family saw his forgetfulness as a curse, and the scholar celebrated its "cure"—how confused their minds must be!

The name "Hua Zi of Yangli in Song" carries symbolic meaning: "Yang" represents growth and nourishment, while "Hua" (flourishing) suggests prosperity through yang qi (vital energy). This implies Hua Zi should have maintained his natural state of growth, but was forcibly "cured," losing his original authentic realm.

This passage discusses how people are often deluded by worldly distractions, while Daoist practitioners can perceive the true essence by returning to simplicity.

The first part describes how Hua Zi, a Daoist cultivator, regained his original nature through forgetfulness in middle age, but after awakening, became entangled in worldly affairs again. Confucius criticized his disciple Zi Gong for being fond of judging others, while Yan Hui, Confucius' most admired disciple, transcended the concepts of benevolence, righteousness, and ritual music to attain the state of "sitting in forgetfulness" (zuowang, a Daoist cultivation state of transcending external things and forgetting both self and objects).

The latter part uses the story of Feng's son from Qin to illustrate universal human confusion: this intelligent child developed cognitive distortions upon growing up, mistaking singing for weeping, white for black, and fragrance for stench. Laozi (Lao Dan) points out that today everyone in the world similarly fails to distinguish right from wrong or benefit from harm—all are pathologically attached to superficial appearances. If the whole world shared your son's "inverted" perceptions, that would ironically become the norm.

The concluding explanation reveals that distinctions between singing and weeping, black and white, or fragrance and stench all originate from artificial conceptual divisions. Those attached to names and concepts are like people insisting "white is black"—contrary to common perception. Yet whether conforming to majority views or stubbornly clinging to personal opinions, both represent forms of delusion. True wisdom transcends these dualistic concepts to recognize the fundamental unity of all things.

This passage discusses the limitations of human understanding and the pursuit of truth.

Yang Zhu (a Daoist thinker) believed his teachings could rectify the world, yet he became entangled in debates over right and wrong with Confucians and Mohists. Feng Meng (a figure mentioned here) grew concerned about this and traveled to the state of Lu to consult various scholars. However, Feng himself was someone who made judgments based on fleeting impressions—clever as a child, but in adulthood, he mistook confusion for illness.

The author reflects: Even these words of mine may be deluded views, let alone the Confucian scholars of Lu, who are most deeply entrenched in establishing doctrines of benevolence, righteousness, loyalty, and trust, as well as the rigid norms of poetry, history, rites, and music. How could they possibly help others dispel confusion? Rather than carrying provisions to seek teachings far and wide, it would be better to return home quickly and reflect inwardly.

The commentary explains: The world has no absolute truth, and the great Dao (the Way) transcends verbal expression. The sages established teachings out of necessity, yet scholars often mistake the words of the masses for error and the words of sages for truth, clinging stubbornly to them. As the proverb says, "Even gold, though precious, will dazzle the eyes if stared at too long." Thus, Laozi said his own words might well be deluded—how much more so the Confucian scholars who establish doctrines of benevolence and righteousness? They are the most deeply deluded—how could they help others dispel confusion? The phrase "better to return home quickly" urges people to turn inward and reflect.

Later, the passage uses a parable of a man from Yan: A man from Yan grew up in the state of Chu. In his old age, on his way back home, he passed through the state of Jin. His companions deceived him, saying the cities, ancestral temples, houses, and graves of Jin were those of Yan. Believing them, he wept in sorrow. When he realized the deception, he felt ashamed. Yet when he finally returned to Yan and saw the real sights of his homeland, he was no longer as grief-stricken.

The commentary explains: Some who transmit the Dao are genuine, others false; some students encounter it early, others late. What one learns first often becomes a fixed view, making it hard to accept the truth encountered later. Many scholars today first meet false teachers and learn erroneous methods, stubbornly believing them to be the best. Years later, when they encounter a true master who imparts the genuine Dao, they refuse to believe it—thus missing the opportunity for a lifetime.

