《沖虛至德真經解》Vol. 4

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of the Ultimate Virtue of the Void) discusses the stages of Daoist cultivation and the true meaning of "wandering" (you).

First, it explains that when one reaches profound levels of cultivation, seeing and hearing no longer depend on the physical eyes and ears, and even flesh and bones can dissolve into formlessness. Such mystical states cannot be attained through mere study. The key lies in eliminating judgments of right and wrong from the mind and refraining from speaking of gain and loss. Only through gradual practice over nine years can one reach the highest state of subtlety. Thus, seekers of the Dao should not regard the heavenly Dao as impossibly distant, like climbing to the sky, but should instead diligently cultivate.

The text then uses the story of Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) and his fondness for "wandering" to illustrate its deeper meaning. Here, "wandering" does not refer to ordinary travel but to a transcendent and liberated state of mind. Liezi’s teacher, Huzi (Master Huqiu), points out that ordinary people wander by observing external scenery, while Liezi’s "wandering" involves contemplating the transformations of all things. However, Huzi further reveals that fixating on observing external changes is no different from fixating on fixed scenery—both are forms of attachment to external phenomena. True "wandering" should turn inward, finding fulfillment within oneself rather than seeking completeness in external things.

Finally, the text clarifies the true meaning of "inner observation" (neiguan): it is not about detaching from the world in empty thought but about comprehending the Dao through observing the transformations of all things. Seeing only the surface differences of phenomena is superficial; true wisdom lies in perceiving the eternal flux underlying all existence. If one becomes entangled in chasing external changes, one only drifts further from the Dao. Thus, the highest form of "wandering" is to return to oneself and realize the Dao through introspection—this is the ultimate state of cultivation.

This scripture primarily discusses the concept of "ultimate wandering" (zhiyou, the highest state of spiritual freedom). Master Huzi (a Daoist sage) states: Those who attain the state of ultimate wandering do not know where they are going; those who reach the pinnacle of observation do not know what they are looking at. All things wander freely, and all things are observed—this is what I mean by "wandering" and "observation."

Mencius once said: All things are complete within myself. By turning inward to examine oneself and attaining truth, there is no greater joy than this. This is the profound meaning of inner observation (neiguan). Those capable of inner observation can encompass the entire world without departing from their inherent nature—how could they know where they are going? They can perceive the transformations of all things without leaving the minutest detail—how could they know what to look at? This is the state where all things wander and all things are observed.

Through one person's inner observation of the origin, all things under heaven enter the realm of free wandering and observation—is this not extraordinary? The repeated phrase "wandering reaches its ultimate" is used because its subtlety is beyond words. This parallels the Yi Jing's (Book of Changes) statement "only the sage" and the Zhuangzi's opening chapter on "carefree wandering" (xiaoyaoyou).

Later, Longshu (symbolizing a practitioner) says to Wenzhi (a physician): Your medical skills are exquisite—can you cure my illness? Wenzhi replies: I am at your service. The commentary explains that the dragon symbolizes free transformation, yet Longshu has not reached the state of complete freedom described in the Zhuangzi as the "ancient dragon." Longshu regards sagely wisdom as an illness—this may be the reason.

The core teaching here is: Through inner observation of one's inherent nature, one can attain the state of unity with all things in freedom. True "wandering" is not an external pursuit but an internal awakening.

Uncle Long described his "condition" to the renowned physician Wen Zhi: "In my homeland, I feel no pride when others praise me, nor shame when the state slanders me. Gaining things brings me no joy, and losing them no sorrow. I regard life as death, wealth as poverty, others as pigs or dogs, and myself as just another person. Living in my own home feels like staying at an inn; gazing upon my hometown seems like looking at foreign lands. These symptoms render me immune to the incentives of rank and reward, the threats of punishment, the fluctuations of worldly affairs, and the sway of emotions. Consequently, I cannot serve my lord, maintain friendships, manage my household, or command servants. What illness is this? What remedy exists?"

