《沖虛至德真經解》Vol. 8

When Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) sought instruction from his teacher Huqiu Zilin, the master told him: "Only when you comprehend the principle of maintaining humble retreat can we discuss the Dao of self-cultivation." When Liezi inquired how to "maintain retreat" (chihou), his teacher had him observe his own shadow: when the body bends, the shadow slants; when the body stands upright, the shadow becomes straight. This demonstrates that the curvature of the shadow depends entirely on the posture of the body, which in turn changes according to external circumstances. This embodies the wisdom of "appearing to yield while actually leading."

This passage from the "Explaining Conjunctions" chapter (Shuofu) elucidates the way sages engage with the world. In responding to worldly affairs, sages always resonate before reacting, act only when compelled, and undertake actions solely out of necessity. Like a shadow eternally following its form, sages consistently align with the transformations of external phenomena—approaching when others come, following when others depart, their movements and stillness perfectly attuned to the timing of events. While ordinary people compete to take the lead, sages willingly remain behind, appearing to lack any fixed views. Yet precisely because they do not contend with others, no one can contend with them—this constitutes true leadership. Huqiu Zilin's teaching to Liezi reveals the sagely path that descends from the Heavenly Dao (Tiandao) to manifest in human affairs.

The "Heavenly Auspices" chapter (Tianrui) demonstrates how sages extend the Heavenly Dao to human affairs, thus requiring few words; whereas the "Explaining Conjunctions" chapter discusses returning from human affairs to the Heavenly Dao, hence necessitating verbal explanation. Though Liezi was inherently a Dao-realized individual by nature, he still sought a teacher to establish a model for later generations. This resembles Confucius describing himself as "one who loves antiquity and is diligent in seeking it" rather than claiming sagehood.

Guan Yin (a Daoist perfected being) told Liezi: "Graceful speech begets harmonious echoes, harsh words produce jarring reverberations; tall stature casts long shadows, short form yields brief shadows." "Reputation" (ming) resembles echoes, while "embodiment" (shen) resembles shadows. Therefore he said: "Guard your words carefully, and corresponding responses will naturally follow; attend to your conduct diligently, and followers will spontaneously appear."

The Book of Changes (Yijing) states that speech and action constitute the pivotal mechanism of the noble person (junzi), determining honor or disgrace. The noble person's words and deeds possess sufficient power to move heaven and earth, thus demanding utmost care. Just as shadows faithfully reflect physical forms, human speech and action generate corresponding influences.

The sage can deduce the intrinsic nature of things by observing their outward manifestations and foresee the future by examining the past. This is the principle behind their prescient wisdom. The emergence and disappearance of phenomena, the past and the future, all follow the same fundamental laws. Ordinary people often fail to perceive the subtlest omens, only comprehending causal relationships when events take concrete form and outcomes become certain. Only those sages who grasp the fundamental principles and discern the signs of transformation can truly understand the whole by observing a part. As the Yijing states: "The inchworm bends its body to extend forward; dragons and snakes hibernate to preserve their vitality"—these phenomena all embody natural laws.

The essence of personal cultivation lies in self-discipline (the measure is within oneself), while judging others depends on observing their actions (the standard lies in others). If others treat me well, I naturally reciprocate with kindness; if others show hostility, I inevitably respond in kind. Tang of Shang and Wu of Zhou achieved kingship through their love for the people, while Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang met their downfall through cruelty—this is the pattern verified by history. Even understanding these principles without following them is like exiting through a side door instead of the main gate or walking off the proper path—how can one expect success this way?

Examining the virtue (De) of Shennong (the Flame Emperor), studying the classics of Yu, Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, and evaluating the sayings of sages throughout history, we find that all principles of rise and fall, survival and demise conform to this law. In the primordial chaos before the separation of Heaven and Earth, all things existed in undifferentiated unity. When Yin and Yang divided and all beings found their places, not the slightest disorder remained. Just as sound inevitably produces echoes and physical forms cast shadows, the degree of our self-cultivation can be measured, and the standards for judging others can be established. Following the Way of Yao and Shun leads to imperial achievement; emulating the methods of Tang and Wu establishes kingly merit. This is how Shennong's virtue manifested, how ancient classics recorded, and how wise sages expounded.

Even the most sagely individuals, though their thoughts may be profound and unfathomable, never deviate from this principle when handling concrete affairs. Mencius claimed expertise in discerning arguments, stating, "Even if sages were reborn, they would agree with my words." In defending the Way of ancient sages, he also declared, "Should sages reappear, they would not alter my views." The ability to anticipate the principles sages would inevitably uphold during their lifetimes stems from these truths aligning with the law of "examination and measure" (ji du). The saying "repay kindness with kindness, hostility with hostility" doesn't mean sages develop preferences or hatred based on others' attitudes, but rather they understand: if others treat me well, it must be because I possess qualities worthy of kindness; if others dislike me, it must be because I have characteristics that invite aversion.

Yan Hui once remarked, "Isn't seeking the Dao ultimately about gaining wealth? Now that we've obtained these precious pearls, we're already wealthy—what need have we for the Dao?" Liezi replied, "It was precisely because tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang valued profit over righteousness that their kingdoms fell. Frankly, I'm relieved I haven't expounded the Dao's principles to you in depth yet. A person who understands neither righteousness nor the Dao, concerned only with food and drink, differs little from chickens or dogs. Those who rely on brute strength to dominate others, with the victor proclaiming himself king, are no better than wild beasts. Living as chickens, dogs, or beasts, how could you expect others to respect you? Without respect, calamity and disgrace will inevitably follow."

Here, precious pearls serve as a metaphor for the Dao—much like Zhuangzi's "Mysterious Pearl" symbolizing the supreme truth realized by the Yellow Emperor. The pearl's flawless roundness represents the Dao's perfection: its completeness knows no obstruction, its radiance illuminates all things. Those who truly attain the Dao possess wealth beyond material measure. But those fixated solely on profit ultimately invite disaster.

