《沖虛至德真經解》Vol. 7

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) engaged in debate because, while recognizing that the fictional character Beigongzi had once felt ashamed of his unfortunate fate, he observed how another character Ximenzi achieved success through effort and ultimately transcended honor and disgrace upon attaining enlightenment. This raises the question: Can fate truly bind a person completely, even in adversity? Liezi's intention was to use the example of enlightened individuals to inspire those still seeking awakening. Though the entire Liezi text dispels the confusion between "human effort and heavenly mandate," it ultimately emphasizes the highest approach to destiny: human effort must not be neglected, yet heavenly mandate must not be disregarded. Thus, the work concludes with the view that scholars, farmers, artisans, and merchants should each accept their destined roles.

When the Daoist thinker Yang Zhu traveled through the state of Lu, he stayed with the Meng family. Meng asked him: "Isn't mere survival enough for a person? Why pursue fame?" Yang Zhu replied: "Fame is sought for wealth—but why not stop after becoming wealthy?" Their discussion extended to seeking high status and leaving a legacy for descendants, highlighting how reputation exhausts both body and mind. Yet those with genuine renown can indeed bring blessings to their clan and benefit their community—how much more so their descendants? Paradoxically, those who chase fame often remain virtuous yet poor, humble yet obscure.

Yang Zhu cited the example of Guan Zhong (renowned chancellor of Qi): though he indulged his ruler’s extravagance, he strengthened Qi, yet his family declined after his death. By contrast, the Tian clan practiced frugality while their ruler was greedy, winning public support to eventually seize Qi, securing lasting prosperity for their descendants. This illustrates how true integrity leads to hardship, while feigned virtue brings wealth and status. The sage-kings Yao and Shun ostensibly abdicated to hermits like Xu You and Shan Juan, yet retained power for generations; the virtuous brothers Bo Yi and Shu Qi sincerely relinquished authority only to starve at Shouyang Mountain. Herein lies the distinction between authenticity and artifice.

The passage concludes: The great Dao (the Way) is fundamentally nameless and formless—names are merely human labels for established phenomena. The wise detest superficial complexities and resort to naming only out of necessity. All nameable things are human constructs. Yet for names to gain credibility, they must be grounded in substance—though substance never declares itself.

This passage examines the relationship between reputation and substance, as well as the true meaning of life's pursuits. It first points out that true gentlemen do not oppose gaining reputation through proper means, but they oppose sacrificing substance for empty fame. Ordinary people often fail to realize that neither their bodies nor their descendants truly belong to them—they exhaust themselves pursuing wealth and status in life, and even after death, they continue struggling for hollow reputations. What begins as seeking substance through reputation ultimately becomes the ruin of substance through the chase for fame. Just as Guan Zhong's extravagance brought no benefit to his descendants, while Tian Chengzi's integrity allowed him to gain the state of Qi, demonstrating how subtle the relationship between name and substance can be.

Pursuing reputation destroys substance, while accumulating substance builds reputation. If one only considers immediate gains, then the purity of Bo Yi and Shu Qi pales in comparison to the pretense of Yao and Shun; if considering future generations, Guan Zhong's extravagance is inferior to Tian Chengzi's integrity. Achieving both reputation and substance is nearly impossible. Liezi (a representative Daoist figure) did not value worldly wealth and status—he understood that Yao, Shun, Bo Yi, and Shu Qi did not deliberately seek fame, yet their virtue earned them praise in later ages. Even sages living in the world cannot avoid social interactions, and thus reputation inevitably follows, though these matters remain debatable.

Liezi spoke of this to encourage Dao cultivators to pursue the nameless realm of the Dao (the Way). If one deliberately uses benevolence, righteousness, and ritual teachings to chase empty fame, not only will they fail to gain reputation, but they will also lose actual benefits—worse than thieves who at least enjoy momentary pleasures. This may have been a passionate critique of the era's shortcomings.

The passage later quotes Yang Zhu (a Warring States philosopher): A hundred years is the limit of human life, yet not one in a thousand reaches it. Even those who live a century spend half their years in childhood and old age, and sleep and rest claim another half. Pain, illness, and suffering take up still more. The time left for true ease and carefree joy is pitifully small. What, then, is life for? Where does happiness lie? It seems to be in fine food, beautiful clothes, music, and sensual pleasures, yet even these cannot satisfy for long. Meanwhile, people are bound by laws, rewards, and punishments, anxiously scrambling for empty reputations and illusory gains. These words reveal the fleeting nature of life and lament the tragic pursuit of hollow fame and transient profit.

The empty reputation left after a person's death is like walking with a heavy burden—it merely serves to gratify sensory pleasures and excessive concern for others' opinions. Not only does this deprive one of life's true joy, but it even prevents temporary ease of mind. How is this different from a prisoner weighed down by heavy shackles?

A human lifespan barely spans a century, yet it's entirely consumed by various worries and afflictions. Externally, imbalances of Yin-Yang harm the body; internally, cravings and desires corrode the mind. Even the strongest physique will succumb to illness and distress. At night, the spirit lies exhausted in sleep; by day, it toils again for survival—how could such an existence not overflow with anxiety? Yet these very worries become burdens when clung to, but bring relief when released. The key lies in one's own choice.

Do people persistently dwell in distress because they enjoy it? Surely not. They merely mistake extravagant pleasures and sensual indulgence for happiness, thus chasing empty fame and superficial glamor, obsessing over others' judgments, bound all day by worldly standards of reward and punishment, led by the nose through rules of fame and gain—immersed in suffering yet unaware. Such a life gains neither the true joy of one's innate nature nor present-moment ease, failing at both ends. How does this differ from long-term prisoners in shackles? Zhuangzi said such people resemble chronic invalids who cannot die.

When Liezi (a Daoist master) spoke these words, was he encouraging reckless hedonism? Rather, he deeply despised those exhausting themselves for vain reputation, considering their lives meaningless. Better to lay down the burden and enjoy the authentic joy of present life. This might seem an overcorrection, but it makes its point.

The ancients, understanding life's brevity, followed their hearts without violating their nature, enjoying present happiness without forced pursuit. They lived in accordance with their innate disposition, resisting nothing, indifferent to posthumous fame—thus remaining unshackled by worldly conventions. They neither compared degrees of reputation nor calculated lifespans.