Wen Zhi explained: "The true Dao (the Way) permeates all things. Having grasped the wisdom of the sages, its essence can cultivate the self, its surplus can govern a state, and even its remnants can order the world. But Uncle Long's understanding of the Dao is this: neither honor nor disgrace disturbs his heart; life and death, wealth and poverty cannot alter his mind. He forgets both self and external things, untouched by rewards or punishments, unmoved by gain or loss, unshaken by sorrow or joy—this indeed approaches the pinnacle of attainment. The problem lies in how this prevents him from fulfilling his social duties, revealing a fundamental error: separating 'preserving one's nature' from 'responding to change.'

The true sage maintains the root while adapting to circumstances. If one takes the great Dao as foundation, applies it flexibly to governance, and harmonizes with all things, then even amid success and failure, gain and loss, inner peace remains unbroken, and all things naturally find their place. Uncle Long seeks only to preserve the truth of self-cultivation while rejecting worldly engagement—how could this possibly bring order to all things? This is why his 'sagely wisdom' has become an ailment."

Wen Zhi then had Uncle Long stand with his back to the light (implying introspection), while he himself faced the light to observe him (testing whether he truly remained unaffected by externals). After examination, Wen Zhi laughed and said: "I see your heart now! Within that square inch lies perfect emptiness—you nearly match the sages. Your heart has six apertures (symbolizing transcendence of the mundane), but alas, one remains unopened (hinting at incomplete enlightenment)."

This passage delves into the profound relationship between life, death, and the Dao. Although Master Long (a Daoist figure) could attain the state of "six orifices flowing freely" (referring to sensory openness), one passage remained unopened—because he focused solely on self-cultivation without extending the Dao to engage with the external world. The text points out that the human mind and body form a contradictory yet unified whole: fully opening the seven orifices (eyes, ears, nose, mouth, etc.) may lead to the loss of one's original nature, yet complete openness can also deplete the wisdom of sages.

Regarding the Dao of life and death, several states are proposed: to live naturally is the Dao; to follow the natural course of life and die of old age is the norm; to die prematurely by accident is misfortune; to conform to the laws of death is the Dao; and to achieve a peaceful end through the Dao is also the norm. Those who truly comprehend the Dao do not cling to life and can face death with equanimity, thus transcending the cycle of rebirth despite experiencing life and death. Examples are given: Yan Hui (a disciple of Confucius) died young, which was the misfortune of "passing from life to death," while Robber Zhi (a legendary bandit) lived long, which was the fortune of "arising from death to life." Death may be called "Shen" (for those who attain the Dao), "Gui" (ordinary death), or "Wu" (those who are alive yet dead in spirit), depending on whether one has truly realized the Dao.

This passage recounts how Yang Zhu (a Daoist philosopher of the Warring States period) displayed contrasting attitudes toward different individuals' deaths, using these examples to explore perspectives on life, death, and natural laws.

When Ji Liang passed away, Yang Zhu gazed at his household gate and sang. Yet when Sui Wu died, Yang Zhu wept while caressing the corpse. This difference arose because Ji Liang had never pursued fame or status during his lifetime. His way of engaging with the world could both assist those in power and shelter the common people, transcending worldly entanglements—hence Yang Zhu bid him farewell with song. Sui Wu, however, resembled a paulownia tree: though lush in foliage, it lacks the strength to stand firm, drifting with the currents. Thus, Yang Zhu mourned for him. Ordinary people cling to life and fear death without understanding its true meaning, laughing when they should weep and weeping when they should laugh—all of which appears pitiable to those who embody the Dao (the Way).

Human life and death follow natural laws, much like how vision dims only after first discerning minute details, hearing fades only after perceiving faint mosquito hums, and taste dulls only after becoming acutely sensitive. This reflects the natural principle of reversal at the extremes. The alternation of Yin-Yang and the cycle of the four seasons operate similarly. Therefore, those who cultivate the Dao (the Way) must restrain their senses and maintain inward focus of the spirit (Shen), for only then can they achieve longevity and enduring vision.

The passage concludes by mentioning how the marshlands of Zheng produced many virtuous men, while Dongli nurtured numerous talents. Among them, when Bo Fengzi passed through the marshlands.... This implies how one's environment influences character—regions where sages and talents gather naturally foster exceptional individuals.