When Liezi mastered archery to the point of never missing his mark, he sought guidance from Master Guan Yin. "Do you understand why you never miss?" the master asked. "No," Liezi admitted. Guan Yin sent him away to practice further. Three years later, when Liezi returned, the master posed the same question. This time, Liezi answered, "Yes." Only then did Guan Yin declare him ready, admonishing him to never forget this understanding—a principle applying not just to archery, but to governing states and self-cultivation alike. Thus, sages concern themselves not merely with success or failure, but with comprehending the underlying principles.

Hitting the target by chance doesn't constitute true skill—the essence lies in grasping why the arrow strikes home. Similarly, in statecraft and self-cultivation, only by understanding the fundamental patterns governing existence and dissolution can one harness the Dao to seize opportunities and sustain lasting prosperity. By the time decline becomes apparent, it's already too late.

Liezi further observed: "Those with ruddy complexions tend toward arrogance; those with great strength lean toward bullying—such individuals aren't yet ready to discuss the Dao." Thus, even discussing the Dao is premature for those whose hair hasn't turned white (referring to the young), let alone putting it into practice.

This passage discusses how people approach the Dao at different life stages, along with wisdom for governing a nation.

In the vigor of youth, people easily become distracted by external matters, and their De (Virtue/Power) tends to decline, making it difficult to comprehend the great Dao. By the time hair turns gray, desires diminish, thoughts become balanced, and the body weakens - then understanding and practicing the Dao becomes easier. However, this describes ordinary people who follow the current. There are also those who maintain a childlike heart throughout life - neither arrogant in their prime nor confused in old age - able to comprehend the Dao at any time.

When someone always considers themselves infallible, others won't offer sincere advice, leaving them ultimately isolated. Wise rulers understand how to employ talented people, thus remaining clear-headed in old age and avoiding confusion even when their personal wisdom reaches its limits. The difficulty of governance lies in recognizing worthy individuals, not in flaunting one's own abilities. Like the sage rulers Yao and Shun - Yao worried about finding a successor like Shun, while Shun fretted over discovering worthy ministers like Yu and Gaoyao. Herein lies the true challenge of governance - how could it possibly rely on self-promotion alone?

In Song state, an artisan spent three years carving a mulberry leaf from jade, with veins, stems, and fine hairs so lifelike it was indistinguishable from real leaves when mixed together, earning him generous rewards. When Liezi heard this, he remarked: "If Heaven and Earth took three years to produce a single leaf, there would be very few leafy plants." Therefore, sages rely on natural creation rather than human craftsmanship.

No matter how realistic the jade-carved leaf appears, it merely imitates nature. Yet the creative power of Heaven and Earth, through the cyclical movement of Yang Qi (vital energy), can make all things grow and wither in an instant, shaping countless forms without leaving traces. That Song artisan's skill might earn him a living in his state - what then of those with lesser abilities? Thus, sages follow the natural Dao rather than depend on clever techniques.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) lived in poverty, his face bearing the pallor of hunger. A visitor remarked to Ziyang, the chief minister of Zheng state: "Lie Yukou is a man of Dao and De (Virtue), yet he dwells in your state in such destitution. Does this not reflect poorly on your regard for worthy scholars?" Ziyang immediately dispatched an official to deliver grain to Liezi.

When Liezi met the messenger at his gate, he bowed respectfully but declined the gift. After the envoy departed, his wife beat her breast in lament: "I've heard the families of Daoist adepts enjoy comfortable lives. Now we starve, the lord sends provisions, yet you refuse them—is this not our destined misfortune?" Liezi smiled and explained: "The ruler doesn't truly know me—he acts only upon another's words. Should he later hear slanders and seek to punish me, he'd act with equal caprice. That is why I decline." Later, Zheng state indeed erupted in rebellion, and Ziyang was killed.

This illustrates how sages never treat matters of acceptance or rejection lightly. When something contradicts Daoist principles, they'd rather starve than compromise—how could they betray their integrity to please their families? Thus did Liezi avoid calamity.

The Shi family of Lu state had two sons: one devoted to scholarship, the other to military strategy. The scholar used his learning to advise Duke Qi and was appointed tutor to the nobility; the strategist counseled King Chu on warfare and became military judge—bringing wealth and honor to their household. Their neighbors, the Meng family, also had two sons pursuing identical studies yet lived in poverty. Envying the Shi's success, they sought advice on achieving prosperity.

Following the Shi brothers' methods, Meng sent one son to persuade the Qin ruler with scholarly doctrines. But the king declared: "Today's lords contend through martial force—governing through benevolence invites ruin." He had the young man castrated and banished. The other son went to Wei state advocating military strategy. Marquis Wei replied: "We weak states survive by serving stronger neighbors and pacifying smaller ones. Emphasizing warfare would hasten our demise. Letting you advise rivals would endanger us." He had the youth's feet amputated before returning him to Lu.

Beating their chests in anguish, the Meng family confronted the Shis, who responded: "Those who align with the times prosper; those who oppose them perish. Your methods matched ours, yet outcomes differed—not from faulty practice, but inopportune timing."

This passage explores the relationship between governance principles and personal destiny, illustrated through historical anecdotes.

Though both the Guo clan of Qi and the Xiang clan of Song were impoverished, Xiang failed to grasp Guo’s way of navigating life. Similarly, Beigongzi and Ximenzi faced different fortunes due to disparities in their virtue (De) and destiny. The Shi family of Lu and the Meng family pursued the same endeavors, yet unlike the ideological divide between Guo and Xiang or the starkly contrasting fates of Beigongzi and Ximenzi, their outcomes diverged for other reasons.

Qi upheld the governance traditions of Jiang Taigong (Lü Shang), further refined by Guan Zhong and Yan Ying, while Wei, since its founding by Kangshu and Duke Wu, emphasized virtuous rule, producing many exemplary figures. Both states practiced benevolent governance. In contrast, Chu, situated among the southern "barbarian" territories, saw King Zhuang parade his armies at Luoyi (the Zhou capital) to flaunt military might, and Qin, beginning with Duke Xiao, gradually annexed the warring states—both prioritizing martial strength.