Life and death are but a departing and returning journey. The ancients' minds were simple and pure, preserving heaven-bestowed genuineness, untainted by artificial constructs—thus they could perceive the true nature of existence.

This passage explores Daoist philosophical reflections on innate nature (xing) and the mind. Living in accordance with one's fundamental nature—the most authentic natural state of being—allows one to move through life with effortless ease. Nature is the root of the mind, while the mind manifests nature. If one disregards their innate nature and merely follows the desires of the mind, they may still act, but never with the same natural spontaneity as when aligned with their true nature.

The text contrasts two ways of living: one that chases after the mind's desires may bring immediate pleasures, but this constitutes only superficial virtue pursued for reputation. The other follows innate nature without dwelling on past reputations, thus avoiding the misfortunes that come from chasing empty fame. Those who truly comprehend the Dao view the transformations of life and death as ordinary as the alternation of day and night—why then would they concern themselves with reputation or lifespan?

Yang Zhu (a Daoist thinker from the Warring States period) further elaborates: All living things differ in their existence—some wise, some foolish; some noble, some base—yet in death, all alike return to decayed bones. Sage-kings like Yao and Shun meet the same fate as tyrants like Jie and Zhou. Since we are alive, we should live fully—why trouble ourselves with what comes after death? He emphasizes that distinctions between life and death, wisdom and folly, nobility and baseness are all human constructs. In essence, all things are equal: equally born, equally dying, equally wise or foolish, equally noble or base. Those who live ten years die; those who live a hundred years die. Benevolent sages perish; wicked fools perish alike.

This passage explores profound philosophical questions concerning life and death, desires, and the conduct of sages. Yang Zhu (a Daoist thinker from the Warring States period) posited that life and death are fundamentally indistinguishable—it is only through limited human understanding that we forcibly differentiate them. Ordinary people perceive life and death as distinct, yet ultimately both states return to the same realm beyond existence and cessation. To abruptly introduce the most profound aspects of the Dao to people would only deepen their confusion.

Regarding the comparison between Yao and Shun (legendary sage-kings) and Jie and Zhou (notorious tyrants): superficially, both groups eventually turned to dry bones, appearing no different. However, the true greatness of Yao and Shun lay in their governance that harmonized with the times and adapted to circumstances—a spiritual attainment beyond ordinary comprehension. Thus, we cannot simplistically equate them with Jie and Zhou.

The text cites the examples of Boyi (a recluse from late Shang dynasty) and Zhan Ji (also known as Liuxia Hui, a virtuous figure from the Spring and Autumn period): Boyi starved himself to maintain purity, while Zhan Ji's insistence on chastity led to his family's decline. While these actions appear virtuous on the surface, they were actually bound by the reputation of "moral purity," becoming extreme manifestations driven by hidden attachments. Similarly, Yuan Xian's (a disciple of Confucius) contentment with poverty and Zigong's (another Confucian disciple) pursuit of wealth both had their flaws, demonstrating how excessive fixation on either extreme is misguided.

True sages understand the principle of moderation ("taking the central path as the constant standard"). They neither obsess over ascetic purity nor indulge recklessly—restraining desires without becoming enslaved by empty reputations, thus finding the balanced way of being. This wisdom neither advocates complete abstinence nor unrestrained indulgence, but rather discovers equilibrium between the two.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of the Ultimate Virtue of the Void) presents teachings on two main themes: how to live joyfully and how to approach life and death.

Regarding joyful living, the scripture states that material sustenance is necessary for survival—just as the ancients farmed for food and wove cloth for clothing, these are fundamental needs. However, true happiness does not lie in excessive pursuit of wealth and status. If one constantly looks around greedily for profit, even adorned with ornate hats and carrying exquisite canes, it cannot be considered genuine joy. On the contrary, insatiable greed leads to endless worry and deprives the body of peace. The way of Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) is to neither chase after things obsessively nor completely disregard worldly concerns.

As for the attitude toward life and death, the text cites Yang Zhu (a Warring States philosopher) in saying: while alive, people should care for one another, but after death, matters should be handled simply. Care during life is not just emotional but practical—allowing the weary to rest, feeding the hungry, warming the cold, and aiding those in hardship. After death, there is no need for extravagance: no jade in the mouth, no lavish burial garments, no sacrificial offerings, and no burial objects. This is the true purpose of rulers governing the people—to ensure the living are cared for, while the dead are treated simply.

Finally, through a dialogue between Yanzi and Guan Zhong, the text illustrates the Daoist approach to nurturing life: follow nature’s course without suppression. Specifically, let the ears hear what they wish to hear, the eyes see what they wish to see, the nose smell what it wishes to smell, the mouth speak what it wishes to speak, the body seek comfort as it desires, and the mind act as it intends. To suppress these natural inclinations is to obstruct hearing, sight, smell, wisdom, comfort, and innate nature. This passage embodies the Daoist philosophy of "natural Wuwei (non-action)" in cultivating life—advocating alignment with human nature rather than artificial constraints.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) studied under Lao Shangzi (a Daoist hermit) for three years until his mind no longer distinguished right from wrong, and his speech no longer concerned gains and losses. At this stage, his words and actions were no longer driven by personal whims. Seeing this, Lao Shangzi smiled at him for the first time. After nine years of study, Liezi reached a state where his thoughts flowed freely and his speech was utterly unconstrained—a realm of complete spontaneity and unobstructed freedom. Only then did Lao Shangzi acknowledge that his internal and external cultivation had attained profound mastery.

The "freedom" described here means listening as the ears wish, seeing as the eyes wish, smelling as the nose wishes, and resting the body as it feels most comfortable—not indulging in sensory pleasures or defying moral principles in the name of liberty. To achieve this state is to truly comprehend the Dao (the Way). As the ancients said, "If one understands the Dao in the morning, one may die content in the evening." Thus, even a single day or month lived in such realization is a complete and fulfilled existence—why fret over prolonging life? This represents Liezi's highest insight on nurturing life. Figures like Guan Zhong and Yanzi (statesmen of the Spring and Autumn period) never attained such a level.