In the eastern village, Master Bofeng encountered Deng Xi (a prominent logician of the Spring and Autumn period). Turning to his disciples with a smirk, Deng Xi said, "Let me perform a little dance for this fellow—what manner of man do you suppose he is?" The disciples replied, "We’d very much like to know."

Deng Xi then addressed Bofeng: "Do you understand the meaning of 'nurturing'? Creatures like pigs and dogs are raised by others but cannot sustain themselves. The true ability of humans lies in domesticating all things for their use. You people enjoy warm clothes, full bellies, and peaceful dwellings—all thanks to the efforts of rulers. Living in herds, eating from troughs, how are you any different from livestock?" Bofeng remained silent.

Suddenly, one of Bofeng’s disciples stepped forward and said, "Sir, have you not heard of the many skilled craftsmen in Qi and Lu? Some excel at construction, others at metalwork, music, documentation, arithmetic, military strategy, or temple rituals. Though each possesses remarkable abilities, none can serve as prime minister or command one another—because those who assign positions need not master specific skills, and those who direct need not act themselves. The truly wise and capable are always employed by rulers. In truth, those in power are merely being directed by people like us—what grounds have you for pride?" Struck speechless, Deng Xi could only retreat with his disciples in defeat.

This exchange reveals the fundamental distinction between the virtuous (like Bofeng) and the merely capable (like Deng Xi). The virtuous cultivate inner spirit (Shen), while the capable flaunt external skills. When they met, Deng Xi provoked with clever words while Bofeng maintained silent composure. Yet it was Bofeng’s disciple who exposed the truth: specialized skills are but tools serving governance—just as craftsmen obey administrators who lack technical knowledge. True statecraft lies in Wuwei (non-action), delegating practical matters to experts. Like square and round, white and black, high and low, mysterious and yellow—all opposites find their proper place when governed by Wuwei.

This passage, through the dialogue between Gongyi Bo and King Xuan of Zhou, reveals a profound Daoist truth: true strength does not lie in external brute force, but in internal cultivation and wisdom.

All things obtain their forms through their inherent characteristics, yet the Dao itself is formless; all things acquire names through sound, yet the Dao itself is nameless. Deng Xi (a representative figure of the School of Names during the Spring and Autumn period) believed rulers should nurture the people and utilize all things, unaware that true rulers are actually driven by the people and cannot truly command others. Thus, when he heard the words of Bo Fengzi's attendant, though eloquent in debate, he found himself speechless and could only depart silently with his disciples.

Gongyi Bo was renowned among feudal lords for his strength, and Tangxi Gong recommended him to King Xuan of Zhou. The king ceremoniously invited him, only to find he appeared like a timid man. Puzzled, the king asked: "What exactly is your strength?" Gongyi Bo replied: "My strength can only break the legs of spring locusts and bear the wings of autumn cicadas." The king responded discontentedly: "I can tear rhinoceros hide and drag nine oxen by their tails, yet still consider my strength insufficient. With such meager abilities, how have you gained fame throughout the land?"

Gongyi Bo sighed deeply and said: "Your Majesty asks well. My teacher Shang Qiuzi (a Daoist hermit) possessed matchless strength unknown even to his family, precisely because he never relied on brute force. True strength lies not in external display but in internal cultivation. The ability to break locust legs and bear cicada wings—this seemingly insignificant strength demonstrates I don't depend on brute force, but excel at employing others' strength. Those who can tear rhinoceros hide or drag oxen may appear powerful, but will inevitably meet stronger opponents, for physical strength always has limits."

Tangxi Gong could recognize Gongyi Bo's worth because he possessed noble virtue and understood the principle of maintaining softness and humility. King Xuan of Zhou, as a ruler restoring prosperity, valued mighty warriors, while Shang Qiuzi embodied the Daoist realm of "embracing spirit and guarding the center"—his strength remained deeply concealed, unknown even to kin. This is true strength.

This passage discusses the discrepancy between the realm of Dao cultivation and worldly perceptions. Those who have attained the highest state may appear outwardly as if the timid seem courageous, while the truly powerful appear gentle.