Shi attempted to serve Chu using Wei’s methods and applied Qin’s legalist approach to Qi, only to meet repeated failure. Meng similarly employed Wei’s ways in Qin and Qin’s tactics in Wei, with identical results. Their downfall lay in failing to adapt to circumstances. Shi criticized Meng for lacking discernment of the times, yet Meng accepted this reproach without resentment.

Under benevolent rule, mistakes carry severe consequences, whereas in martial states, errors might merely cost a foot (punishment by amputation). Yet even those skilled in timing and adaptability encounter limits to their wisdom. The successes and failures of Shi and Meng ultimately reflect the workings of fate.

Liezi (a foundational Daoist figure) cites these cases to illustrate that all things follow inherent patterns (形名之稽度, the measure of form and name), much like objects.... This embodies the Daoist concept of "correlative resonance" (符应, the intrinsic connections between phenomena), emphasizing alignment with natural laws.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of Perfect Virtue in the Realm of Emptiness) illustrates principles of governance through two parables, rejecting reliance on mere stratagems and cunning.

The first story recounts how Duke Wen of Jin contemplated attacking the state of Wei. His minister Gongzi Chu dissuaded him with a fable: A man escorting his wife to her parents' home flirted with a mulberry-gathering maiden along the way, only to turn and find another man making advances toward his own wife. This revealed the universal nature of human desires—while coveting others' territories, one's own lands become equally coveted. The enlightened duke withdrew his troops, thereby preventing a retaliatory border incursion. The parable demonstrates the folly of pursuing selfish desires without considering others' psychological responses.

The second narrative describes how Jin employed Xi Yong, a man reputed to identify thieves by reading their facial features. Though initially successful in arresting numerous thieves, the outlaws eventually conspired to kill him. The wise minister Zhao Wenzi observed that relying on detection methods merely treated symptoms rather than curing the disease. To truly eradicate theft, virtuous officials should be appointed to cultivate moral transformation (教化), teaching people shame and integrity. When Sui Hui (the worthy official Shi Hui) implemented benevolent governance, the thieves all fled to Qin.

The commentary emphasizes: investigative techniques can only apprehend criminals after the fact, whereas moral transformation prevents crimes before they occur. Once banditry takes root, benevolent governance becomes difficult to implement. Xi Yong's fate proves the futility of petty cleverness, while Sui Hui's reforms naturally awakened the people's sense of shame. However, merely driving thieves to neighboring states resembles diverting floodwaters to others' lands—not a fundamental solution. Only through governing with the Great Dao (大道) can the people dwell in peace and prosperity.

(Note: The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing is an honorific title for the Liezi; Duke Wen of Jin was one of the Five Hegemons of the Spring and Autumn period; Sui Hui refers to the Jin statesman Shi Hui)

(Interpreting Confucius' Waterfall Observation from the Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing [Classic of Perfect Virtue of the Most Profound Emptiness])

During Confucius' return journey from Wei to Lu, he stopped to rest by a river bridge where he witnessed a thirty-zhang (about 90 meters) waterfall churning into nine-mile whirlpools so violent that fish and turtles couldn't navigate them, nor could giant aquatic creatures survive. A man was preparing to cross these treacherous waters. Confucius sent someone to dissuade him, warning of the danger, yet the man crossed with effortless composure. When Confucius asked if he employed special techniques, the man replied: "I enter the water with wholehearted devotion (忠 zhōng) and trust (信 xìn), and emerge with the same. I let this devotion and trust carry my body with the currents, free from selfish thoughts or distractions—this is how I traverse safely."

Confucius used this to teach his disciples: If even perilous rapids can be crossed through the Dao of devotion and trust, how much more should these virtues guide human interactions? Here, "devotion" means aligning with water's natural patterns without forceful interference (Wuwei 无为), while "trust" signifies complete faith in water's nature without doubt. This state mirrors what the Huangdi (Yellow Emperor) chapters describe as "following the principles of innate nature and life (性命双修 xìngmìng shuāngxiū)"—devotion and trust are intrinsic to human nature.

Earlier passages discuss rulers governing through natural principles (性命 xìngmìng); this episode uses physical phenomena as proof: just as the swimmer conquers rapids through devotion and trust, humans must root themselves in these virtues. Confucius repeatedly emphasized their power, even claiming they "remain valid in barbarian lands," hence his insistence that disciples remember this lesson.

(In another passage from the "Shuofu" chapter) Duke Bai of Chu once tested Confucius: "Can one speak of secrets with others?" When Confucius remained silent, the Duke pressed with a metaphor: "What if stones are thrown into water?" Confucius responded: "Expert divers from Wu could retrieve them." This implies that true sages, even when facing hidden matters, can discern their essence like divers retrieving stones—revealing how Daoist wisdom penetrates surface obscurities to grasp fundamental truths.

This dialogue recounts how Bai Gong (a nobleman of Chu) inquired Confucius about the principle of "subtle words" (profound and esoteric speech). Confucius used the analogy of mixing the Zi and Mian rivers to illustrate: just as the renowned chef Yi Ya could discern the taste of blended river waters, those who truly understand "subtle words" need not rely on verbal expression. Those who end up drenched while catching fish or panting from chasing beasts do not do so out of preference, but because circumstances compel them.

The highest form of speech transcends words, and the highest form of action follows the natural course (Wuwei). Bai Gong, fixated on vengeance (referring to avenging his father), ultimately met his end in a bathhouse despite hearing Confucius's words—an example of how forcibly seeking secrecy can instead lead to exposure.

The subsequent story of Lord Xiang of Zhao presents a contrast: though he conquered two cities in a single day, his face bore worry, for he understood that sudden storms do not last, and abrupt success may herald decline. Confucius remarked, "Worry is the sign of prosperity, while joy marks the beginning of disaster." This embodies the Daoist wisdom that "fortune and misfortune are intertwined"—true sages do not cling to superficial gains or losses but perceive the natural patterns of transformation.