Yan Pingzhong (Yanzi) was so frugal he begrudged eating pork shanks, an excess of restraint; Guan Yiwu (Guan Zhong) kept three storerooms and drank from overturned cups (a metaphor for extravagance), a man of indulgence. Their dialogues were as superficial as discussing the principles of melons and vegetables, with only occasional glimpses of the greater Dao. Thus, when Liezi cited their exchange to illustrate ultimate truth, it was not to encourage emulating their ways.

Guan Zhong asked, "I’ve already explained the Dao of nurturing life—what of death’s affairs?" Yanzi replied, "Death is simple—what is there to say?" Pressed further, Yanzi answered, "When one dies..." (the text breaks off abruptly, implying death needs no elaboration).

The "Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing" (Scripture of Perfect Virtue in the Highest Emptiness) presents two contrasting approaches to life.

The text first recounts a conversation between Guan Zhong (Guan Yiwu) and Bao Shuya discussing the Dao of life and death. Those who have truly attained the Dao view death with equanimity—they consider heaven and earth as their coffin, the sun and moon as their burial jades, the stars as their pearls, and all things in creation as their funeral procession. Such individuals accept whatever circumstances may befall them with complete composure. Whether their corpse is burned by fire, submerged in water, buried in earth, or left exposed matters not. They are equally content wrapped in straw and cast into a ditch as they would be dressed in fine robes and placed in a stone sarcophagus.

The narrative then shifts to the story of Zichan, prime minister of Zheng State. While highly successful in governing the state, Zichan was troubled by his two brothers. His elder brother Gongsun Chao was addicted to wine and sensual pleasures, maintaining a cellar with thousands of wine jars and mounds of fermenting yeast so pungent the aroma could be detected a hundred paces away. He lived in perpetual drunken oblivion, completely indifferent to worldly affairs, family fortunes, or imminent dangers—be they weapons, flood, or fire. The younger brother Gongsun Mu was even more debauched, keeping dozens of chambers filled with beautiful women in his rear courtyard. Indulging day and night in carnal pleasures, he would only emerge once every three months and still found it insufficient, pursuing every attractive woman he encountered.

Distressed, Zichan consulted his advisor Deng Xi: "They say one must cultivate oneself before regulating the family, governing the state, and bringing peace to the world. Yet I've succeeded in governing the state while failing to regulate my own family—what principle explains this?" Deng Xi suggested appealing to his brothers through arguments about life's fragility and the importance of ritual propriety. Thus Zichan admonished them: "What elevates humans above beasts is our capacity for reason. Reason enables us to follow ritual and righteousness, through which we gain reputation and position. Indulging unrestrained desires endangers one's very life."

This passage juxtaposes Daoist reflections on the "natural Dao" with conventional Confucian morality: the Dao-realized transcend life and death, while worldly people remain trapped in sensual desires. Zichan's attempt to restrain his brothers using Confucian ritual norms subtly reveals the philosophical tension between these two worldviews. The text implicitly contrasts the Daoist sage's detachment with the Confucian emphasis on social regulation, inviting readers to contemplate these differing paths.

Gongsun Chao, having heard Zichan's (a statesman of Zheng) admonition, repented by day but sought office by night. Yet Chao Mu remarked: "These principles I've long known and pondered deeply—must I wait for your words to understand them? Human life is hard to obtain, yet death comes all too easily. To spend this fleeting existence awaiting death's random arrival—who has time for such concerns?"

Those who flaunt ritual propriety to suppress their true nature for fame—I'd rather die than live like that. I simply wish to fully enjoy this life's pleasures and seize present joys. My only fear is that my belly cannot hold enough fine wine, or my stamina match the beauties—how could I spare concern for reputation or safety? If you boast of governance skills and tempt me with wealth, isn't that both contemptible and pitiable?

Those skilled at managing external affairs often fail at self-governance, exhausting body and mind; those adept at inner cultivation remain undisturbed amid external chaos. Your governance methods might temporarily work for one state, but violate human nature; my cultivation approach could spread throughout the world without need for ruler-subject hierarchies. I meant to enlighten you with this truth—yet you presume to lecture me with yours?

Zichan fell silent, later recounting this to Deng Xi (a Legalist scholar). Deng observed: "You associate with Dao-realized men yet remain unenlightened—who would call you wise? Zheng's orderly governance is mere coincidence, not your achievement."

The commentary notes: Indulging passions and obsessing over beauty are inherent human weaknesses, condemned by virtue. While craving fine food is natural, ancient kings long warned of moderation. Ordinary people's eyes crave beauty until vision fails—their restraint stems not from true self-mastery, but fear for life. Mouths crave delicacies until taste dulls—not from transcending preferences, but concern for reputation.

Such people feign asceticism while inwardly agitated. Seated, their thoughts roam beyond the four seas; in mere gestures, their minds reach limitless extremes. Though appearing to follow ritual propriety and suppress nature through life, they never truly transcend.

This passage contrasts two approaches to life, revealing the true "way of self-cultivation." It observes how ordinary people exhaust themselves with internal worries and external toils—where is the joy in such a life? Yet figures like Chaomu (an ancient Daoist practitioner) pursued the authentic Dao. Their so-called "indulgence in wine" wasn't drunken debauchery, nor was their "abandon to sensual pleasures" mere licentiousness. Having thoroughly understood worldly fluctuations and human fickleness, they chose these expressions to celebrate life's intrinsic joy.

They cared neither for damaged reputations nor feared life's dangers, focusing solely on inner refinement while disregarding external constraints. This authentic approach to self-cultivation, if extended to governing the world, could effortlessly achieve great order. Contrast this with Zichan (a Spring-Autumn period statesman) whose well-intentioned chariot-ferry policy earned public criticism, or Deng Xi (a Legalist pioneer) whose harsh laws, though temporarily enforceable, brought suffering to the people. Such "external governance" methods often address symptoms rather than roots.

The author highlights the fundamental divergence between Zichan's and Chaomu's ways: one emphasizes external regulations, the other cultivates inner essence. The true Dao defies verbal transmission, just as one wouldn't casually gift treasures even to siblings. Initially, Deng Xi couldn't comprehend Chaomu's Dao, hence his resonance with Zichan's views. But upon genuine realization, his understanding diverged completely. The passage concludes poignantly: were it not for Deng Xi's insight, later generations might have eternally misunderstood Chaomu like Zichan did, forever missing its profound truth.

