《沖虛至德真經義解》

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing (Scripture of the Ultimate Virtue of Profound Emptiness) is a Daoist classic authored by Emperor Huizong of the Song dynasty. This passage primarily discusses the intrinsic nature of the Dao (the Way) and the principles governing the transformation of all things.

Liezi dwelled in the state of Zheng for forty years, yet no one truly understood him. Even the ruler and officials regarded him as an ordinary man. The ancient sages who had genuinely attained the Dao possessed a realm so profound and subtle that it eluded ordinary comprehension.

When Liezi prepared to journey to the state of Wei, his disciples asked what teachings he might impart. With a smile, Liezi replied, "What did Master Huzi Qulin ever say?" Though the Dao cannot be conveyed through words, he nevertheless felt compelled to speak. He recounted Huzi's words: There exists that which generates the myriad things yet is itself ungenerated, that which transforms the myriad things yet remains untransformed. This uncreated and indestructible existence is the Dao, whereas concrete entities must inevitably undergo birth, death, and transformation.

The Dao is eternal, perpetually generating and transforming all things through the movements of Yin-Yang and the four seasons. The ungenerated Dao appears solitary and unchanging, while the unchanging Dao cycles endlessly without terminus. All things emerge from non-being and return to non-being; only the Dao transcends this flux. The Dao resides within all things yet stands independent above them, defying comparison with concrete phenomena. We can only approach it with reverent contemplation.

The passage concludes with a quotation from the Yellow Emperor's Classic: "The divine mystery of emptiness never perishes—this is the 'Mysterious Feminine' (referring to the generative capacity of the Dao). The gateway of the Mysterious Feminine is the very root of heaven, earth, and the myriad things."

The root of all things in heaven and earth is continuous and inexhaustible, seemingly void yet truly existent. It gives birth to all things yet never depletes itself. The true creative force that generates all things is itself uncreated by anything; the true law that transforms all things is itself untransformed by anything. All things come into being naturally, change naturally, take form naturally, manifest color naturally, possess wisdom naturally, wield power naturally, perish naturally, and cease naturally. Those that appear to govern generation and transformation, form and color, wisdom and power, growth and decline, are not the true governors.

The movement of yin and yang qi, the alternation of the four seasons, and the patterns of all things arise suddenly and vanish suddenly. The manifestation of forms, the display of colors, the operation of strategies, the exertion of power, the transmission of messages, and the waxing and waning of cycles—these phenomena revolve endlessly without cessation. All movements involve change, all moments involve transition; though all are manifestations of the Dao, their operations are entirely spontaneous.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) once said: The ancient sages governed heaven and earth by mastering yin and yang. If all formed things emerge from the formless, then from where did heaven and earth themselves arise? Thus, cosmic evolution proceeds through four stages: Taiyi (Great Change), Taichu (Great Beginning), Taishi (Great Commencement), and Taisu (Great Simplicity). In the Taiyi stage, qi does not yet exist; Taichu marks the beginning of qi; Taishi marks the beginning of form; Taisu marks the beginning of substance. When qi, form, and substance are all present but not yet separated, this is called "Hunlun" (primordial undifferentiated state). Hunlun refers to the state where all things are blended and undivided—invisible to the eye, inaudible to the ear, intangible to touch—hence called "Yi" (the source of change).

This "Yi" has no concrete form. Its transformation produces "One" (Taiji, the Supreme Ultimate), the "One" transforms to produce "Seven" (the seven governing principles), and "Seven" transforms to produce "Nine" (the nine celestial palaces). "Nine" represents the ultimate of transformation, then returns again to "One." "One" is the beginning of formal transformation: the clear and light qi ascends to become heaven, the turbid and heavy qi descends to become earth, while the harmoniously blended qi of yin and yang forms humanity. Thus heaven and earth contain the essence (jing) and qi, enabling all things to transform and grow.