This passage primarily discusses how maintaining victory is more challenging than achieving it. Wise rulers understand the method of "displaying weakness while being strong" to preserve their triumphs, thus ensuring their blessings extend to future generations. States like Qi, Chu, Wu, and Yue each enjoyed periods of dominance but ultimately perished precisely because they failed to grasp this principle of sustaining success.

Only truly Daoist rulers can maintain victory. Consider Confucius, who possessed the strength to lift city gate bars yet refused to be known for martial prowess, or Mozi (founder of Mohism), whose defensive strategies impressed even the master craftsman Gongshu Ban, yet he never sought fame for military expertise. Those skilled at preserving victories understand how to manifest strength through apparent softness.

The commentary explains: Attacking an enemy's weakness with your strength, confronting their few with your many, and striking when they err constitutes perfect strategy. Yet one must comprehend the Daoist principle that things reverse at their extremes—fullness leads to depletion, success breeds failure, and peak strength precedes decline. Achieving victory isn't difficult; sustaining it is. While Qi, Chu, Wu, and Yue all attained temporary might, none except sage rulers like King Wen of Zhou mastered lasting triumph.

Why? Because victory relies on strength, but preservation depends on softness. Though battles are won through martial power, true strength actually employs the "Way of Ultimate Softness" (the Daoist concept that supreme power resides in pliancy). After defeating enemies beneath city walls, one must use gentleness to consolidate success—not that softness itself maintains power, but through accumulating this Way of Ultimate Softness, one ultimately achieves unshakable strength.

Laozi said: Living beings are soft and supple in life, becoming stiff in death; plants are tender when growing, brittle when withered. An army too strong cannot conquer; wood too hard breaks easily. Only those who attain the Dao comprehend heaven and earth's cycles of growth and decline, expansion and contraction. Thus they never flaunt their strength nor seek renown through conquest. Maintaining humble exteriors and non-contending positions, they remain unchallenged in the world. Moreover, people willingly support them without weariness. No greater principle exists for preserving victory—this explains why Confucius foresaw the rise of the Zhao clan (of Jin State).

The passage concludes with an illustrative anecdote: In Song State, a family practiced goodness for three generations when their black cow unexpectedly bore a white calf. Confucius declared this an auspicious omen fit for celestial sacrifice. A year later, the household head inexplicably went blind, and the black cow again bore a white calf. When the son wished to consult Confucius again, the father protested: "Last consultation cost me my sight—why ask further?" (The story remains unfinished)

A man from the State of Song once consulted his father, saying that the words of sages often confuse people at first but later prove true. Before fully understanding the matter, he went to ask his son, who then sought Confucius's advice. Confucius declared, "This is an auspicious sign," and instructed them to use the ox for sacrificial rites. The son relayed this to his father, who decided to follow Confucius's guidance.

A year later, the son suddenly went blind. Later, when the State of Chu attacked Song and besieged the city, desperate citizens resorted to exchanging children for food and burning bones as fuel, while all able-bodied men fought on the city walls—most perishing in battle. Yet this family was spared military conscription because both father and son had disabilities. When the siege was lifted, their eye ailments miraculously healed.

This story illustrates how a black ox bearing a white calf, while a natural phenomenon, becomes a celestial omen when occurring without apparent cause. Oxen were sacrificial animals for heaven and earth rituals—black representing water in the Five Phases, white representing metal, with metal generating water in the productive cycle. Thus black producing white symbolized endless regeneration. The family's preservation during the war resulted from their steadfast adherence to benevolence and righteousness. Like darkness transforming into light, their experience mirrored the sequence of blindness followed by restored vision.

The words of sages contain profound truths that comprehend heavenly principles. What seems contradictory merely reflects matters not yet fully manifested. If later readers of classical texts fail to grasp their true meaning, how can they expect immediate results? Consider this family: when their black ox twice bore white calves, Confucius interpreted it as heaven's auspicious sign and advised sacrificial offerings. Though the ultimate outcome was merely exemption from war, from the Daoist perspective, the manifestation of fortune and misfortune differs from worldly judgments. During the Zhou dynasty's decline when states warred incessantly—even Confucius suffered hardship between Chen and Cai—for Song citizens to avoid battlefield death required three generations of virtuous conduct moving heaven and earth to receive such protection.

Another case involves a Song entertainer named Lanzi who sought audience with Lord Yuan of Song by performing on stilts twice his height...

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing commentary presents two parables that reveal a shared truth about spiritual cultivation.

The first tale tells of an acrobat who performed an astonishing sword dance, keeping five blades suspended midair. The ruler Yuanjun marveled at this display and rewarded him handsomely. When another performer later attempted similar feats hoping for equal recompense, the enraged ruler declared, "My previous gift came from momentary delight—this one clearly seeks only profit," and imprisoned the man for a month before release. This illustrates how identical skills may meet vastly different receptions—external rewards prove unreliable, and noble persons should focus on inner refinement rather than worldly gain.

The second narrative involves Duke Mu of Qin consulting the horse expert Bole about finding talent. Bole recommended Jiufang Gao, a former woodcutter companion. After three months searching, Jiufang Gao reported discovering a yellow mare at Shaqiu, yet the delivered steed turned out black and male. The duke, angered by this apparent incompetence, was chastened when Bole explained: "This shows Jiufang surpasses me a thousandfold—he perceives the horse's vital spirit (heavenly mechanism), grasping essence while overlooking form, valuing inner qualities beyond outward traits." The horse indeed proved peerless.

Together these stories demonstrate true mastery transcends surface techniques and conventions. Just as Bole's son could only learn external diagnostics like bone structure (teachable through rules), while Jiufang apprehended the ineffable inner vitality (Shen), so too must cultivators seek the formless Dao beyond appearances. The noble path lies not in chasing rewards or formal displays, but in that which eludes ordinary perception—the subtle alchemy of Jing (essence), Qi (vital energy), and Shen (spirit) that constitutes authentic Neidan (internal alchemy) practice.