In the state of Wei lived a man named Duanmu Shu, a descendant of Zigong, one of Confucius' disciples. He inherited his ancestors' vast wealth but had no interest in managing it, indulging instead in unrestrained pleasures. Whatever common people desired to do or ordinary folk loved to enjoy, he experienced it all. The towers, pavilions, gardens, and ponds he built, along with the fine food, carriages, music, and beautiful women he enjoyed, rivaled the extravagance of the rulers of Qi and Chu.

Whatever his heart desired, his ears wished to hear, his eyes longed to see, or his mouth craved to taste—even if it was a rare product from some distant, obscure land—he acquired it as easily as plucking fruit from his own garden. When traveling, no matter how treacherous the mountains or how far the journey, he would go without hesitation, as effortlessly as an ordinary person taking a few steps. His household entertained hundreds of guests daily, the kitchen fires never went out, and music filled his halls without cease.

First, he distributed his wealth among his clan, then to his neighbors, and finally to the people of the entire state. By the age of sixty, sensing his declining vitality, he gave away all his remaining possessions—including treasures, carriages, and servants—within a single year, leaving nothing for his descendants. When he fell ill, his family could not even afford medicine; when he died, there was no money for his burial. The people of the state, who had all benefited from his generosity, pooled their resources to bury him and returned the remaining funds to his descendants.

Upon hearing this, Qin Guli (a scholar of the Warring States period) remarked, "Duanmu Shu was a madman who disgraced his ancestors." But Duan Sheng (another scholar) countered, "Duanmu Shu was a man of profound wisdom whose virtue surpassed that of his ancestors. Though his actions may shock ordinary people, they align with the natural order of Heaven. The so-called gentlemen of Wei, who rigidly adhere to ritual propriety, could never comprehend such a man’s true nature."

(Note: This passage presents two opposing views to illustrate the Daoist transcendence of conventional Confucian values. Duanmu Shu’s act of dispersing his wealth, though seemingly reckless, embodies the Daoist ideal of "not being burdened by material possessions"—a philosophy beyond the grasp of those bound by rigid social norms.)

This passage contrasts the life choices of Zigong and Duanmu Shu, revealing two fundamentally different approaches to existence.

Though Zigong amassed tremendous wealth through commerce, he never dared enjoy it, instead constantly fretting over acquiring more profit. He built magnificent houses, wore fine robes, indulged in delicacies, and possessed beautiful women—appearing to lack nothing—yet ceaselessly pursued riches to leave endless inheritance for descendants. The author points out descendants don’t truly belong to you, making such obsession utterly foolish. More tragically, he deprived himself of comforts and pleasures, only to ultimately face rejection from Confucius’s disciples.

Duanmu Shu differed entirely. Inheriting ancestral wealth spared him commercial toil. He freely spent his riches, indulging every whim in pleasures rivaling the rulers of Qi and Chu. More remarkably, in old age, he dispersed his entire fortune. While conventional wisdom condemned this as leaving heirs destitute, those he’d aided later repaid his descendants. Alive, he remained unshackled by wealth, savoring life’s joys; dead, he bequeathed no riches, yet his lineage never truly suffered loss.

The author considers Duanmu Shu’s approach seemingly outrageous yet aligned with cosmic principle (Dao). Only sages fully grasp this realm—ordinary minds inevitably find it incomprehensible. Yang Zhu (Master Yang) remarked that true sages defy understanding, precisely referencing such cases.

Finally, Mengsun Yang asks Yang Zhu: "Can one who cherishes life achieve immortality?" Yang replies: "By principle, humans cannot escape death." Asked about longevity, he responds: "Nor can one live forever." Life won’t lengthen through cherishing it; the body won’t grow healthier through excessive care. Besides, what’s the use of prolonged existence? Past and present share identical joys/sorrows, bodily sensations, and worldly cycles.

This passage explores the concept of life and death, conveying that the principles governing existence remain constant across time. Having witnessed and experienced the cycle of life and death, one realizes that even a hundred-year lifespan feels excessive—how much more burdensome would the pursuit of immortality be?

Mengsun Yang (a Daoist figure) argued that if this were true, swift death would be preferable to prolonged life, suggesting one might as well seek death through extreme means. The author counters this view: Not so. While alive, one should follow nature's course, fulfilling reasonable desires until death arrives naturally; when facing mortality, one should likewise yield to its inevitability. Why obsess over lifespan's length?

The text observes how human form binds consciousness, making longevity difficult as physical bodies inevitably decay. Reaching a century is already rare—how much more improbable is eternal life? Life's duration lies beyond human control, and extended existence often multiplies sorrows. During life, the mind is agitated by emotions and desires, the body besieged by alternating safety and peril, while worldly affairs interweave joy and suffering. The transformations spanning a day, a month, a year, or a century share the same essence—having experienced these, why cling to longevity?

Yet the author emphasizes: Birth and death alternate like day and night—no need to rejoice in life or grieve death. Neither despise longevity because life lacks inherent joy, nor seek early demise because death warrants no sorrow. Those who embody the Dao approach existence thus: While living, they follow nature to satisfy genuine needs without the common tendency toward self-destruction over trivialities; facing death, they surrender naturally without forced breathing exercises or cultivation for longevity.

Such individuals neither reject longevity like Pengzu (legendary 800-year lifespan) nor resist brevity like Yan Hui (Confucius' short-lived disciple). They flow completely with nature's rhythm—neither resisting nor forcing outcomes.

Bo Chengzi Gao would not sacrifice even a single strand of his hair for others' benefit, relinquishing his official position to live as a recluse and till the fields. When Yu the Great tamed the floods, he sought no personal gain, exhausting himself to the point of physical collapse. The ancient sages refused to harm even a hair on their heads to benefit the world, just as they would never accept having all under heaven serve them alone. If no person would impair themselves by a hair's breadth nor act for worldly gain, peace would naturally prevail.