Through a disciple's account, the text illustrates: The disciple once vowed to serve his master with his life, to which the master revealed the true essence of cultivation—authentic practitioners must perceive what ordinary people cannot, attain what others cannot obtain, and accomplish what common folk cannot achieve. Just as learning to see begins with observing cartloads of firewood, and learning to hear starts with listening to striking bells—what feels effortless within will never appear difficult to outsiders. Thus, those who truly embody the Dao (the Way) never let their reputation extend beyond their own household.

Yet this disciple has now become renowned among feudal lords, which actually violates his master's teaching by flaunting his abilities. However, the master points out that the disciple's fame wasn't gained through brute strength but through skillful application of his power, which remains preferable to relying solely on physical force.

The explanation continues: Those who serve their master unto death may suffer bodily harm or sensory dullness, yet they already possess the essence of Dao cultivation. The saying "perceive what cannot be seen, obtain what cannot be gotten" doesn't refer to pursuing mystical obscurities, but rather discovering the Dao in what people take for granted. Just as the hardest visual observation is discerning the tip of autumn fur, while the easiest is viewing cartloads of firewood; or as the most challenging auditory feat is detecting mosquito wings in flight, while the simplest is hearing bell strikes. Focusing entirely on minutiae actually limits one's awareness.

The wise understand how to harness collective wisdom—this way they achieve broader vision and keener hearing without excessive personal effort. Ordinary people see concrete objects but miss the underlying Dao (the Way), thus always undertaking difficult tasks; sages grasp fundamental principles, making their actions appear effortless. When the inner self finds things easy, no external challenge remains truly hard. Those who embody the Dao can move heaven and earth without displaying force, command respect across the seas without martial fame. As the ancients said, "Those skilled in using strength can lift autumn fur; those adept at listening can hear thunderclaps"—this captures the principle.

Actions like breaking a spring locust's leg or damaging an autumn cicada's wings, while demonstrating victory of the weak over strong, inevitably leave traces that can be seen and praised. Therefore, when Gongyi Bo (the disciple) acts this way, he ultimately still shows off his abilities, violating his master's instruction.

Prince Mou of Zhongshan was a virtuous nobleman of the Wei state who enjoyed befriending talented individuals. Though indifferent to state affairs, he particularly admired Gongsun Long of Zhao. Yue Zhengziyu and others mocked him for this. Prince Mou asked, "Why do you ridicule my appreciation of Gongsun Long?"

Yue Zhengziyu replied, "Gongsun Long acts without proper lineage, studies without true fellowship. Though eloquent, his arguments lack substance—rambling without focus, delighting in novelty and absurdity, specializing in confusing minds and refuting others. He's of the same ilk as Han Tan and his crowd." Prince Mou's expression darkened: "How can you describe Gongsun Long so harshly? Explain specifically."

Ziyu cited examples: "I laugh at how he deceived Kong Chuan, claiming a divine archer could make each subsequent arrowhead strike the predecessor's tail, firing continuously until the first arrow hits the bullseye while the last still rests on the bowstring, appearing as one arrow. Kong Chuan was astonished. Gongsun Long further boasted this wasn't the pinnacle—that Hong Chao, disciple of Feng Meng, once drew his mighty Wuhao bow with Qiwei arrows in anger at his wife, yet when the arrow reached her pupil, she didn't blink, and it fell without stirring dust. Is this speech befitting a wise man?"

Prince Mou explained: "The words of sages are inherently incomprehensible to fools. The trailing arrow strikes its predecessor through perfect force control; unblinking at the arrow's approach shows spent momentum. What's questionable here?"

Ziyu continued: "You followers always excuse him. Consider this graver example: He deceived the King of Wei with claims like 'intention isn't thought, pointing isn't arriving, objects are inexhaustible, shadows don't move, a hair can suspend thousand-pound weights, a white horse isn't a horse, an orphaned calf never had a mother.' Such irrational absurdities are countless."

Prince Mou countered: "You deem profound truths absurd because you don't understand them—the absurdity is yours. Without intention, thought becomes one; without specified direction, all destinations are reached; exhausting objects reveals eternal existence; shadows don't move because light sources change; hair suspends weights through balanced force; 'white horse isn't horse' separates form from name; 'orphaned calf never had mother' means once mothered, it wouldn't be called orphaned."