Yin and yang are the fundamental manifestations of qi; heaven and earth are the greatest manifestations of form. When qi transforms to produce form, yin and yang emerge, then form heaven and earth, while the Dao remains the common source of all. The sages are the spokespersons of the Dao, which is why they can govern heaven and earth through yin and yang. The Yijing's statement that "Taiji generates the Two Modes (yin and yang)" and Zhuangzi's assertion that "the Dao precedes Taiji" both refer to this principle. Thus in the Taiyi stage before qi exists, it is merged in an inscrutable state of indeterminacy; its transformation producing qi marks the Taichu stage; qi transforming to produce form marks the Taishi stage; form differentiating to produce substance marks the Taisu stage. When qi, form, and substance are all present yet undivided, the complete state of the Dao is fully embodied within—this is what we call "Hunlun."

This scripture elucidates the fundamental Daoist principles of cosmic generation and the operation of all things. When Laozi speaks of "something formed in chaos" (referring to the Dao), it cannot be seen, heard, or touched—these three characteristics defy investigation and are thus collectively called "the One." This "One" may tentatively be termed "Yi" (the way of change), having no fixed form. Under the influence of Yang Qi, "Yi" generates "One." Numerical transformation begins with "One," remains incomplete at "Seven," undergoes alternation at "Nine," and ultimately returns to "One."

"The One" marks the beginning of formal transformation, giving rise to the Three Powers (Heaven, Earth, and Humanity): the clear and light Qi ascends to form Heaven, the turbid and heavy Qi descends to form Earth, while the harmonized Yin-Yang Qi constitutes Humanity. Jing-Qi (essence-energy) is "the One"; "One" generates "Two" (Yin-Yang), "Two" generates "Three" (Heaven-Earth-Humanity), and "Three" generates all things. Thus it is said Heaven and Earth contain Jing-Qi, enabling the transformation and birth of all beings.

Liezi states that Heaven-Earth, sages, and all things each have their limitations: Heaven's role is to cover, Earth's to support, the sage's to teach, while all things find their proper places. Heaven cannot support, Earth cannot teach, teaching cannot violate inherent nature, and inherent nature determines each one's position. The movement of Heaven-Earth cannot depart from Yin-Yang, the teaching of sages cannot abandon humaneness and righteousness, the characteristics of all things cannot lack firmness and flexibility—all these are determined by their inherent natures.

Heaven above, Earth below, the sage dwelling between them—together they facilitate transformation. All things possess distinct characteristics that neither Heaven-Earth nor sages may violate. When distinguished from Heaven-Earth, the sage forms the "Three Ultimates" (Heaven-Earth-Humanity); when interconnected, they constitute the "Three Powers." What covers cannot support, what supports cannot teach, what teaches cannot violate inherent nature—inherent nature determines position, and this defines their respective responsibilities. The way of sages reaches up to Heaven and down to Earth, nurturing all things without violating their inherent natures.

This scripture elucidates the profound nature of the Dao (the Way), the core concept of Daoism representing the cosmic origin and fundamental order. All things emerge from the Dao's transformative power, yet the Dao itself transcends all concrete forms.

All tangible phenomena have opposites: they can be born or die, hot or cold, floating or sinking, high-pitched or low, appearing or vanishing, black or yellow, sweet or bitter, fishy or fragrant. Yet the Dao itself possesses no specific perceptions or capacities—precisely because of this, it encompasses omniscience and omnipotence.

Attachment to any particular perception or ability captures only a fragment of the Dao. The true Dao embraces all dualities: Yin-Yang represents the two states of Qi (vital energy), softness and hardness describe material properties, length and shape denote form, square and round characterize vessels, life and death follow the laws of fate, cold and heat mark seasonal changes, floating and sinking indicate movement, musical notes reflect pitch, appearance and disappearance show traces of existence, dark and light express color gradations, sweet and bitter distinguish tastes, pungent and fragrant differentiate scents—all these transformations operate within the Dao.