The Book of Changes states: "To diminish the lower to enrich the upper is called 'diminishing' (sun); to diminish the upper to enrich the lower is called 'augmenting' (yi)." Yet augmentation inevitably entails diminishment, and diminishment ultimately transforms into augmentation—this is the natural rhythm of Yin and Yang's waxing and waning. All things flourish according to this principle, neither deficient nor excessive. To forcibly add even a thread disrupts one's innate nature; to forcibly subtract a thread leaves it incomplete. Thus, deliberate augmentation results in harm, while deliberate diminishment becomes benefit—both are extremes. What claims to govern in name often brings chaos in practice.

Only those who refrain from forced augmentation or diminishment can harmonize the interests of all things and the self. Zhuangzi observed that from the era of Rongcheng to Shennong, the people ate with relish, dressed finely, were content in their customs, and dwelt joyfully in their homes, passing their lives without interaction. This was an age where none harmed themselves by a hair nor acted for worldly gain—a time of true peace.

Qin Guli asked Yang Zhu: "Would you pluck a single hair from your body to save the entire age?" Yang Zhu replied, "The age cannot be saved by one hair." Qin pressed, "But suppose it could?" Yang Zhu remained silent. Later, Qin recounted this to Meng Sunyang, who said, "You misunderstand the master. Let me explain: If someone offered you ten thousand taels of gold in exchange for a patch of your skin, would you agree?" Qin said yes. Meng Sunyang continued, "What if they offered you a kingdom in exchange for severing one limb?" Qin fell silent. Meng Sunyang concluded, "A hair is slighter than skin, skin slighter than limbs—yet accumulated, hairs form skin, and skin forms limbs. Though one hair is but a ten-thousandth of the body, how can it be dismissed?"

Qin Guli conceded, "I cannot refute you. Yet if your reasoning were posed to Laozi (Lao Dan) and Guan Yinzi, your stance would hold; but if my question were put to Yu the Great and Mozi, mine would prevail." Hearing this, Meng Sunyang turned and spoke to his disciples of other matters.

There is a common misconception about Yang Zhu's (a prominent Daoist figure of the Warring States period) philosophy that needs clarification. Some claim he advocated "extreme egoism," suggesting he wouldn't even pluck a single hair to save the world. However, Liezi's (another Daoist master) records of Yang Zhu's teachings present a completely different picture.

Yang Zhu's actual meaning was this: How could the problems of the entire world be solved by a single hair? Since one hair makes no difference to the world, why entertain such hypothetical questions? Qinzi (Yang Zhu's disciple) posed an inappropriate question, which is why Yang Zhu refused to answer. Yang Zhu believed: While a single hair and the whole body may seem unequal in importance, the body is ultimately composed of countless hairs—all are integral parts of oneself. Why should one hair be deemed insignificant while other parts are valued?

If everyone cherished life and honored its foundation—not lightly harming even a single hair—the world would naturally be well-governed. Yang Zhu's care for a hair wasn't about the hair itself, but about valuing the entire body. People know to protect their bodies yet fail to cherish each individual hair. Over time, this neglect ultimately damages the body without their awareness.

Human attitudes toward life are strangely contradictory: valuing the whole while disregarding its parts. Observe how people live—the noble rule over the lowly, the lowly serve the noble, spending their lives chasing external things without a moment's consideration for themselves. Shouldn't we ask: Do I live for myself or others? If for myself, why not truly live for myself? If for others, how can I help anyone when I can't even care for myself?

Liezi deeply despised how people pursue external things without returning to their roots, which is why his writings often use Yang Zhu's "valuing the self" perspective to illustrate this. Qinzi never grasped the deeper meaning, insisting that if he posed the same question to Yu the Great or Mozi (sages who advocated universal love), his view would hold. This shows he understood neither Yang Zhu nor Yu and Mozi. Mengsun Yang (another disciple of Yang Zhu), seeing this, changed the subject—the discussion wasn't even on the same level.

Yang Zhu also remarked: All praise in the world goes to Shun, Yu, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius, while all blame falls on Jie and Zhou. Yet when Shun tilled the fields at Heyang and made pottery at Leize, his body knew no rest, his meals were coarse, and his parents and brothers... (the original text is incomplete, but the main point is that the sages' actual lives were far from as glorious as they appeared).

This scripture reveals a profound truth through contrasting the life circumstances of ancient sages and tyrants: whether virtuous or wicked, wise or foolish, all ultimately meet the same fate of death.

First, consider the fates of four sages: Shun married at thirty without informing his parents, and when he later received Yao’s abdication, he was already aged and mentally weakened. Because his son Shangjun proved unworthy, he had no choice but to pass the throne to Yu, dying a lifetime of anxiety. Yu’s father Gun was executed for failing to control the floods, and Yu inherited his task, toiling day and night on flood control projects, passing his own home three times without entering, his hands and feet calloused. After receiving Shun’s abdication, he lived in humble palaces yet wore ornate ceremonial robes, dying in sorrow. The Duke of Zhou acted as regent for the young King Cheng of Zhou, facing resentment from his younger brother the Duke of Shao and slander from feudal lords, forcing him into seclusion in the east for three years. Though he ultimately survived, he lived in constant fear. Confucius, though versed in statecraft, met obstacles everywhere—his lecturing tree was cut down in Song, he was expelled from Wei, trapped between Shang and Zhou, besieged between Chen and Cai, and humiliated by Ji Sun and Yang Hu, living in perpetual unease.

Now consider two tyrants: Jie of Xia, relying on his ancestors’ accumulated wealth, sat upon the throne, using cunning to suppress his ministers and might to awe the realm, indulging in pleasure until death. Zhou of Shang likewise inherited his forebears’ legacy, acting as he pleased, reveling day and night in lavish palaces, disregarding ritual propriety until he was executed.

The scripture concludes: the four sages knew not a single day of joy in life, yet their names were praised for ages after death; the two tyrants enjoyed every luxury while alive, only to be reviled for eternity afterward. But reputation is illusory—they themselves knew nothing of how others judged them, as insensate as wood or stone. Though the sages gained glorious names, they suffered throughout life; though the tyrants were vilified, they reveled until death—all meeting the same final outcome: death.

This passage contrasts the life circumstances of ancient sages with those of tyrants. Emperor Shun (an exemplary ruler of antiquity) and King Yu (the flood-taming monarch) represent the pinnacle of sovereign virtue, while the Duke of Zhou (renowned Zhou dynasty statesman) and Confucius (founder of Confucianism) epitomize sagely wisdom—all are venerated as supreme sages throughout the ages.