This passage recounts several Daoist parables about recognizing and employing talent. The first story concerns Jiufang Gao, an ancient horse physiognomy master who judged steeds solely by their inner qualities rather than external features. Once he described a black stallion as a yellow mare—because he focused on the horse's essential spirit (Shen) rather than its physical appearance. Bo Le, another legendary horse expert, understood Jiufang Gao's unique perspective, considering it the true art of discerning equine excellence.

The second parable observes that without discerning masters like Bo Le and Jiufang Gao, even the world's finest horses would end up pulling carts alongside ordinary nags. This extends to the difficulty of recognizing exceptional talent, particularly reclusive sages whose worth transcends conventional understanding. The Daoist figure Xu Wugui used this horse analogy to advise Marquis Wu of Wei (a Warring States period ruler), greatly pleasing the sovereign with his insight.

The third narrative describes King Zhuang of Chu consulting the Daoist hermit Zhan He about statecraft. Zhan He replied that he only understood self-cultivation, not governance—yet immediately added that no well-cultivated ruler had ever presided over a chaotic state, nor had any disordered monarch ever maintained orderly rule. The king found profound truth in this response.

Finally, the text references the legendary Yellow Emperor's consultation with Guangchengzi (a Daoist immortal). Seeking to harvest heaven-earth essences (Jing) to nourish his people and balance Yin-Yang to benefit all creatures, the emperor received criticism for his utilitarian approach—what Guangchengzi condemned as "the sycophant's mindset." This implies that both governance and self-cultivation must follow natural principles (Dao) rather than forced intervention.

This passage expounds wisdom on how to conduct oneself in society while preserving one's integrity.

The legendary Daoist immortal Guangchengzi held that by grasping fundamental principles, one need not worry about trivial details. This is illustrated when King Zhuang of Chu sought advice from Zhan He on statecraft, only to be told that self-cultivation must come first.

The Elder of Huqiu cautioned Sunshu Ao (a virtuous minister of Chu during the Spring and Autumn period): "Three things invite resentment: high rank provokes envy, great office arouses the ruler's suspicion, and excessive wealth draws others' resentment." Sunshu Ao replied: "The higher my rank, the humbler my mind; the greater my office, the more cautious my conduct; the more abundant my wealth, the more generously I share. Can this avert the three resentments?"

Explanation: By remaining humble despite high rank, others do not perceive one as superior; by exercising caution in great office, the ruler harbors no suspicion; by distributing wealth generously, none resent one's riches. This is the method to avoid resentment.

On his deathbed, Sunshu Ao advised his son: "Though the King of Chu repeatedly offered me rewards, I declined them all. After my death, he will surely reward you—do not accept fertile land. At the border of Chu and Yue lies a place called Qinqiu, with barren soil and an inauspicious name. The people of Chu believe in spirits, while those of Yue value cunning—only such a place can be held long." True to his prediction, after Sunshu Ao's death, the king offered rich land to his son, who declined and requested only Qinqiu. This fief thus remained in the family for generations.

Explanation: Choosing what others disdain prevents contention; without contention, there is no calamity—hence long preservation. Sunshu Ao ensured his rank and wealth brought honor without resentment, and his blessings extended to his descendants, because he understood the Daoist principle of waxing and waning amidst prosperity. He maintained high status without peril and abundance without excess. This embodies the teaching: "Though wealthy and honored, one does not harm oneself through indulgence." As for those like Yan He (a recluse of the era) who truly despised wealth and rank, their attainment was even higher.

Niu Que, a renowned Confucian scholar from Shangdi (present-day Yan'an area in Shaanxi), encountered bandits at Ousha while traveling to Handan. Though the robbers stripped him of all possessions—clothes, carriage, and horses—he calmly walked away without showing distress. Puzzled by his composure, the bandits chased after him to ask why he wasn’t angered. Niu Que replied, "A nobleman does not let external things harm his inner cultivation." The robbers marveled, "Such virtue!" But upon reflection, they reasoned, "If so wise a man reaches the King of Zhao, he will surely send troops to hunt us down. Better to kill him now." They pursued and murdered him.

When a man from Yan heard of this, he warned his clan: "Never imitate Niu Que if you meet bandits." Later, his younger brother, en route to Qin, was robbed at Hangu Pass. Remembering his elder brother’s advice, he resisted fiercely. After failing, he groveled to beg for his stolen goods. Enraged, the bandits shouted, "Sparing your life was mercy enough! How dare you pester us? Since when do outlaws care for righteousness?" They killed him and four or five others traveling with him.

This parable reveals: Niu Que’s genuine detachment led to his demise, while the younger brother’s forced defiance of his nature also brought disaster. Superficially, fortune seems fickle, but both extremes provoked their doom. Niu Que’s initial calm was admirable, yet his explanation—"a nobleman’s cultivation"—needlessly exposed his principles to the bandits. The younger brother’s violent resistance, followed by servility, made the robbers fear exposure. Both extremes made the bandits feel threatened, but the latter’s actions, by clearly revealing the crime, doomed innocent companions as well.

(The subsequent story about the Yu clan is omitted due to incomplete source text.)

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of Perfect Virtue in Simplicity and Emptiness) presents two parables that reveal profound truths about human conduct.

The first tells of a wealthy man named Yu who lived extravagantly for years, behaving recklessly and arrogantly. Though he never actively harmed others, his insults provoked retaliation. When someone humiliated him with a rotten rat, he felt compelled to retaliate to maintain his standing, gathering accomplices to exterminate the offender's family. Yet on the appointed night, the assembled forces instead turned against the Yu household and annihilated them entirely.

The commentary explains: A state of excessive fullness invites Heaven's diminishment, Earth's upheaval, and the calamities of spirits and ghosts, while also violating human ethics. The sage, understanding the patterns of cosmic change, avoids extremes—neither indulging in pleasure nor luxury, nor overstepping proper bounds, acting only within capacity. As the Yu family amassed wealth through unvirtuous means, they bred resentment. Building towering structures offended spiritual taboos, while holding lavish feasts by main roads provoked public disdain. How could such wanton indulgence last? Though people often harbor intentions to dominate others, disasters descend unexpectedly like that falling rotten rat—when the eagle dropped its fetid prey, could it have targeted the knight-errant specifically? With so many travelers on the road, why did it strike him alone? Was this not the collective wrath of humans and spirits against his arrogance and excess, orchestrating misfortune through unseen forces?