Ancient Daoist adepts could penetrate all six directions (up, down, and the four cardinal points) and harmonize with seasonal cycles. Whether examining grand or minute phenomena, the Dao permeates everything. Like when Liezi (a Daoist master) encountered a century-old skull on the road to Wei and told his disciple: "Only you and this skull understand what it means to have 'never truly lived nor died'—life and death are merely consequences of excessive preservation or indulgence. What, then, is life's essential nature?"

This passage uses the skull imagery to illustrate: concrete life forms perish, but the ever-generating Dao never ceases. Physical bodies decay, yet their creative source never vanishes; sounds fade, but their origin never uttered; colors dim, yet their fundamental hue never showed; flavors dissipate, but their essential taste never manifested. These mysteries all reveal the profundity of Wuwei (non-action), the Dao's uncontrived functioning.

This passage describes the wondrous phenomena of mutual transformation among all things in nature, using a series of biological metamorphoses to illustrate the principle of "wu hua" (the mutual transformation of things).

Frogs (wa) can transform into quails (chun), and when encountering the boundary between water and earth, they revert back to tadpoles (wa bin). The plants (ling xi) growing on mountain slopes turn into crowfoot grass when exposed to damp environments. The roots of crowfoot grass transform into larvae of cockchafers (qi cao), while its leaves become butterflies. These butterflies soon change into small insects (qu duo) found beneath stoves, which after a thousand days transform into birds called "gan yu gu."

The text further enumerates more transformation phenomena: sheep livers turn into earth mushrooms (di gao), horse blood transforms into will-o'-the-wisps, and human blood becomes wildfire. Falcons (yao) change into harriers (zhan), which then transform into cuckoos, and cuckoos eventually revert back to falcons. Swallows turn into clams, field mice become quails, rotten melons transform into fish, and old leeks turn into amaranth.

Particularly noteworthy are some peculiar reproductive phenomena: a beast called "lei" (from Dan Yuan) can self-impregnate; birds in rivers and marshes (da yao) can conceive simply by gazing at each other; and male creatures called "zhi feng" can reproduce without mates. Hou Ji (ancestor of the Zhou dynasty) was born from a giant footprint, while Yi Yin (renowned Shang dynasty minister) emerged from a hollow mulberry tree.

The passage concludes by stating: All things originate from natural mechanisms (ji) and ultimately return to them. Life and death are merely transformations of form, just as the Book of Changes states "investigate origins to understand endings." Those who truly comprehend this principle realize there is no true birth or death, for all things exist in constant transformation. The forms existing now are merely continuations of past forms.

This passage expounds the principle of constant transformation in all things, illustrating through numerous examples of biological metamorphosis that form is never fixed. Consider:

The lingxi grass growing by water transforms into wuzu grass when encountering fertile soil, demonstrating how plants change form according to their environment. The roots of wuzu grass can become larvae of golden tortoise beetles, while its leaves may turn into butterflies—showing how a single organism can differentiate into multiple forms. After some time, these butterflies may transform again into small insects (called jianduo) beneath cooking stoves, where flying creatures become crawling ones. After a thousand days, these insects may become birds called "ganyugu," proving how subterranean life can transform into forest-dwelling fowl.

Some transformations stem from natural bodily changes, like when decaying yellow cucumber beetles give birth to stink bugs. Others arise from cyclical nature—the sparrowhawk becomes a harrier, the harrier turns into a cuckoo, and the cuckoo reverts to a sparrowhawk. Other remarkable examples include: swallows transforming into clams, field mice becoming quails, rotten melons turning into fish, aged leeks changing into amaranth, old rams evolving into apes, and fish eggs developing into insects—some transformations occurring within species, others crossing biological categories.

Particularly noteworthy are the "lei beasts" of Danyuan Mountain that can self-impregnate, and the "yi birds" of river marshes that conceive through mere visual contact. There are also all-female giant waist insects and all-male juvenile wasps, demonstrating unisexual reproduction. Even humans exhibit exceptional cases: "men who conceive without marriage and women who become pregnant without wedlock." Houji was born when his mother stepped on a giant's footprint, while Yi Yin emerged from a hollow mulberry tree—phenomena inexplicable yet undeniably real.