Yet historical records reveal: Shun suffered persecution from his own family, Yu endured decades of flood-control hardships, the Duke of Zhou governed in constant peril, and Confucius wandered between states in anxious uncertainty. Their entire lives were marked by tribulation until death. In contrast, tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang indulged in unrestrained pleasures,沉迷于sensual delights, constructing lavish palaces for nightly revelries—truly exhausting worldly enjoyments.

Later generations honor Shun, Yu, the Duke of Zhou and Confucius as the "Four Sages," while branding Jie and Zhou as the "Two Evils." The Four Sages gained eternal fame, while the Two Evils enjoyed tangible worldly benefits. In truth, reputation and actual benefit are fundamentally unrelated—posterity's praise or condemnation neither alters historical realities nor grants critics direct experience of antiquity. Both glorious and infamous names ultimately return to dust—what essential difference exists between them?

When the Daoist sage Liezi presents this perspective, he isn't advocating abandoning sagehood to pursue tyrants' pleasures. Rather, he reminds truth-seekers that both fame and gain are illusory, while both suffering and indulgence equally burden the heart. True sages (the Four Sages) rejoice in heaven's will and understand destiny—their apparent hardships were unavoidable sacrifices for saving the world. When people praise their sagely wisdom, they simply accept it with natural grace.

The narrative then shifts to Yang Zhu (Daoist philosopher): When Yang Zhu audience with King Liang of Wei, claiming governing the empire would be "as easy as turning one's palm." The king retorted: "You can't manage one wife and concubine at home, nor tend three acres of vegetable garden—what qualifies you to speak of governing the empire?" Yang Zhu replied...

This scripture uses the metaphor of shepherding to illustrate principles of governing the world. The text states that a child holding a whip can effortlessly herd hundreds of sheep, leading them east or west as desired; yet if sage rulers like Yao and Shun were to shepherd a single sheep, the animal would become unable to move forward. Just as giant fish capable of swallowing boats do not swim in small streams, and majestic swans soaring high do not alight by murky ponds, the refined music of the Huangzhong and Dalu scales cannot accompany chaotic dances. These examples demonstrate that those who accomplish great deeds should not be entangled in trivial matters, and those who govern the world must grasp the broader vision.

The philosopher Yang Zhu argues that governing the world fundamentally requires mastering the Dao (cosmic principle), which should be as effortless as turning an object in one's palm. True rulers should emulate nature's way, maintaining personal stillness and wuwei (non-action), allowing people to naturally follow the right path. Attempting to micromanage every detail—like Yao and Shun herding sheep—becomes laughable, making even managing a household or three acres of vegetable garden seem overwhelming.

The later section discusses historical changes, noting how the deeds of the ancient Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors have become obscure, while events from the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties remain difficult to verify. Even regarding current affairs, what people truly understand amounts to less than a thousandth. From the era of Fuxi to the present—spanning over 300,000 years—whether wise or foolish, beautiful or ugly, successful or failed, all ultimately vanish into oblivion, differing only in the timing. Thus, there is no need to agonize over temporary praise or blame, for what meaning does posthumous fame centuries later hold for dry bones? Where then does life's true joy reside?

The commentator observes that everything expressible or actionable falls under the category of "affairs." As long as one remains at the level of words and deeds, they cannot escape the sway of temporal circumstances. Even the golden ages of antiquity relied on concrete governance. The governing principles of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors, altered by time's passage, have become difficult to verify, just as the achievements of kings rise and fall with worldly changes. This implies that true governance must transcend specific affairs and apprehend the fundamental Dao.

This scripture primarily discusses two dimensions: the illusory nature of worldly fame and wealth, and the relationship between humans and all natural beings.

The first section explains how people use their eyes and ears to compare and quantify things—some differences may be mere multiples, others thousands of times over. Tracing back to the Yellow Emperor's era, we find records of survival and extinction, prosperity and decline, awakenings and dreams—some still remembered, others already vanished. Delving further into antiquity, even these traces have completely disappeared. Since this is so, the marks of good and evil will ultimately be forgotten. If one considers virtuous deeds worth pursuing, their good reputation will eventually fade; if one thinks evil should be avoided, the infamy will likewise dissipate—it's merely a matter of time. Why then be troubled by how quickly or slowly fame vanishes, endlessly chasing and competing? Those who styled themselves as emperors—though their deeds remain recorded—can we truly verify their authenticity? In truth, the actions of sovereigns arose through natural resonance and flowed with circumstance, never sought for fame—this stands in stark contrast to those who deliberately pursue praise or notoriety. Thus, while their deeds fade with time, the spirit of sages endures eternally.

The latter section borrows the words of Yang Zhu (a Daoist philosopher): Humans are the most spiritually endowed beings between heaven and earth, yet our bodies are fragile—our nails and teeth cannot defend us, our skin and muscles cannot withstand harm, our running speed cannot escape danger, and lacking feathers, we cannot endure heat or cold. We must rely on external things to sustain life. Humans survive by wisdom rather than brute strength; thus, wisdom's value lies in self-preservation, while brute force's tragedy is harming others. However, the body is not truly our personal possession—yet being alive, we inevitably preserve it. External things are likewise not our personal possessions—yet needing them, we must use them. The body is the vessel of life; external things are the supports for nurturing life. Though we preserve life, we cannot claim exclusive ownership of the body; though we use external things, we cannot claim exclusive ownership of them. Only sages can transcend this, treating all bodies and possessions under heaven as communal rather than private. This is the highest realization.

The conclusion states: To live, humans must rely on external things to nurture life—this is the fundamental principle of life cultivation and the inevitable choice for understanding life's true essence. Because the body is the vessel of life...

This scripture primarily discusses how humans should properly perceive the relationship between life and material things, as well as the troubles brought by pursuing worldly desires.

Human existence cannot be separated from physical form, which requires material nourishment. Yet there are cases where people possess material abundance but fail to properly maintain their bodies. Thus while we cannot live without material things, we must not become entirely dependent on them. Some may possess great wealth and appear physically intact, yet their vital life force has already perished. Ordinary people often fail to understand that merely maintaining the physical form is insufficient to preserve life. If one were to claim all bodies under heaven as one's own and treat all worldly possessions as personal sustenance, such an approach to preserving life would ultimately prove futile. Not only might the physical form remain unsecured, but the very principle of life would be lost.