This passage recounts a parable: A man from the state of Yan (modern-day Beijing region) grew up in the state of Chu (modern-day Hubei and Hunan). In his old age, while returning home through the state of Jin (modern-day Shanxi), his companions deceived him into believing they had already reached Yan. Mistaking a local earth-god shrine for his hometown temple, he sighed deeply; taking unfamiliar houses for his ancestral home, he wept; and seeing random burial mounds, he wailed as if they were his forebears' graves. When his companions laughed and revealed they were still in Jin, the man was mortified. Later, upon truly returning to Yan and witnessing his actual ancestral home and graves, he found his grief had dissipated and could no longer be summoned.

Through this allegory, the author illustrates several truths: First, human emotional responses to environments are often governed by first impressions (initial encounters stir strong feelings, while subsequent ones grow muted). Second, people frequently mistake falsehood for reality (taking Jin’s capital for Yan’s) and reality for illusion (failing to grieve when truly home). Third, all emotions of attachment or aversion—like the Yan man’s deceived sorrow—are fundamentally subjective. The crux lies in the human heart: when sincere, even illusions evoke genuine feeling; when deluded, even reality seems false. Had his companions not exposed the lie, the man’s grief might have persisted longer. The innate purity of the heart, once clouded by deception, struggles to regain its original clarity. Like the Yan man, once true emotion fades, even genuine scenes later fail to rekindle the initial intensity of feeling.

(Note: "She" refers to earth-god shrines; "village she" means the local earth-god temple of one’s hometown; "ancestral home" denotes family dwellings; "burial mounds" indicate graves.)

This passage elucidates the core Daoist philosophy of governing the world. The teachings of Laozi and Liezi fundamentally rely on using the "nameless simplicity" (referring to the natural, authentic state of the Dao) to pacify the people, preventing them from being deluded by falsehood and superficiality, rather than attempting governance only after social customs have already deteriorated. Thus, the Daode Jing ultimately emphasizes "nameless simplicity," expressing the hope that the world may return to a state of natural tranquility, where all things will naturally align with the proper path.

From the ancient sage-kings to later monarchs, although the manifestation of the Dao gradually diminished, rulers throughout history governed the world based on the Dao, all embodying the actions of sages. However, as times changed, emperors performed the deeds appropriate to their era, and feudal lords carried out the responsibilities suited to their time. By the reign of King Mu of Zhou, moral instruction was no longer sufficient to transmit the subtleties of Daoist wisdom. With virtue insufficient and indulgence in pleasure prevailing, the fortunes of the Zhou dynasty began their decline from this point.

The virtue of the Five Emperors and the achievements of the Three Kings may appear lofty, yet in reality, they are as illusory as dreams and bubbles. The text specifically mentions the people of the "Land of Ancient Wilderness" who regard dreams as reality, and the "People of Fuluo" who remain perpetually awake without sleep. These examples illustrate how people toil and labor during the day, only to dream at night of becoming servants to others—all revealing the truth that all phenomena in the world are as fleeting and insubstantial as dreams.

This passage elucidates the Daoist understanding of governance. In ancient times, people would dream of becoming rulers, yet upon waking couldn't even distinguish truth from falsehood in disputes over deer. The sage's method of governing the world follows the same principle—if one comprehends the relationship between dreaming and waking, they realize that so-called confusion and forgetfulness are not fundamental issues.

At the level of the Dao (the Way), distinctions between right/wrong and good/evil become unified. What appears as useless dross and chaff actually holds greater value than the achievements of Yao and Shun, let alone the accomplishments of ordinary kings and lords. Tracing the origins of great governance, we find its beginnings in the era of the Three Sovereigns (Fuxi, Shennong, and the Yellow Emperor), when the world was governed through the Dao. People tied knots to record events and lived in peaceful contentment—this represents the most perfect form of governance.

However, after this golden age of Dao-governance, as eras changed, governance gradually degenerated into mere imperial virtue. During the times of the Yellow Emperor, Yao, and Shun, rulers needed only to fold their hands in their sleeves to maintain peace—already a prosperous age. By the eras of Tang of Shang and King Wu of Zhou, people could only perceive royal achievements without recognizing their origins predating the Three Sovereigns, yet their influence persisted for millennia.

This resembles water flowing from its source—the further it travels, the more impossible return becomes. Zhuangzi criticized Emperor Shun for disrupting the world with artificial benevolence and righteousness, noting how sages, unwilling to see one generation suffer, brought calamity to ten thousand ages—precisely this situation. Yet true sages can harness the Dao to master their era without sinking into worldly currents. Even in governance like the Zhou dynasty's, they enabled people to live in peace, as in the most virtuous golden age. This constitutes the teaching Liezi (Lie Yukou) left for posterity—the hope that ten thousand generations hence might still witness such governance.