The conclusion reveals: The metamorphosis of insects and the seasonal cycles of plants continue endlessly without fixed patterns. Just as zhao insects emerge from dampness, vinegar worms develop from fermented grains, or the long-associated yangxi grass transforms alongside bamboo shoots—even insentient bamboo can produce sentient qingning insects, which in turn generate the conscious cheng (a legendary beast). Cheng begets horses, horses beget humans... These transformations prove all things in creation constantly interconvert. Who could ever fully comprehend such mysteries?

This passage explores profound Daoist philosophical concepts regarding life and death, form and spirit, being and non-being. It begins by pointing out that life and death are simply natural phenomena in the cyclical transformation of all things, much like plants sprout, grow, and eventually return to the earth. The sage understands that this follows the inherent patterns of the Dao's (the Way) operation, which remains unaffected by human will.

Quoting the Yellow Emperor's Book, it states: "Moving forms don't create new forms, only shadows; vibrating sounds don't create new sounds, only echoes. All existing things must eventually reach their conclusion—heaven, earth and all creatures will ultimately perish with us." This ending is actually a return to the original state of beginningless non-being. The Dao (cosmic origin) itself has neither beginning nor end, while all formed life must eventually return to the formless.

The text distinguishes the different destinations of spirit and physical form: the spirit belongs to the clear and light heavens, dispersing into the sky after death; the bones belong to the turbid and heavy earth, gathering back into the soil. When spirit departs from form, each returns to its source—this is the true meaning of "ghost" (gui), signifying a return to one's authentic origin. The Yellow Emperor said: "When spirit enters the heavenly gate and bones return to earth's root, what remains of 'me'?"

Stillness allows return to original nature, while movement leads away from the source—this is natural law. All things emerge from non-being and must inevitably return from being to non-being. Heaven and earth exist simultaneously with me, and will ultimately perish together with me. The true Dao transcends beginnings and endings, duration and transience—it is absolute existence. The living must return to the lifeless, the formed must return to the formless. This doesn't mean the source itself undergoes creation or destruction, but rather describes the perspective of finite existence.

Life must inevitably end, just as it must inevitably arise. The desire to preserve life eternally, clinging to the boundaries between life and death, actually reflects attachment to superficial appearances—a failure to comprehend the infinite cyclical truth of the universe. This is precisely what it means to be deluded by limited perception.

The spirit bestowed upon humans by heaven belongs to the celestial realm, thus it is pure, light, and prone to dispersion. The bones and flesh belong to the earth, hence they are turbid, heavy, and inclined to coalesce. When a person dies, the spirit disperses and returns to the heavenly Dao, while the bones decompose and return to the earth. At this point, what remains of the "self"? Yet this applies only to ordinary people. Hence it is said, "The spirit returns to the heavenly gate, the bones return to the earthly root," and the sense of self ceases to exist.

However, sages are different. They roam above with the Creator and befriend the eternal Dao below. Thus, even when their bodies age and perish, their true selves endure forever.

Human life progresses through four major stages: infancy, prime years, old age, and death. In infancy, Qi (vital energy) is concentrated, the will is singular, and harmony reaches its peak—external things cannot harm them, and their De (Virtue/Power) is most complete. In the prime of life, blood and Qi are vigorous, desires and thoughts constantly arise, and one is easily disturbed by external things—De begins to decline. In old age, desires wane, thoughts become tranquil, the body prepares for rest, and external things can no longer intrude. Though not as perfect as in infancy, this stage surpasses the prime years. At death, one enters a state of rest, returning to the ultimate origin.