Only sages can truly relinquish mundane affairs, transcend life and death to preserve their physical forms, and restore their Jing-Qi (Daoist cultivation terminology referring to primordial life energy). Yet even sages still manifest traces within transformation, not having fully achieved self-forgetfulness. As for the perfected ones (those who have reached the highest state of moral cultivation), they never depart from their original authenticity. They regard all bodies under heaven as communal, thus making no distinction between themselves and the myriad things; they view all worldly possessions as public, thus experiencing complete unity with all existence. This is the profound realm described in Zhuangzi's chapter "Fulfilling Life."

Yang Zhu (a Warring States period philosopher) said: Human restlessness stems from pursuing four things: longevity, fame, status, and wealth. Those who chase these constantly fear ghosts, fear people, fear authority, and fear punishment - such individuals are called "fugitives" (those who have lost their original nature). If one can avoid violating heavenly mandate, why envy longevity? Without flaunting nobility, why envy fame? Without coveting power, why envy status? Without pursuing riches, why envy wealth? Such people are the "compliant ones" (those who follow nature).

The commentary explains: All humans are born with the potential for longevity - preserving one's original nature leads to long life. Upholding constant principles and honoring virtue brings fame; with established fame comes status; with established status comes surplus wealth. These four things follow in sequence. Human lifespan could potentially match that of Pengzu (the legendary immortal who lived eight hundred years), spanning from the era of Emperor Shun down to the age of the Five Hegemons during the Spring and Autumn period. Where would people's greed for life find its limit? As for martyrs sacrificing for reputation or the greedy dying for wealth - before obtaining these, they worry about not getting them; after obtaining them, they fear losing them. Exhausting their hearts and spirits, they spend their lives in constant anxiety without a moment's peace. These four things are difficult to attain simultaneously - pursuing just one is enough to consume a lifetime, let alone chasing all four. How could this ever satisfy humanity's boundless desires?

The reason people cannot attain peace lies in four fundamental constraints: when advancing, they always seek to gain something; when retreating, they fear inviting calamity. In darkness, they dread punishment from ghosts and spirits; in society, they worry about others' criticism. Even when power does not target them, they tremble in fear of being implicated; even when punishment does not concern them, they anxiously guard against transgressions. This mere physical body, with every move shackled by external things, loses its inner true sovereignty—this is the "fugitive of the self," one who has strayed from their original nature.

In truth, if one comprehends the principle that life and death are equal, they will not obsess over longevity. Understanding that contentment is true wealth frees one from enslavement to material possessions. Without pursuing fine clothes or carriages, punishments find no foothold; without concerning oneself with the rise and fall of dynasties, official promotions and demotions become irrelevant. When the heart harbors no covetous desires, there is nothing in the external world to fear. Such a person moves alone between heaven and earth, transcendent and unmatched—this is the truly supreme existence.

As the ancient saying goes: "If a person neither marries nor holds office, their desires are halved; if they do not chase food and clothing, the hierarchy between ruler and subject naturally dissolves." Hunger demands food, cold demands clothing—these are innate survival instincts. But endless desires breed contention, and from this arises the system of rulers and subjects. Though ordinary people all need food and clothing, not all pursue marriage or officialdom—marriage entangles one in human emotions, while officialdom stirs competitive ambitions. This is the root of the people's unrest. Avoiding marriage and office may not eliminate desires entirely, but it far surpasses the common state. The phrase "the way of ruler and subject fades" means that superiors and subordinates interact naturally, without distinctions of rank or intimacy. Thus, while the form of ruler and subject must remain, the struggle for power should cease.

A folk proverb says: "An old farmer may die of idleness." They rise with the sun and rest at sunset, believing this is their nature; they eat coarse grains and vegetable soup, considering it the finest delicacy; their sinews are strong, their joints supple. Yet if they were to lie on woolen blankets and brocade quilts, dine on refined rice, meat, and fruit, they would grow restless, feverish, and ill. If the rulers of the states of Shang and Lu were made to live as farmers, they too would quickly collapse from exhaustion. Thus, country folk find contentment in simple living, convinced no better way exists under heaven—this is the balanced Dao (the Way) of each finding their proper place.

There was a farmer accustomed to wearing coarse hemp clothes through winter. Come spring, he would warm himself by working in the fields under the sun, utterly unaware that mansions with heated rooms or furs like fox and sable even existed. Proudly telling his wife, "This sunbathing method is so delightful—others don't know about it! If I presented it to the ruler, I'd surely receive rich rewards!" A wealthy villager remarked: "Long ago, someone thought wild beans, hemp stalks, and water celery were exquisite delicacies and boasted to the local gentry. When the gentry tasted them, their mouths went numb and their stomachs ached, making everyone laugh. You're exactly like that person now."

This resembles how someone used to tattered cotton padding can't imagine the comfort of heated mansions and fine furs, or how those accustomed to wild vegetables can't appreciate gourmet flavors. People often cling stubbornly to familiar ways of living, struggling to change even when better options exist. Daoist cultivators see through worldly vanities, pursuing the realm of simplicity and wuwei (non-action), yet ordinary folk often find such ideals too distant.

Yang Zhu (a Warring States philosopher) once said: "Grand houses, fine clothes, delicious food, and beautiful companions—those who still crave more after attaining these four are nothing but insatiable desire-worms." In truth, these four are external to our being, and excessive pursuit itself manifests greed. Mencius believed sensory enjoyment was human nature, but Liezi (a Daoist master) advocated following one's nature without chasing empty fame, thus comparing insatiable desires to worms eroding yin-yang harmony. Note, however, that those who speak of "having these four" likely already possess them. To demand more without meeting basic needs—that constitutes greater greed.

(Supplementary note: This fable of the farmer and wealthy man illustrates cognitive limitations and habitual inertia. Daoism teaches that cultivators should transcend material comforts yet avoid forced asceticism—the key lies in maintaining one's original heart, unenslaved by external things.)