Yue Zhengziyu mocked: "You treat Gongsun Long's farts as golden rules. Were he to fart elsewhere, you'd probably cup your hands to catch it." Prince Mou remained silent for a long while before taking leave: "I shall seek your counsel another day."

Gongsun Long was a renowned debater of the Warring States period (a representative figure of the School of Names), and Prince Mou considered his arguments the most profound truths. Truly enlightened discourse actually transcends language itself—even speaking all day is as if nothing was said, and though one might exhaustively explain all things in the world without pause, it would not diminish its essence as the supreme truth.

The case of Yue Zhengziyu is quite intriguing. On one hand, he believed Gongsun Long deceived Kong Chuan with the example of "the rear arrow hitting the tail of the front arrow," showing he fundamentally misunderstood its logic. On the other hand, he thought the claim that "an arrow shot at one’s eye wouldn’t make them blink" was a trick played on the King of Wei, proving he had no grasp of the great Dao (the Way). Why? Just as an expert archer can make the rear arrow strike the tail of the front arrow by mastering the trajectories of both, and remaining unflinching before a flying arrow comes from precise calculations of distance and an assessment of the bow’s power—these are all principles that can be understood through reasoning.

But discourse concerning the great Dao is different. It must transcend form, abandon cleverness, and merge with the Dao of heaven and earth. Take, for example, the propositions that "matter can be infinitely divided" and that "shadows do not move": the former shadow is not the latter, and a flying arrow is both in motion and seemingly at rest. This reveals that when examining the nature of things, a thousand pounds is not heavy, and a single hair is not light. Or consider the paradox "a white horse is not a horse": whiteness cannot define a horse, nor can a horse define whiteness. The statement "an orphaned calf never had a mother" arises because the calf and the mother are distinct beings and cannot substitute for one another. The brilliance of Gongsun Long’s debates lies precisely here—how could those who fail to grasp the essence of such discourse ever understand?

Thus, when Yue Zhengziyu had yet to comprehend these principles, he dismissed Gongsun Long as a fraud. Upon hearing discussions of the great Dao, he deemed them contrary to common sense. Prince Mou patiently explained, but Ziyu remained unenlightened, growing instead angry and scornful. Realizing it was impossible to discuss the supreme Dao with him, Prince Mou had no choice but to withdraw in silence. Still, Prince Mou treated Ziyu with utmost kindness, hoping one day he might overcome his biases and awaken to the truth. Rather than cutting ties outright, he left the door open, saying, "We’ll discuss this another time."

Interestingly, while Gongsun Long’s eloquence was revered by Prince Mou as the highest truth and praised by Liezi, Zhuangzi offered this critique: "This may win debates with others’ mouths, but it cannot make their hearts submit."

The teachings of Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) are considered to have reached the highest realm. Zhuangzi (another great Daoist master) sought to borrow his theories to erase the traces of his own writings. Thus, in the final chapter of the Zhuangzi, he employs Liezi's dialectical methods while simultaneously criticizing those who are overly fond of debate.

Zhuangzi lamented that Liezi's doctrines were too unrestrained and untethered—though they could adapt to the transformations of all things, they lacked the root of returning to simplicity. Different schools of thought each have their appropriate contexts.

Emperor Yao governed the world for fifty years, yet he did not know whether the world was truly well-governed or whether the people genuinely supported him. He asked his close attendants, but they did not know; he inquired of his court officials, but they also did not know; he sought the opinion of the common folk in the countryside, but they too were unaware. So Yao changed into plain clothes and wandered the marketplace, where he heard children singing:

"You nurture all us common folk,

None are untouched by your Virtue (De).

No need for deliberate teaching,

We follow Heaven's principles naturally."

Delighted, Yao asked, "Who taught you this song?" The children replied, "We heard it from the officials." Yao went to question the officials, who said, "This is an ancient folk song passed down through generations." Returning to his palace, Yao summoned Shun and abdicated the throne to him. Shun accepted without refusal.