The "concentrated Qi and singular will" of infancy is what Laozi called "the depth of containing De." The agitated blood-Qi and burgeoning desires of the prime years resemble Zhuangzi's description of "engaging with external things while the mind is in turmoil." In old age, as blood-Qi weakens, desires diminish, and the body prepares for rest. As for returning to the origin, it means entering eternal repose. Zhuangzi said, "The earth bears my form, life keeps me toiling, old age grants me ease, and death brings me rest"—this is the principle. From infancy to death, transformation occurs daily, hence it is called the "Great Transformation."

While traveling on Mount Tai, Confucius saw Rong Qiqi in the outskirts of Cheng, dressed in rough deerskin with a straw belt, playing the zither and singing. Confucius asked, "Why are you so joyful, sir?" Rong Qiqi replied, "My joys are many: Heaven creates all things, yet humans are the most noble—I was born human, this is the first joy. Men and women differ, with men esteemed above women—I was born male, this is the second joy. Some die in infancy, yet I have lived to ninety—this is the third joy. Poverty is the scholar's constant state; death is life's inevitable end. I abide in the constant and await the end—what is there to grieve?"

This passage records a dialogue between Confucius and his disciple Zigong upon encountering the centenarian hermit Lin Lei, along with Confucius' teachings on perspectives of life and death.

On the outskirts of the Wei State, Confucius saw Lin Lei, a nearly hundred-year-old man gathering wheat ears in a harvested field while wearing a fur coat and singing as he walked. Confucius sent Zigong to inquire. Zigong asked why the old man felt no regret but instead sang while gleaning. Lin Lei replied he had nothing to regret. Puzzled, Zigong questioned: "If you weren't diligent in youth, have no wife or children in old age, and face impending death, what is there to be happy about?" Lin Lei smiled and explained that precisely because he didn't exhaust himself in youth and remained unburdened in old age, he achieved such longevity and happiness.

Lin Lei further elaborated his view of life and death: "Death and life are like a cyclical journey—how do we know that dying here doesn't mean being reborn elsewhere? Those who exhaust themselves pursuing survival are truly confused. How can we be certain present death isn't better than past existence?" Hearing this, Confucius remarked that Lin Lei had grasped partial truth but not its complete essence.

Later, Zigong expressed weariness with study to Confucius, wishing to find a place of rest. Confucius responded: "There is no true rest in life—only when seeing the grave (with terms like 'kuang', 'gao', 'zai', 'fen', and 'li' describing different tomb forms) does one recognize it as the final resting place." Zigong sighed in realization that death is the noble person's true repose.

This dialogue reveals the Daoist transcendent attitude toward life and death: understanding natural laws and accepting destiny's arrangement eliminates sorrow. True wisdom lies in not letting external matters disturb the spirit—neither forcibly pursuing joy nor fearing death, but viewing life and death as part of nature's cycle. Hermits like Rong Qiqi (Spring and Autumn period recluse) and Lin Lei achieved this level of enlightened detachment.

Confucius said to Zigong: "You have already understood this principle. People all know the joy of living, but do not understand the suffering of life; they all recognize the weariness of old age, but fail to perceive its tranquility; they all fear death, yet remain ignorant that death is ultimately rest."

To study the Dao without comprehending the true meaning of death—what is the purpose? When Zigong grew weary of learning and sought rest, it was precisely because he didn't understand death's significance. Therefore Confucius told him: "As long as one lives, true rest can never be attained." Behold the grave—spacious and bright, lofty and vast, severed from the dust of the world—this is the true place of repose. Ordinary people perish completely at death, but the noble person's spirit endures eternally. Thus it is said the noble finds repose, while the petty meets annihilation.

The toils of life are Heaven's test for us; the tranquility of old age is Heaven's blessing; the rest of death is our final homecoming. Yanzi said: "How wonderful death truly is!" The ancients called the dead "those who have returned home," while the living were "travelers upon the way." To know only the journey without the homecoming is to lose one's bearings. If a man abandons his homeland, forsakes his kin, and wanders aimlessly neglecting his household, the world calls him mad; yet those obsessed with fame, flaunting their talents in pursuit of empty reputation—these the world praises as wise. Both have lost their original nature, yet the world approves the latter. Only the sage knows what to pursue and what to relinquish.