Later passages describe Confucius (Zhongni) in quiet retirement, with Zigong attending him yet not daring to inquire about his master's troubled expression. Through comparing governance across different eras, the text illustrates the gradual loss of the Dao and how true sages should transcend temporal limitations.

This passage recounts a dialogue between Confucius and his disciple Yan Hui (courtesy name Ziyuan) about "joyfully following Heaven and understanding destiny." At the time, Confucius, though retired from court and living in leisure, remained troubled by state affairs—a depth of concern that even a perceptive disciple like Yan Hui initially failed to fully grasp.

Noticing his teacher's preoccupation, Yan Hui deliberately played the qin and sang outside the door. Hearing this, Confucius summoned him and asked, "Why are you alone so joyful?" Yan Hui quoted Confucius's earlier teaching in reply: "Master, you once said, 'He who joyfully follows Heaven and understands destiny is free from sorrow,' hence my joy." Confucius, with a solemn expression, responded: "You've misunderstood. Those were my words of the past, now in need of correction. You recognize that joyfully following Heaven and understanding destiny brings freedom from sorrow, but fail to see that it actually encompasses greater concerns."

Here, two levels of understanding are revealed: Yan Hui's joy lies in apprehending the Dao (comprehending the Way of Heaven), while Confucius's concern stems from his care for all people. To ordinary observers, only Yan Hui appears uniquely content, yet from Yan Hui's perspective, only Confucius carries the world's sorrows in his heart. True "joyful following of Heaven" means gladly accepting Heaven's arrangements; true "understanding destiny" means conforming to its dictates. To only joyfully follow Heaven without understanding destiny, or to only understand destiny without joyful acceptance, falls short of genuine transcendence.

This dialogue illustrates the Confucian wisdom of "harmonizing sorrow and joy"—the sage must possess both the serenity to follow Heaven's mandate and the commitment to care for human affairs. By revising his earlier stance, Confucius reveals to his disciple a higher attitude toward life: while recognizing the natural order of Heaven, one must still maintain profound compassion for the suffering of the world.

This passage explores the Daoist ideal of "joyful acceptance of heavenly decree" (乐天知命), illustrated through Confucius and his disciple Yan Hui as exemplars of true wisdom.

Yan Hui grasped this principle, which enabled him to maintain happiness despite living in poverty that others found unbearable. At sixty, Confucius recognized how things he believed right in youth later proved mistaken, ultimately establishing "joyful acceptance of heavenly decree" as the foundation for transcending worry. Though Yan Hui emulated Confucius' behavior, he failed to comprehend its deeper meaning—thus while he could play the zither and sing, he never attained sagehood.

The text observes that sage's teachings may appear contradictory, but merely adapt to changing circumstances. True joy and wisdom, though expressed differently across ages, share the same essence. The key lies in self-cultivation—whether in poverty or prominence, understanding that life, death, and circumstance lie beyond personal control, while maintaining inner peace undisturbed by external changes. This constitutes the true meaning of "joyful acceptance."

The author reflects on having once sought to govern the world and teach posterity through poetry, history, and ritual, only to realize—witnessing Lu State's ritual collapse—that external norms cannot truly address disorder. Authentic "joy" and "knowledge" aren't the superficial pleasures and learning described by ancients, but rather the state of "transcending conventional joy and knowledge" (无乐无知). Achieving this enables universal joy, omniscient understanding, and boundless capability. At this stage, cultural forms require neither rejection nor reform—they're naturally employed with perfect appropriateness.

The conclusion explains that sages (those perfected in Dao and De) attain mental stillness and physical liberation, free from craving or fear—how could anxiety persist? Even benevolent persons overcome worry, let alone Confucius who synthesized all wisdom. To claim sages experience anxiety would disqualify them from sagehood altogether.

Here we speak of the sage's realm and concerns. The true sage is one whom all things rely upon and all transformations depend upon—they consciously shoulder the weight of the world's burdens. Sages cultivate themselves through "joyous accord with Heaven and understanding of destiny" (le tian zhi ming), remaining composed whether in poverty or prosperity, recognizing that life, death, and all transitions lie beyond personal control. With their inner being undisturbed by external chaos, they themselves remain free from worry. Yet how could a sage be content with personal peace while allowing the people to remain troubled?