The second parable describes Ai Jingmu from the eastern regions collapsing from hunger on the roadside. Qiu of Hufu, a robber, saw him and offered food. After three mouthfuls, Ai regained his sight, asked the man's identity, and upon learning he was a bandit, refused further nourishment. Vomiting what he'd eaten, he starved to death. The commentary observes: While blind, he accepted sustenance, but upon seeing, prejudice made him reject it—though Qiu was a thief, the food itself wasn't stolen. To assume the meal was tainted because the giver was criminal confuses names with substance.

(Note: "Hufu" denotes a place-name, "Qiu" a personal name, and "Ai Jingmu" a fictional character. Both stories employ extreme cases to illustrate the Daoist middle way of "eliminating excess, extravagance, and extremes," opposing rigid adherence to any single perspective.)

Yuan Jingmu, though fully aware the food was stolen, still accepted what the bandits offered and ultimately lost his life without regret. This illustrates how relying solely on surface appearances and petty cleverness in judgment often brings more harm than benefit. His name "Jingmu" (literally "banner-eye") satirizes his reliance on visual discrimination (jingbie meaning to distinguish). As Zhuangzi said: "No calamity greater than being virtuous yet harboring prejudice"; Laozi likewise taught: "The sage nourishes the inner self (wei fu) rather than chasing external displays (wei mu)"—precisely this principle.

Zhu Lishu served Duke Ao of Ju but left when feeling misunderstood, dwelling by the sea eating water chestnuts and acorns. Later when the duke faced calamity, he deliberately went to die with him. Friends questioned: "You left because you felt unappreciated—now returning to die contradicts yourself!" Zhu replied: "Precisely because he never understood me, my death will prove it. I'll use this to warn future rulers who fail to comprehend their ministers." Outwardly this appears righteous, but in truth, Zhu went to his death harboring resentment.

[Commentary] Zhu Lishu's story reveals how clinging to the illusion of "being understood" ultimately harms oneself. Humans fixate excessively on the physical form—craving immortality while fearing external threats—thus seeking total control. Such attachments accumulate as resentment, driving reckless acts where intended self-preservation backfires. A nobleman's death may weigh lighter than a feather or heavier than Mount Tai. But Zhu's spiteful suicide holds no value. Therefore sages honor the wisdom of "knowing what one doesn't know," while警惕ing the folly of pretending otherwise.

Yang Zhu taught: "Bestowing benefits invites reciprocity; harboring resentment summons misfortune." Every action bears consequences—thus the wise remain circumspect.

[Commentary] From Yuan Jingmu and Zhu Lishu we see: resentment only begets disaster—how could the virtuous act thus?

When Yangzi's neighbor lost a sheep, he not only mobilized his own relatives to search for it, but also enlisted Yangzi's servants to join the pursuit. Yangzi found this strange: "Why do you need so many people to find a single lost sheep?" The neighbor explained that there were too many branching paths. Upon their return, Yangzi asked if they'd found the sheep. The neighbor replied it was completely lost—each fork in the road spawned new forks, making pursuit impossible. Hearing this, Yangzi's expression darkened, and he remained silent and unsmiling all day.

His disciples were puzzled: "Sheep are just ordinary livestock, and it wasn't even yours. Why such distress?" Yangzi didn't answer. Later, disciple Meng Sunyang recounted the incident to Xinduzi. Several days afterward, Xinduzi and Meng Sunyang went together to consult Yangzi: "Once there were three brothers who studied in Qi and Lu under the same teacher, learning the Dao of humaneness and righteousness. Upon completing their studies, their father asked what they'd learned. The eldest said humaneness taught him to value life above reputation; the second said righteousness made him willing to sacrifice life for reputation; the youngest claimed both life and reputation mattered equally. These contradictory teachings all came from Confucianism—who was right?"

Yangzi told them a story: "By the river lived an expert swimmer who ferried people for a living, earning enough to support a hundred. Many came to learn swimming from him, yet nearly half drowned. They came to learn swimming, not drowning—why such different outcomes? How would you judge right and wrong here?" Xinduzi withdrew in silence. Meng Sunyang complained: "Your question was convoluted, the master's answer obscure—I'm more confused now." But Xinduzi replied: "The sheep was lost because the main road had many forks; students lose their lives because learning methods multiply. All true learning shares the same root, though approaches differ. Only by returning to the root can we avoid going astray. After studying with our master so long, if we still don't grasp this principle, how lamentable!"

This parable illustrates how knowledge systems that seem to converge may instead lead people astray when they fixate on methods while forgetting the root. As the Yijing (Book of Changes) states: "All things under heaven return to the same origin, though by different paths."

This passage employs several metaphors to discuss the core issues of Daoist cultivation. Yang Zhu (a representative Daoist figure) argues that human confusion stems from failing to recognize fundamental objectives. Just as one must travel north to reach Yan and south to reach Yue, as long as the direction is correct, occasional detours won't lead one astray. Yet many Daoist practitioners lack clarity about fundamentals—their faith remains unsteady as they covet shortcuts, ultimately losing themselves on wrong paths.

The text uses the allegory of "the lost sheep" (亡羊) to illustrate this principle: the shepherd who loses his sheep resembles practitioners who lose their original mind. In the Five Phases (Wuxing) system, sheep correspond to the spleen (which traditional Chinese medicine associates with governing intention)—losing sheep thus symbolizes losing guardianship over one's will. Zhuangzi made similar observations, suggesting that "hoarding grain" (藏谷) and "losing sheep" (亡羊) ultimately represent the same spiritual disorientation.