Life and death are the great matters of human existence. Those who cherish life will surely face death with serenity. Therefore we say death is good. The spirit that does not perish after death constitutes true longevity—this the benevolent attain, while the unvirtuous perish along with all things. The benevolent find repose, the unvirtuous meet annihilation. "Jiao" (徼) signifies the homeward destination. Life belongs to Yang—the radiance of virtue; death belongs to Yin—virtue's homecoming. Thus we compare life to a journey, and death to returning home.

This passage elucidates core Daoist concepts regarding emptiness-quiescence, natural transformation, and the cycle of life and death.

The discussion on "emptiness-quiescence" reveals that those who indulge in excess err by over-pursuing externalities, while the calculating-minded err by clinging too tightly to internals. Ordinary people remain attached to gain and loss, whereas sages understand what to pursue and what to relinquish. Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) maintained that "emptiness" itself isn't praiseworthy—the true essence lies in maintaining a state of stillness and nothingness. Only through quiescence and emptiness can one abide in original authenticity, while grasping and giving both lead to confusion. When the great Dao declines in the world, those who flaunt benevolence and righteousness have already lost connection with the true Way.

Zhou Xiong (an ancient sage) observed that heaven, earth, and the myriad things undergo constant transformation beyond our perception. The waxing and waning of things, their flourishing and decline, life and death—all are interconnected in subtle, imperceptible continuity. Just as humans progress from birth to old age, their appearance and intellect undergo daily micro-changes, with skin and hair constantly shedding and renewing, though we remain unaware of these gradual transformations.

The text concludes with the parable of "the man of Qi who feared the sky might fall," illustrating how this anxious individual failed to comprehend nature's spontaneous patterns. The truly awakened sage perceives the profound mystery of creation, while those who understand only after events unfold remain forever ordinary. The passage emphasizes that those constrained by physical forms and limited cognition can never grasp the operation of Yin-Yang Qi or the ceaseless generation and transformation of all things.

This passage discusses the ancient sages' debate about whether heaven and earth will perish, revealing Daoist insights into the cosmic essence.

There was a man from Qi who constantly worried that the sky might collapse and the earth might cave in. The wise man who counseled him said: "The sky is merely accumulated Qi (vital energy), existing everywhere. You breathe and move within it all day—why worry about its collapse?" The man asked further: "But won't the sun, moon, and stars fall down?" The sage replied: "These luminous bodies are also manifestations of Qi. Even if they fell, they couldn't harm anyone." The man persisted: "What if the earth breaks apart?" The sage responded: "The earth is accumulated soil filling all directions. You walk upon it daily—why fear its collapse?"

When Master Changlu heard this, he laughed and said: "Rainbows, clouds, wind, rain, and the four seasons—these constitute the Qi of heaven. Mountains, rivers, metals, stones, and vegetation—these form the substance of earth. Knowing heaven and earth are composed of Qi and form, how can one claim they won't perish? Though but tiny specks in the cosmos, they appear immense to humans. Worrying about their destruction is excessive, yet claiming they're eternal is equally mistaken. When heaven and earth eventually perish, shouldn't we be concerned?"

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure), upon hearing this, also smiled: "Both assertions—that heaven and earth will perish or won't perish—are wrong. We fundamentally cannot know. Just as the living don't understand death, nor the dead understand life; as coming doesn't comprehend going, nor going comprehend coming. Why trouble our minds with such unknowable matters?"

From the perspective of concrete phenomena, what forms must eventually dissolve. Yet from the viewpoint of the Dao (cosmic origin), there is neither formation nor dissolution. Those attached to material forms believe that what has form and Qi must perish, while those who comprehend the great Dao understand that the Dao itself neither collapses nor vanishes. Only those truly awakened can transcend such concerns like Liezi.