If the common people cannot all be without worries, how could the sage alone remain untroubled? A sage's concerns extend not only to the present age but to endless future generations—so long as the people's anxieties remain unending, the sage's concerns will likewise have no end. Are such concerns not profoundly significant? Moreover, when sages edited the Classics (Shi, Shu, Li, Yue, Yi, Chunqiu) and rectified rituals and music, their purpose was to seek the Dao of governance. But if these methods fail to truly resolve disorder, and reformers find no new direction, how could they not be concerned?

The Six Classics are the traces left by ancient kings—like footprints marking where shoes have passed, yet footprints are not the shoes themselves. While one shouldn't rigidly cling to old traces, neither can one discard the shoes entirely. To abandon the Classics and rituals completely is to lose the foundation of governance; yet to be constrained by them is to fail in actual statecraft. Some today believe that "joyous accord with Heaven and understanding destiny" alone brings freedom from worry—this is equivalent to discarding even the "shoes" themselves. Upon what, then, would governance stand?

Thus we say that "joyous accord" still implies something to rejoice in, and "understanding destiny" still implies something to know—where there is attachment, there will be worry; where there is knowing, there will be omissions. Only by reaching the realm of "true joy and true knowing" can one transcend the duality of "joy and knowing": in the state of no-joy and no-knowing, one paradoxically rejoices in all and knows all; in the worry-free state, one effortlessly accomplishes all. Here, both worry and joy are forgotten, and neither non-action (wuwei) nor action is clung to. Without deliberately discarding the Classics and rituals, nor forcibly instituting reforms, the world naturally becomes well-governed, and later generations naturally find peace. This is the state described in the Yijing (Book of Changes): "Stirring all things to movement yet sharing no common worries with the sages." It is also the profound intent behind Confucius' editing of the Classics—through transformative teaching, enabling later generations to realize this truth beyond dualities.

Yan Hui (a disciple of Confucius) knelt facing north and bowed, saying: "I have also attained realization." He then went out and told Zigong (another disciple), who upon hearing this became utterly disoriented. Returning home, Zigong immersed himself in contemplation day and night, neither sleeping nor eating for seven days until his body was reduced to skin and bones. Yan Hui went again to enlighten him, after which Zigong returned to Confucius' school. From then on, he devoted himself to playing the qin and reciting classics, never abandoning these practices for the rest of his life.

This passage illustrates: Earlier, Yan Hui had sought Confucius' permission to visit the state of Wei. Confucius believed that if Yan Hui went, he might face punishment—perhaps because Yan Hui had not yet fully realized the state of "joyfully accepting Heaven's will and knowing one's destiny," thus still harboring anxieties. As for the description that Yan Hui "when employed, would act; when cast aside, would withdraw"—being identical to Confucius—this precisely shows he had attained genuine realization. Though Zigong possessed wisdom sufficient to comprehend the sage, he had not yet heard the sage's teachings on the Dao of Heaven, hence his initial disorientation. However, his ability to contemplate deeply for days without cease, even neglecting food and sleep until physically emaciated, demonstrates complete self-forgetfulness and merging with principle. Only then could he receive the sage's way. Thus when Yan Hui illuminated him, he immediately awakened and returned to his master's school, devoting his life to qin and books—finding joy in playing the qin while understanding that classics should never be lightly discarded.

Another account records: When a senior minister of Chen visited Lu, he privately met with the noble Shusun. Shusun remarked: "Our state has a sage—is it not Kong Qiu (Confucius)?" The Chen minister asked: "How do you know he is a sage?" Shusun replied: "I heard Yan Hui say that Kong Qiu can 'discard the mind and employ the body' (transcend rational thought to directly perceive with bodily awareness)." The Chen minister responded: "Our state also has a sage—did you not know?" Asked who it was, he answered: "Kangcangzi, a disciple of Lao Dan (Laozi), who received Laozi's true transmission. He can see with his ears and hear with his eyes." When Duke Lu heard this, he was astounded and sent a high-ranking minister with generous gifts to invite him. Kangcangzi accepted the summons, and Duke Lu humbly sought his teaching. Kangcangzi said: "The rumor is mistaken. I can perceive without using ears and eyes, but cannot exchange their functions." Duke Lu exclaimed: "This is even more marvelous! What principle underlies this? I must hear the full explanation."