Xin Du-zi (a fictional seeker archetype) maintains his original mind, understanding that different paths of studying benevolence and righteousness lead to the same destination. Yet Yang Zhu warns with his drowning metaphor—half of swimming learners perish—demonstrating how improper cultivation methods can prove dangerous. Meng Sun-yang (another fictional character), despite his vigorous efforts, deviates from the true path, resembling Zhuangzi's criticism of "Mengzi Fan" (those who act contrary to their innate nature).

The passage concludes with Yang Zhu's parable of Yang Bu being bitten after changing clothes: the dog attacks based on appearance rather than recognizing the person, just as worldly people judge by surfaces rather than essence. Yang Zhu advises his brother not to blame the dog, for altering one's exterior naturally causes confusion. This subtly suggests that cultivation must grasp the essential rather than being misled by appearances. Throughout, the text emphasizes maintaining unwavering focus on fundamental direction in spiritual practice, warning against losing one's original mind while dazzled by various methods.

This passage explores two core concepts: the contradiction between external changes and inner attachments, and the relationship between virtuous deeds and fame.

First, it observes that if someone becomes overly attached to trivial matters like changing clothes, even a dog would notice their peculiarity—how much more so other people. All phenomena in the world are in constant flux, yet people often become unconsciously trapped within them, ensnared by emotions like joy and anger. The truly wise align themselves with the transformations of the Dao (the Way), remaining unbound by external things.

Next, through the words of Yang Zhu, it explains that virtuous acts performed for fame will inevitably attract benefits, and benefits in turn breed contention. Therefore, the noble person must practice virtue with caution. This caution doesn't oppose virtuous deeds themselves, but rather opposes performing them for reputation. Without seeking fame or gain, one naturally avoids entanglement in conflicts.

The passage then recounts a parable: The ruler of Yan heard of someone who possessed the art of immortality and sent an envoy to learn it, but the messenger died en route. Furious, the king wanted to execute the envoy, until a minister reasoned: "If even the messenger couldn't preserve his own life, how could he make you immortal?" This story illustrates that the true Dao cannot be transmitted by others. Like the skilled mathematician of Wei who, on his deathbed, told his son the secrets of calculation—the son memorized them but couldn't apply them, while others who heard the method could use it effortlessly. As Zhuangzi said: If the Dao could be offered to others, people would have long presented it to rulers; if it could be passed to descendants, that master mathematician would have taught his son. This teaches us that genuine cultivation depends on personal realization, not external transmission.

This passage elucidates the Daoist understanding of the Dao (the Way) and natural laws through several illustrative stories.

The first narrative demonstrates that the Dao can be transmitted but not directly given. Like Liezi composing his writings, genuine Dao comprehension manifests through practice in word and deed rather than through receiving ready-made doctrines. This resembles how a teacher can only impart methods, while students must personally practice to truly master them.

The story about Handan citizens presenting turtledoves to Lord Jian of Zhao reveals a profound paradox: Though the lord's act of releasing birds in the first lunar month appeared benevolent, it actually caused commoners to capture excessive numbers of doves to curry favor, resulting in more bird deaths. This echoes the Yinfu Jing's teaching that "kindness begets harm"—apparent benevolence may create greater damage. The truly Dao-aligned approach follows nature spontaneously, avoiding forced kindness and treating all beings with the impartiality accorded to straw-dogs.

The banquet hosted by the Tian clan of Qi presents another insight: When Master Tian praised heaven's generosity in granting humans grains and fish, a twelve-year-old Bao family child countered that all things coexist equally with humanity without hierarchy. Human consumption parallels mosquitoes drinking blood or tigers eating meat—not special heavenly provisions. This validates Zhuangzi's concept of "the unity of all things with the self"—ancient sages treated animals and humans equally, recognizing their shared essential wisdom despite differing forms.

Collectively, these stories express core Daoist philosophy: Genuine practice of the Dao follows nature spontaneously, transcends artificial distinctions of human kindness, and recognizes the fundamental equality of all existence.

This scripture reveals profound truths about wisdom, dignity, and discernment through several allegorical stories.

The first tale states that people often assume animals exist solely for human consumption, yet by this logic, mosquitoes biting humans could equally claim to be born specifically for that purpose. The Tian family maintained thousands of retainers, yet none matched the wisdom of a single child from the Bao household. True wisdom knows no age—like Bao's child who stood out among a thousand men.

The second story tells of a poor man in Qi who initially begged in the city, then worked for a horse doctor in Tian's stables in exchange for meals. When mocked that assisting a horse doctor was disgraceful, he replied: "Nothing under heaven is more shameful than begging. If I feel no shame begging, why should helping a horse doctor humiliate me?" This illustrates that earning food through labor holds more dignity than begging. Notably, the man changed occupations not from shame but necessity when begging failed. His ability to accept poverty meant others' taunts about honor couldn't shake his resolve.

The third anecdote describes a Song man who found someone's lost contract, hid it, and boasted to neighbors about counting its notches to predict imminent wealth. This resembles the folly of thinking one can attain the Dao (the Way) by parroting others' wisdom. When Duke Huan of Qi studied ancient texts, a wheelwright remarked they contained only the dregs of bygone sages.

The final account tells of a man whose withered phoenix tree was declared inauspicious by an elderly neighbor, prompting him to fell it. Later, when the old man requested firewood from the tree, the owner grew suspicious, believing the initial warning had been a ruse to obtain wood. Yet the neighbor's original concern about bad omens might have been genuine—only his subsequent request cast doubt. Who harbored ill intent? Ultimately, perceived malice reflects one's own perspective.

These parables teach us: True wisdom transcends age; labor brings greater dignity than begging; mimicking others' insights yields no fortune; and our judgments of people and events often mirror our own state of mind.

A man lost his axe and suspected his neighbor's son had stolen it. The way the boy walked seemed like a thief's gait, his expressions resembled a thief's, even his speech and daily movements all appeared to be those of a thief. Later, when the man found his axe in the valley and saw the neighbor's boy again, none of his actions seemed suspicious anymore.