Finally, the sage-king Shun asked Minister Cheng: "Can the Dao be possessed?" Cheng replied: "Even your body isn't yours to own—how much less the Dao?" Shun pressed: "Then to whom does my body belong?" Cheng explained: "It's a form entrusted to you by heaven and earth. Your life isn't yours—it's the harmonious Qi (vital energy) heaven and earth have temporarily lodged within you." This dialogue reveals the core Daoist concept of "the unity of heaven and humanity": all phenomena are manifestations of the Dao, and humans should relinquish attachment to possession, instead flowing with nature's course.

This scripture primarily explores the relationship between humans and the natural cosmos, as well as the profound mystery of the Dao (the Way). It begins by pointing out that our physical bodies, lives, and descendants are not truly personal possessions, but temporary forms bestowed by heaven and earth. Just as we don't consciously think about direction while walking, or deliberately pursue flavors when eating, all these are natural manifestations of the movement of Yang Qi (vital energy) within the cosmos.

The true Great Dao has no form or appearance, and cannot be grasped through concrete shapes. The human body is merely a temporary physical form granted by heaven and earth, life is the embodiment of harmonized Qi from nature, and descendants represent the transformed continuation of life. None of these can be permanently possessed by individuals—they are simply natural phenomena arising from the movement of heaven and earth's Yang Qi.

The text then illustrates this principle through the parable of Master Guo of Qi and Master Xiang of Song: What Guo called "stealing" referred to aligning with seasonal cycles and geographical advantages—harvesting the nourishment of rain and mountain resources to cultivate crops, which constitutes "stealing" in accordance with the Dao. Xiang, however, misunderstood this as literal theft of others' property and was consequently punished. This demonstrates that true "attainment of the Dao" means following natural laws rather than forcibly claiming possession.

The scripture emphasizes that although the Great Dao cannot be concretely grasped, it remains accessible to all. The sages attained the Dao precisely because they didn't cling to possessing it. Ordinary people who try to forcibly claim the Dao will inevitably lose it.

I cultivate my crops, repair my fences, build my house, hunt animals on land and catch fish in water—none of these constitute theft. For crops, timber, beasts and fish are all naturally produced—how could they be my private possessions? I merely take what nature provides, thus incurring no misfortune. But treasures like gold, silver, grain and cloth are accumulated by men, not bestowed by nature. If one steals such things and is punished, whom can he blame?

A man named Xiang, perplexed and suspecting the allegorical figure Master Guo was deceiving him with lofty rhetoric, consulted Elder Dongguo. The elder replied: "Isn't your very existence also 'stolen'? You appropriated the harmonious blending of Yin-Yang (the two vital energies) to be born, borrowed material substances to form your body—how much more so external possessions?" Truly, all things between heaven and earth inherently depend on each other. To forcibly claim ownership is sheer delusion.

Master Guo's "theft" aligned with natural principles, thus brought no calamity; your "theft" stemmed from selfishness, thus incurred punishment. In truth, whether motivated by public or private intent constitutes "theft," just as complete detachment from both still constitutes "theft." Following natural patterns—acting publicly when appropriate, privately when necessary—this reflects heaven and earth's fundamental nature. One who truly understands this principle—how could he still distinguish between theft and non-theft?

The crux lies in not clinging to distinctions between "possession" and "non-possession." Those preoccupied with public-private concerns inevitably crave, hence "having such concerns is theft"; those completely detached still cannot avoid attachment, hence "lacking such concerns is also theft." Only by fully harmonizing with nature and regarding all things equally does one accord with the Dao (the Way) of heaven and earth. Attaining this state, though myriad things differ, one becomes seamlessly unified with them—what need remains for discrimination? Thus the chapter "Heaven's Gifts" uses this principle as its culminating teaching.