(Supplementary note: "Discard the mind and employ the body" refers to transcending rational thought to perceive directly through bodily awareness. "Seeing with ears and hearing with eyes" describes extraordinary abilities that may emerge at advanced stages of Daoist cultivation, though Kangcangzi clarifies this doesn't literally mean swapping sensory functions, but rather attaining perception without relying on ordinary senses.)

Human perception relies entirely on bodily organs, and in this regard, even sages are no different from ordinary people. What sets sages apart is their ability to perceive the world through the body without being confined by it. Precisely because they transcend physical limitations, they surpass ordinary mental faculties; yet precisely because they still employ the body, they retain its functional capacities. This state of transcending the mind resembles the Daoist figure Kangcangzi, whose seeing and hearing did not depend on eyes and ears, while his use of bodily functions remained as natural as Kangcangzi’s inability to alter the purpose of his senses. Since Kangcangzi as a sage was no different from Confucius, we can understand that Confucius’s Way (Dao) and Laozi’s Way are fundamentally the same.

Kangcangzi said: "My body unites with the heart-mind, the heart-mind unites with Qi (vital energy), Qi unites with the spirit (Shen), and the spirit unites with emptiness and nothingness." In the beginning of the universe, there was only pure emptiness—not even the concept of "nothingness" existed—yet within it, the mysterious workings of the divine were already in motion. When the Supreme Origin (Taichu) manifested as Qi, the interaction of Yin and Yang gave rise to life, and with life came consciousness. The Creator endowed all humans equally with this essence. The distinction between foolishness and sagehood lies in the degree to which each person aligns with these different states of being.

Sages continuously refine themselves until they merge with emptiness and nothingness. Reaching this state allows them to harmonize with all things effortlessly. Ordinary people, however, sink deeper into attachment, aligning only with concrete phenomena, and thus remain constrained in every way. When the body unites with the heart-mind, one forgets the existence of the physical form; when the heart-mind unites with Qi, one transcends thought; when Qi unites with the spirit, one becomes an unfathomable, mysterious state of profound unity. Yet even the spirit, though mysterious, still belongs to the realm of "being." Only when the spirit unites with emptiness and nothingness does one become as vast as the Supreme Void (Taixu), capable of encompassing all things without overlooking the smallest detail—everything in the world exists within its awareness.

No matter how minuscule an object or faint a sound, whether it comes from the farthest reaches of the eight directions or right before one’s eyes, if it touches my perception, I will know it. Yet this knowledge does not come through the senses of the seven apertures and four limbs, nor through the awareness of internal organs—it is simply spontaneous enlightenment. When the ruler of Lu heard this, he was greatly delighted and later recounted it to Confucius, who merely smiled in silence.

Beyond the heavens and earth lies the unfathomable distance where mountains and rivers scatter and myriad things intermingle - realms beyond human perception. Yet within the blink of an eye, in the most intimate proximity, our internal organs remain hidden behind bodily orifices, invisible to our own gaze. Only when the Shen (spirit) merges with the Dao of emptiness can the physical form dissolve into the void, where external phenomena naturally fade into oneness with the vast cosmos. In this state, even the tiniest insect appears as clearly as Mount Song, let alone manifest objects; the faintest chirp resonates like thunder, let alone distinct sounds.

Laozi's saying "The further one travels, the less one knows" expresses this truth. Yet the sage doesn't pursue extensive knowledge, only comprehending what comes to seek understanding. Precisely because they don't deliberately chase external knowledge, they appear unaware while naturally attaining omniscience. If knowledge comes from sensory perception, it remains bound by physical limitations; if from cognitive thinking, it cannot transcend conceptual frameworks - how could such approaches truly comprehend all? Master Kangcang (a Daoist figure) stated profoundly: The highest realization is when the heart understands beyond words. Thus when the Duke of Lu consulted Confucius, the sage merely smiled without answering.