This passage examines the boundaries between loyalty (忠) and righteousness (义). Excessive emphasis on loyalty may endanger oneself, while overzealous pursuit of righteousness could harm life itself. The truly enlightened approach is this: Let rulers feel secure without deliberate displays of loyalty, and let all beings benefit without ostentatious claims of righteousness. Thus both sovereign and subject find peace, and all things—including oneself—receive benefit. This embodies the true essence of the ancient Dao.

Laozi (the Venerable Lord) observed: "When society loses the Dao (the Way), only then do people emphasize benevolence and righteousness; when states fall into chaos, only then do loyal ministers stand out." This speaks to the same principle.

Master Yu (an ancient sage) believed that relinquishing empty fame brings freedom from worry, while Laozi also taught that reputation is merely the shadow of substance. Yet people ceaselessly chase after hollow reputations. Indeed, fame cannot be entirely discarded, for reputation brings honor while its loss invites contempt. Honor yields comfort and joy, while lowliness begets sorrow and suffering. Grief injures one's innate nature, whereas joy aligns with heavenly disposition—all intimately connected to actual living. Thus fame can neither be wholly abandoned nor excessively prized. What truly demands vigilance is damaging real substance to preserve reputation. If one clings to fame at the expense of fundamental wellbeing, even rescuing oneself from peril becomes impossible—let alone experiencing joy or enduring suffering.

Master Yu's "relinquishing fame" doesn't mean abandoning reputation entirely, but rather not being attached to it; Laozi's "fame follows substance" likewise doesn't advocate discarding reputation, but warns against making it the primary pursuit. Where there is life, there is physical form, and with form comes entanglement. In all human interactions with the world, no affair exists apart from reputation, yet all reputation remains tethered to actual substance. Since the innate nature's joys and sorrows all relate to reputation, how could one completely discard it? Those who blindly pursue empty fame instead lose what truly matters. Consider those who seek renown for benevolence—they may sacrifice their lives for it; those chasing fame for righteousness may harm their kin. Jie Zitui died for loyalty, Wei Sheng perished keeping his promise—these exemplify clinging to reputation while damaging substance, ultimately leaving no opportunity to address their own survival.

This scripture primarily examines the relationship between "names" (名) and "reality" (实), while critiquing the "egoism" philosophy of the Yang Zhu school.

First, it clarifies the connection between names and reality: The true Dao has already been thoroughly explained, yet there is concern that scholars might misinterpret it as advocating the complete abandonment of all worldly distinctions. Thus, it further elaborates: What should truly be opposed are those who cling to empty titles at the expense of substance. Only by neither fixating on superficial labels nor harming true essence can one attain the realm of transcending names and forms, as described by figures like Master Yu (鬻子) and Zhuangzi. When sages speak of "namelessness" (无名), they encompass the complete principles of establishing oneself in life and responding to all things.

Next, it critiques the Yang Zhu school: The Liezi classic elucidates the essence of the Great Dao (大道) and transmits the orthodox teachings from the Yellow Emperor (黄帝) to Confucius. In contrast, Yang Zhu's doctrine of "egoism" (为我) is a heretical teaching that misleads the people and poses the greatest harm to the sages' way. Later generations who study the sages' path take pride in refuting Yang Zhu and the Mohists. Liezi adopted the name "Yu Kou" (御寇, "Defender Against Invaders") to signify his responsibility in safeguarding the sacred Dao.

The text cites the words of Yang Zhu and the Mohists to admonish the world, even placing Confucius and Mozi side by side. The reason Liezi included Yang Zhu's teachings may be that he saw them as not entirely contrary to the sages' thought and still useful for guiding people. Yet it must be understood that Yang Zhu's doctrine ultimately obstructs the path of benevolence and righteousness (仁义).

Liezi laments how people chase external things while losing their true selves. In life, they exhaust themselves pursuing longevity, fame, status, and wealth—none of which benefit their genuine self. After death, they hope to pass blessings to their descendants, yet these descendants are merely another physical form in the universe—what connection do they have with the "true me"? Therefore, one must be cautious in perception, discerning truth from falsehood, and not be bound by rewards, punishments, or rigid laws. Otherwise, one toils through life like a prisoner weighed down by shackles, unaware that the Creator (造物主) bestowed life precisely so we may be our authentic selves.

Thus, Liezi advocates: Do not be enslaved by external things—preserve your true self. As long as one does not lose oneself, they can.... The emphasis is that there is no need to torment body and mind pursuing success in others' eyes at the cost of one's innate nature. Clearly, Liezi does not seek universal adherence to Yang Zhu's heresy but urges people to avoid being driven by external matters and instead maintain their genuine being.

The principles governing statecraft and extending to the world are but branches and leaves of the great Dao (the fundamental truth of Daoism) - is this not truly remarkable? Yet Liezi's (a prominent Daoist philosopher of the Warring States period) teachings are indeed profoundly subtle. His writings illuminate that all existence is rooted in "ultimate emptiness," just as hiding grain and losing sheep are fundamentally the same kind of loss. Therefore, the text deliberately selects the most extreme views from Yang Zhu's (a Warring States thinker who advocated "valuing the self") philosophy and juxtaposes them with the Way of the sages, aiming to prevent learners from blindly imitating the superficial actions of sages while failing to comprehend their essential mind.

All statements attributed to Yang Zhu in the text actually contain the most profound Daoist principles. For instance, his assertion that the four sage-kings (Yao, Shun, Yu, and Tang) and the two tyrants (Jie and Zhou) ultimately meet the same fate of annihilation. Later readers encountering such passages often doubt whether Liezi truly believed Yao and Shun had deviated from the Dao while considering Yang Zhu's teachings as truth. This reflects a superficial reading that misses the deeper meaning. Little do they realize this chapter contains the very essence of Liezi's thought, sharing the same fundamental principles as the wisdom of sages like Yao, Shun, Yu, Tang, King Wen, King Wu, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius.

Just as Confucius said, "Those who understand me will do so through the Spring and Autumn Annals, and those who condemn me will also do so through the Spring and Autumn Annals," the profound meaning of Liezi's "Yang Zhu" chapter follows the same pattern. This echoes the revelation at the beginning of "Explaining Conjunctions" (another chapter in Liezi): true Daoist principles are often concealed within seemingly paradoxical expressions.