This illustrates that in the age of sages, governance appeared effortless, yet there was no chaos. Yao ruled for fifty years without knowing whether the world was at peace—precisely the highest state of governance. In those times, close attendants and officials simply knew to abide by their duties, while the common people knew only their daily lives of food and drink. Thus, from the inner court to the ordinary folk, none were preoccupied with grand ideals, yet all followed the natural order.

This passage presents two important fragments of Daoist thought. The first part recounts the story of Emperor Yao traveling incognito. To understand the true conditions of his people, Emperor Yao disguised himself and visited the thoroughfare of Kangqu. There he heard children singing: "In nurturing us common folk, all follows Heaven's Dao; no need for forced knowledge, just accord with nature's law." This folk song expressed the people's contentment, demonstrating that Yao's governance aligned with the Daoist tradition of ancient sage-kings. The social harmony and peaceful coexistence among the people represented the highest achievement of Yao's rulership.

The second part, through the words of Guan Yinxi (a disciple of Laozi), elucidates the characteristics of the Dao (the Way). Practitioners must maintain inner clarity, free from distracting thoughts. Only then can the principles of all things manifest naturally. In motion, it flows like water—adaptable and responsive; in stillness, it reflects like a clear mirror—accurately revealing reality; in reaction, it echoes like sound—responding spontaneously. The relationship between Dao and all things is this: phenomena may deviate from the Dao, but the Dao never abandons any phenomenon.

The commentary further explains: The Dao resides within all things, embracing both great and small without discrimination. Like sunlight and moonlight illuminating the earth, its radiance permeates everywhere. If someone fails to perceive it, the limitation lies with their own vision, not with the celestial bodies. This mirrors the water and mirror analogy—the Dao always reflects all things truthfully, while phenomena may sometimes stray from the Dao's fundamental reality.

To truly comprehend the Dao (the highest truth in Daoism), one cannot rely on ears, eyes, physical strength, or deliberate thinking. If one insists on pursuing the Dao through sensory perception and intellectual effort, the result will be the opposite of what is sought. The Dao may seem close at hand one moment, yet vanish into the distance the next. When you consciously chase it, it permeates every corner of heaven and earth; when you abandon the pursuit, its whereabouts become utterly elusive.

This is neither attainable by those who strive with forced effort, nor approachable by those who remain entirely without intention. Only through silent contemplation and allowing one's true nature to emerge spontaneously can one genuinely realize the Dao. What is called "attaining the Dao" is not something acquired through human effort—it is the natural fulfillment of one's inherent nature. It is not that a person finds the Dao, but rather that the Dao manifests naturally within the human heart.

Those who truly attain the Dao neither indulge in emptiness nor cling to materiality. To themselves, they appear to practice Wuwei (non-action) yet accomplish all things; to the myriad beings, they seem useless yet are universally employed. True wisdom lies in understanding without being ensnared by emotions, and in possessing capability without forcing action. This is genuine knowledge and genuine ability.

Human beings surpass all other creatures because they possess cognition and capability; yet the very reason they are bound by the workings of nature (the laws of creation) is that they are driven by these same faculties. The value of cognition and ability lies in their capacity to draw near the Dao (unlike those without intention, who remain distant), but their drawback is that deliberate pursuit may instead lead one away from the Dao (unlike those who realize it through natural contemplation). Cognition that transcends emotions is true omniscience; ability that refrains from forced action is true omnipotence.

This scripture explores the true meaning of "Wuwei" (non-action, a core Daoist concept referring to following nature without forced interference) and the supreme state exemplified by Confucius.

It first clarifies that mere ignorance or insensibility cannot be considered true "ability." Authentic Dao must encompass both emotional sincerity and the capacity to harmonize Yin-Yang. States like piled earth or accumulated dust may appear as Wuwei by lacking active engagement, yet they violate natural principles. For instance, the ancient hermit Shangqiu Kai plunged into fire and water knowingly yet recklessly, whereas Confucius—though capable of passing through metal and stone—chose restraint, representing a higher attainment.