The Grand Steward of Song asked Confucius: "Are you a sage?" Confucius replied: "I dare not claim sagehood - merely broad learning." The steward pressed: "Were Yu of Xia, Tang of Shang, and King Wen of Zhou sages?" Confucius said: "These three were virtuous rulers skilled in employing wisdom and courage - whether sages I cannot say." "Then were the Five Emperors sages?" "They were enlightened sovereigns adept at practicing benevolence and righteousness - whether sages remains unclear to me." "What about the Three Sovereigns?" "They were exemplary leaders skilled in adapting to their times - whether sages I still dare not affirm." The steward was astounded.

Here we must clarify: The great Dao is singular. Transmitted from the Three Sovereigns to the Five Emperors, Yao passed it to Shun, who passed it to Yu - all ancient sages including Tang of Shang and King Wen followed this same Dao. Yet Fuxi's era of simplicity, Yao and Shun's abdication traditions, and the revolutionary changes of Tang and King Wu each manifested unique characteristics, all being adaptations to their respective historical moments.

Confucius was called the "Uncrowned King" (Suwang) precisely because he acted in accordance with the needs of his time, as true sages often conceal their spiritual attainments. When the Prime Minister of Shang asked whether Confucius could be considered a sage, Confucius first modestly declined the title, then claimed ignorance. In truth, the ability to harmonize with circumstances manifests the Dao, practicing benevolence and righteousness reveals De (Virtue/Power), applying wisdom and courage accomplishes great deeds, while vast learning exhausts the principles of things—all these are indeed the actions of a sage, though Confucius refused to claim such status for himself.

From the ancient "Huang" rulers (like the Three Sovereigns) to the later "Di" emperors (like the Five Emperors), down to the Zhou dynasty's "Kings," the Shang Prime Minister—whose duties involved assisting rulers in governance—could barely keep up with emulating imperial statecraft. Suddenly being told of sages who transcended even the imperial realm naturally shocked him.

After contemplation, Confucius remarked, "In the West there are sages." These sages embodied the Dao of Huang rulers, the De of Di emperors, and the achievements of Kings—a comprehensive perfection like Confucius himself. His refusal to claim sainthood stemmed from true sagely realms being incomprehensible to ordinary people, as they connect with divine intelligence. While sages manifest transformative teachings when responding to the world, their essential sagehood remains profoundly hidden.

The Prime Minister's attempt to recognize sagehood through superficial observation revealed his confusion. Confucius initially tried awakening him through solemn demeanor, but seeing his inability to comprehend, pointed westward. "West" symbolizes the direction of returning to one's original nature (associated with Metal in the Five Phases, representing contraction and return), just as the Dao's movement flows from west to north (Water phase, representing life's origin). The Liezi text frequently uses western imagery to discuss sagely principles, countering the Zhou dynasty's ritual extravagance by guiding people back to simplicity.

This reference to the West subtly alludes to Laozi's legendary westward journey through Hangu Pass. Pushing further northward leads to the eastern direction of germination (associated with the Zhen trigram). The passage's essence reveals how the sage's Dao transcends directional limitations—simultaneously imperceptible yet omnipresent.

This passage discusses the Daoist political philosophy of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)" and the realm of sagehood. The core message conveys that truly enlightened governance maintains order without deliberate intervention, earns trust without words, and allows people to naturally transform without forced indoctrination. Such governance operates as effortlessly as the movement of heaven and earth—so seamless that the common people cannot even find words to praise it.

The author observes that the world is inherently peaceful, with people existing in their natural state. When rulers impose governance out of "compassion for people's suffering," they inadvertently sow seeds of future calamity. True sage-kings perceive affairs through the lens of the Dao (the Way), harmonizing with the spontaneous transformations of all things. Forced moral education breeds resistance, while excessive pursuit of a "well-governed world" only distances one from the Dao of sagehood.

Laozi (Laojun) stated: The true Dao cannot be named. From Fuxi to Confucius, the worldly deeds of these sages—were they not essentially seeking fame in the realm of men? Thus Confucius himself admitted he could not determine whether the sage of the Western Zhou truly qualified as a sage. The authentic Dao of sages defies definition; it can only be described as "nameless"—a term sages reluctantly use for lack of alternatives.

The text references Confucius using "the people's inability to praise" to describe Emperor Yao's achievements, yet this does not negate Yao's greatness. When Confucius debated the nature of sagehood with the Grand Steward of Shang, the official failed to comprehend and ultimately accused Confucius of deception. The commentator notes that deception requires specific methods, whereas Confucius was merely expounding principles—the Grand Steward's misunderstanding stemmed from his inability to grasp the profound meaning.