This story illustrates that the neighbor's son never actually changed—it was the man's internal suspicion that made everything appear as evidence. When his doubts vanished, so did the perceived signs. Thus, the complexity of worldly phenomena is often just a projection of our own minds. If a Daoist practitioner can maintain their original mind, free from attachments like the man who eventually let go of his suspicion, they may perceive the Dao (the Way) at any moment, undisturbed by external things.

During the Spring and Autumn period, Bai Gong Sheng, a high-ranking official of Chu, was so obsessed with plotting rebellion that one day after court, he absentmindedly leaned on his walking stick upside down, piercing his own chin until blood dripped to the ground without him noticing. When people of Zheng heard of this, they sighed: "If one can forget even a pierced chin, what else might they forget?" When consumed by obsession, a person might trip over tree roots or bump their head against a trunk without realizing it.

Zhuangzi said, "The perfected person has no self" (the enlightened transcend ego). Ordinary people cling to the notion of "I." Look at our bodies—with bones, orifices, and internal organs—how could there be no "I"? Yet Bai Gong Sheng's example shows that when obsession dominates the mind, even bodily injury goes unnoticed. How much more so for true adepts, whose forms merge completely with the Dao (the Way), naturally attaining the state of "no-self."

Once in Qi, a man intent on stealing gold dressed formally and went to the market at dawn. He rushed straight to a gold shop, grabbed the gold, and ran. When caught by officers who asked, "With so many people watching, how dare you steal gold?" he replied: "When I took the gold, I saw only the gold—I didn't see any people at all."

This tale teaches us: Fixation on material things blinds one to the Dao (the Way) just as the thief saw only gold, while fixation on the Dao may make one oblivious to material reality. The Liezi concludes with this story precisely because its eight preceding chapters use worldly matters to illuminate the great Dao. Whether later readers grasp its meaning depends entirely on whether they cling to desire or transcend it, whether they see only surfaces or penetrate to essence.

This scripture elucidates the essence and manifestations of the Dao (the Way). The noumenon (fundamental nature) of the Dao does not depend on any concrete entity, nor can it be fully described in words; yet its function manifests throughout all phenomena, revealing itself through tangible forms and natural laws. Where there is form, there is name; where there are laws, they can be recorded—this correspondence is as precise as the matching halves of ancient tally tokens (a type of credential).

The movement of heaven and earth appears most miraculous when aligned with the patterns of Yin-Yang transformation; the earth nurtures all beings by embodying the principle of harmonizing firmness and gentleness; the governance of emperors must correspond with benevolence and righteousness in their De (Virtue/Power). Like shadows following forms or echoes responding to sounds, this correspondence is exact without the slightest deviation. The De of Shennong (the legendary Flame Emperor), the records of ancient Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties, and the teachings of sages all attest to this truth.

The doctrines of Liezi (a Daoist master) were already expounded through Yang Zhu and others to clarify the highest realization of the Dao, culminating in the chapter "Explaining Correspondences" ("Shuofu"). The supreme Dao is not some elusive abstraction, but rather verifiable through concrete phenomena. Hence the significance of "Explaining Correspondences" lies in: maintaining personal standards, grounding interactions in evidence, honoring the great Dao in conduct, recognizing talent in governance, applying wisdom in affairs, and upholding righteousness to preserve advantage.

To govern a state, one must first cultivate oneself; to avoid resentment requires humility. Benefits must be genuinely given, while resentment invites calamity. The wise are cautious with reputation—they attain without grasping, receive without contending. Thus noble minds carefully nurture goodness. These teachings concern the safety of society and the gains and losses of life—all principles that can be articulated in words and contemplated with the heart. To discuss the Dao without addressing such verifiable manifestations is to fail in understanding it.

Liezi begins with "Heavenly Auspices" ("Tianrui") and concludes with "Explaining Correspondences," demonstrating how natural phenomena testify to the great Dao. "Heavenly Auspices" reveals the profound mysteries of celestial patterns and their resonance with all creation, descending from heavenly principles to human affairs; "Explaining Correspondences" validates supreme truth through human phenomena, ascending from worldly matters back to the Dao. The movement of the great Dao resembles an endless cycle—unbroken, limitless, eternally present yet ever transforming.

This passage discusses the structural arrangement and philosophical framework of the Liezi. The author analyzes how the sequence of chapters in Liezi carries profound meaning: the opening chapter "Heavenly Omens" (Tianrui) expounds the fundamental laws of celestial Dao's operation, followed by "The Yellow Emperor" (Huangdi) which presents the highest exemplar of sagehood in human affairs. Then "King Mu of Zhou" (Zhou Muwang) illustrates the inevitable decline of royal virtue—just as the golden age of the Yellow Emperor preceded it, King Mu's deterioration necessarily followed.

The text particularly emphasizes Confucius's (Zhongni) significance, viewing his editing of classics like the Book of Songs and Book of Documents as crucial for transmitting the Dao of sage-kings to posterity. In Liezi's arrangement, Confucius appears after King Mu, signifying the complete unfolding of this Dao transmission lineage. Subsequent chapters like "Tang's Questions" (Tangwen) and "Power and Fate" (Liming) employ parable-style dialogues to demonstrate that while all transformations may seem governed by force, they ultimately return to the natural Mandate of Heaven.

The final two chapters, "Yang Zhu" and "Proofs of Dao" (Shuofu), respectively dismantle empty fame to reveal Dao's ultimate truth (the former) and conclude the text by showing Dao's inexhaustibility despite its ultimacy (the latter). The entire Liezi, from "Heavenly Omens" to "Proofs of Dao," forms a complete transmission of the sage-king Dao from the Yellow Emperor to Confucius. The author criticizes later scholars who equate Liezi with other philosophical texts as having tunnel vision, urging deeper contemplation of its subtle meanings.

(Note: "Heavenly Omens" refers to celestial auspices of Dao; "Proofs of Dao" means verifying Dao's manifestations; "Power and Fate" examines the relationship between force and destiny—all being chapter titles in Liezi.)