True Wuwei isn't inert like lifeless clods (which, though unmoved by wind, lose vitality), but resembles the receptive Earth (Kun) in its profound containment, permeating the four directions of emptiness. Without deliberate intervention, it allows all things to flourish naturally—this is the Wuwei that generates perpetual vitality. From ancient sage-kings to Confucius, all followed this fundamental principle.

The text then elucidates Confucius's Dao through evaluations by three sages: Zigong, Mencius, and Yang Xiong (Master Yang). Like sunlight whose radiance all recognize, its profundity requires sages' explanations to be fully grasped. Zigong declared Confucius surpassed Yao and Shun; Mencius called him the "complete symphony of sageliness"; Yang Xiong stated Heavenly Dao resided in Confucius. As wise discerners of sages, Confucian disciples, and intellectual heirs, their assessments became widely accepted.

The essence of Confucius's Dao lies in: assuming office when appropriate, withdrawing when timely, persisting when needed, acting swiftly when required—never fixated on extremes. He could choose integrity or responsibility, gentleness or severity according to circumstances, harmonizing seemingly contradictory qualities—compassion and resolution, eloquence and silence, courage and caution, dignity and approachability—achieving flawless adaptability.

Confucius said: "What sets me apart from ordinary people is that there is nothing I must do, and nothing I cannot do." Yet later scholars often stubbornly cling to partial views, constrained by fixed methods, unable to comprehend the complete realm of the sage's thought. This is why the "Zhongni Chapter" was composed.

Yan Hui (Confucius' most accomplished disciple), though he understood that "delighting in heaven and knowing fate" could free one from worries, had not yet realized the deeper sense of concern underlying this principle. Even a sage like Yan Hui required instruction to comprehend this—how much more so for someone like Zigong (another disciple of Confucius), whose excessive contemplation led to physical emaciation comes as no surprise.

Guan Yin (a Daoist figure) said: "Those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) need not deliberately listen with ears, see with eyes, exert strength, or ponder with mind. Through silent contemplation and following one's inherent nature, understanding arises naturally." Mencius also remarked: "When it was time to serve in office, he served; when it was time to withdraw, he withdrew; when it was time to endure, he endured; when it was time to act swiftly, he acted swiftly—Confucius was the sage who embodied all great achievements." These are the words of those who truly understood Confucius.

From this text, we can perceive the profound depth of Confucius' thought. Gengsangzi (a Daoist figure) could perceive things beyond the eight wildernesses, yet did so without relying on ears or eyes; Lie Yukou (Liezi) after nine years of cultivation attained the state where form and spirit (Shen) were both forgotten. Without reaching the most profound attainment of the Dao, who could achieve such states? The Grand Steward of Shang (minister of the Shang dynasty)...

This passage discusses the limitations of human understanding regarding sages and worthies. Some are misled by the reputation of Western sages only to discover they've been deceived; Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) never visited Master Nanguo yet believed him to be his adversary. How could those with shallow perception comprehend such matters?

Several illustrative cases are presented: Longshu's illness proved incurable due to his mental obstinacy; Yuezhengzi remained trapped by excessive suspicion; Deng Xi mocked Bofeng's friend, only to be outmaneuvered by the attendant. In contrast, Emperor Yao (the ancient sage-king) willingly listened to children's rhymes and adopted his ministers' advice; Gongyibo's fame spread among feudal lords though his strength was as slight as a cicada's wing; while Shangqiuzi, capable of challenging the world, chose to remain obscure.

Particular attention is given to Yang Zhu's (Warring States philosopher) seemingly contradictory behavior: he sang at Jiliang's doorway during the funeral, yet wept over Suiwu's corpse. How could ordinary minds fathom such actions? Like Confucius' conduct, these transcend common comprehension.

Contemporary scholars who read chapters like "The Fisherman" or "Robber Zhi" in the Zhuangzi mistakenly assume they slander Confucius. This reflects profound misunderstanding—Zhuangzi actually revered Confucius profoundly. Through Liezi's repeated elucidations in these passages, Confucian teachings gained eternal transmission without decline. The text concludes with Zaiwo's (Confucius' disciple) testimony: "To my observation, our Master surpasses even Emperor Yao in wisdom."