This passage emphasizes that true sage-governance follows nature's course without leaving traces. Its brilliance lies precisely in being imperceptible to the people—so sublime it transcends verbal description. This realm surpasses worldly notions of "wisdom" and "reputation," representing the highest ideal of governance in Daoist philosophy.

Zixia asked Confucius: "What kind of person is Yan Hui?" Confucius replied: "Yan Hui's benevolence (De) surpasses mine." Zixia then asked: "What about Zigong?" Confucius said: "Zigong's eloquence surpasses mine." When asked about Zilu, Confucius responded: "Zilu's courage surpasses mine." Finally inquiring about Zizhang, Confucius answered: "Zizhang's dignity surpasses mine." Zixia rose and pressed further: "Then why do these four still follow you as their teacher?" Confucius invited him to sit and explained: "Yan Hui, though benevolent, lacks adaptability; Zigong, while eloquent, cannot remain silent; Zilu, despite his bravery, doesn't know when to yield; Zizhang, dignified as he is, fails to be accommodating. If I were to exchange my Dao for their individual strengths, I would refuse. This is precisely why they follow me."

This interpretation reveals that the four disciples' virtues resemble the dual forces of Yin-Yang, while Confucius' sagely Dao functions like the harmonizing Qi that balances these opposites (in Daoist thought, the primordial Qi is the source of all things). This harmonizing Qi may appear weaker than the distinct Yin-Yang forces, yet it is essential for their equilibrium. Though each disciple excels in particular qualities, Confucius' refusal to exchange demonstrates that their strengths simultaneously constitute limitations, whereas his apparent "deficiencies" embody profound subtlety.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) studied under Master Huqiuzi Lin and befriended Bohun Maoren. Later, he moved to dwell in the southern district of the city, where his followers became too numerous to count. The commentary explains that Liezi, having already mastered the true teachings of these two sages, could have lived in reclusive perfection, yet chose to reside in bustling urban surroundings. The southern district symbolizes the realm of illumination, but engaging with worldly affairs inevitably invites disturbances—his doorway was often crowded with visitors' shoes.

Nevertheless, Liezi maintained his humility. For twenty years he lived as neighbor to Nanguozi (an enlightened master), hearing their daily morning discourses on the Dao, yet never exchanging visits. When meeting on the road, they would pass as strangers, leading disciples to suspect enmity between them. The commentary suggests Nanguozi embodied the ideal of dwelling in worldly dust yet remaining unstained—though separated from Liezi by mere walls, their spirits communicated through this "non-interaction," achieving a higher harmony beyond conventional social bonds.

This passage recounts the story between Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) and Master Nanguo, illustrating the supreme Daoist state of "forgetting both form and spirit."

A man from Chu asked Liezi: "Does the master have some grievance with Master Nanguo?" Liezi replied: "Master Nanguo's outer form remains full while his inner mind stays empty. His ears hear no external sounds, his eyes see no external sights, his mouth speaks no words, his mind holds no attachments, and his body knows no fear. What could one possibly accomplish by seeking out such a man?"

Explanation: The "full outer form" refers to cultivating the body through self-refinement so it doesn't decay; "empty inner mind" means forgetting mental activity and remaining untethered by external things. "Hearing no sounds" means listening only to inner resonance; "seeing no sights" means gazing only at inner visions; "speaking no words" means words become as unspoken; "mind without knowledge" signifies true wisdom that transcends ordinary knowing; "body without fear" indicates complete fearlessness. One who attains this state forgets even the distinction between teacher and disciple—what purpose would visiting serve?

Yet despite this explanation, Liezi took forty disciples to visit Master Nanguo. This was because he feared his disciples might become confused about the highest Daoist principles, so he personally led them to witness this example. The forty disciples accompanying him symbolized numerous followers.

When they met Master Nanguo, he indeed appeared like a clay or wooden statue with whom communication proved impossible. Observing Liezi, his physical form and spirit also seemed separated, unable to blend with the group. The commentary explains: Spirit gives rise to form, and form completes spirit—only when united do they constitute life. When form and spirit separate, it's like having human shape without human emotions, akin to sculpted idols. Such individuals transcend external things, withdraw from human company, and commune solely with the celestial and earthly spirits—hence they cannot communicate or integrate with others.

Through contrasting these two figures, the passage reveals the ultimate realm of Daoist cultivation: transcending sensory perception to achieve the state of "no-form and no-action" where both form-spirit and self-other distinctions dissolve. While Liezi appears engaged in debate, this is merely expedient means—his true attainment lies beyond verbal contention.

Master Nan Guo suddenly pointed to the disciple at the rear of Liezi's procession and engaged him in cheerful conversation, his demeanor harmoniously natural—appearing both focused and upright yet carrying an air of dignity. Liezi's other disciples were astonished, and upon returning to their quarters, all wore expressions of bewilderment.

Explanation: The Qian hexagram (one of the Eight Trigrams/Bagua) embodies singular focus in stillness and unwavering integrity in movement. The term "kan kan" describes a state of harmonious ease. Master Nan Guo manifested this quality of focused integrity with dignified presence, as if embodying the principles of the Qian hexagram—governing the transformations of all things while abiding in the Great Harmony (cosmic equilibrium). His sudden engagement with the last-ranked disciple arose from spontaneous resonance rather than deliberate intent, representing a profoundly advanced spiritual state.

The disciples' astonishment stemmed from their insufficient cultivation to comprehend such depth. This differs from the Confucian Analects' scenario of "retiring to examine one's private conduct."

Liezi said: Those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) need no words; those who deepen wisdom don't rely on speech. Using "wordlessness" as expression is itself a form of speech; employing "non-knowing" as cognition is itself a mode of wisdom. Whether speaking or silent, knowing or unknowing—all are valid means of expression and understanding. One should be capable of both exhaustive expression and perfect silence, of complete knowing and absolute unknowing. Such is the truth—why should this startle you?

Explanation: Written characters cannot fully capture speech, nor can speech completely convey meaning. Thus genuine Dao-comprehenders transcend verbal expression, and truly wise ones move beyond intellectual knowing. To stubbornly insist that "wordless non-knowing" is correct creates separation from reality; to believe "not-speaking not-knowing" represents truth still clings to self; while considering "speech and knowing" as valid only yields superficial attainment. What we call speaking—though talking all day, one may never truly speak; what we call silence—though silent all day, one may never cease communicating. Only when capable of both exhaustive expression and perfect silence, complete knowing and absolute unknowing, does one reach the realm of mutual understanding shared by Master Nan Guo and Liezi.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) studied under his teacher Lao Shang, progressing through several stages of cultivation. In the first three years, he dared not distinguish right from wrong in his heart nor speak of gain and loss with his mouth—only then did Lao Shang glance at him briefly. After five years, he began making mental distinctions about right and wrong and discussing matters of benefit and harm, at which point Lao Shang finally smiled at him.

By the seventh year, he no longer clung to judgments of right and wrong in his heart, nor did his words dwell on gain and loss—only then did his teacher allow him to sit at the same mat.

In the ninth year, his thoughts and speech reached a state of complete freedom: he neither distinguished his own right and wrong nor concerned himself with others'. At this stage, his inner and outer being became fully unified, and the boundaries between his senses dissolved—his eyes could hear like ears, his ears could smell like a nose, his nose could speak like a mouth, and all his senses intermingled without obstruction. His spirit (Shen) concentrated, his physical form melted away, and he no longer felt what his body leaned upon or where his feet stood. Thought and speech became indistinguishable. In this state, the principles of heaven and earth were fully revealed to him.

In the cultivation process, wild abandon and sage-like wisdom may seem worlds apart, yet the difference lies in a single thought. If the spirit scatters and the body remains constrained, the senses become fragmented (for instance, the eyes failing to understand the ears’ function)—just as the liver and gallbladder, though physically close, might seem as distant as the states of Chu and Yue. Only when the body fully relaxes and the spirit completely gathers can the senses interpenetrate, flesh and bones dissolve, and unity with the supreme Dao (the Way) be achieved. External things then cannot disturb, and truth manifests naturally. Liezi’s legendary ability to ride the wind arose from this state of "no hidden principles"—commanding the winds and comprehending truth may appear different, but both are expressions of oneness with the Dao.