During the fifteenth year of the Yellow Emperor's reign (an ancient sage king who awakened to the Dao and embodied De), he delighted in the people's adoration and indulged daily in sensual pleasures, which left him haggard and mentally disoriented. After another fifteen years, he grew anxious about poor governance, exhausting himself with state affairs—yet his countenance remained sallow and his spirit troubled.

The Yellow Emperor lamented: "My errors are grave! Pursuing personal pleasure brings such harm, and governing the realm brings equal distress." Thereupon, he relinquished all administrative duties, left the palace, dismissed his guards, reduced ceremonial music, simplified his meals, and retreated to a humble courtyard for quiet cultivation. For three full months, he abstained from governance. During a daytime nap, he dreamed of journeying to the Land of Huaxu.

Those who truly attain the Dao never let external things burden their bodies, nor allow form to constrain their spirit. They roam above with the Creator and below befriend those who transcend life and death—the realized ones beyond beginnings and endings. Neither sorrow nor joy stirs their inner core; how could afflictions arise? It was through this approach that the Yellow Emperor shed all attachments, returning to his original purity, thus enabling his spirit to wander freely to Huaxu during deep repose.

The Land of Huaxu lies west of Yanzhou and north of Taizhou, countless millions of li from the state of Qi—unreachable by chariot, boat, or foot, accessible only through spiritual travel. There, no rulers exist; all follows its natural course. The people harbor no cravings, neither clinging to life nor despising death, thus none die young. Without distinctions of kinship or distance, they feel no love or hatred. Unaware of rebellion or obedience, they know no conflict of interest. They cling to nothing and fear nothing: water cannot drown them, fire cannot scorch them, blades cannot wound them, and prods cannot pain them. They tread the void as solid ground and rest in emptiness as on a bed. Clouds obscure no vision, thunder disturbs no hearing, beauty and ugliness stir no hearts, and mountains hinder no steps—for they act wholly in accord with the natural Dao.

This passage describes the supreme state attained through Daoist cultivation and the story of the Yellow Emperor's enlightenment.

Those who have attained the Dao reach a realm so profound and boundless that only those with transcendent spirit can achieve it. They perfect themselves without needing teachers' guidance, remain naturally content without desires, remain unchanged by life and death, and feel no burden from personal attachments. Without pursuing benefits, benefits come naturally; without avoiding calamities, calamities do not touch them. Their minds are free from attachments and fears—they don't drown when entering water, don't burn when stepping into fire, remain unharmed by swords or whips, and feel no pain when pricked. Their bodies transform freely, walking and resting effortlessly in the void, unimpeded wherever they go. Even the transformations of Yin-Yang cannot fathom such a state, let alone ordinary people. This is what is called the "divine movement" (shenxing) realm.

After three months of quiet cultivation, the Yellow Emperor suddenly attained enlightenment and summoned his ministers, saying: "During my meditation, I struggled to comprehend the Dao of nurturing life and governing the world, but found it in a dream. Now I understand the supreme Dao cannot be sought through ordinary means. Though I've realized it, I cannot convey it in words." Twenty-eight years later, the world became as well-governed as in the legendary era of Huaxu. After the Yellow Emperor ascended as an immortal, the people cherished his memory for over two hundred years.

This illustrates how laborious intellectual debate cannot attain the true Dao—only through serene cultivation and relinquishing bodily attachments can one comprehend it. Though the Great Dao truly exists, it has no form or appearance and cannot be sought through conventional means. Those who truly realize it cannot transmit it through words.

Finally, the text describes the divine beings of Mount Liegushe (a legendary immortal mountain): They inhale wind and drink dew, abstaining from grains, with minds still as deep springs and appearances pure as maidens. Neither forcing intimacy nor alienation, even immortals and sages willingly serve them. Without exerting authority, they command reverence; without deliberate kindness, all things find fulfillment. Without hoarding, they lack nothing—Yin and Yang harmonize, sun and moon shine perpetually, seasons follow their course, winds and rains come timely, crops grow in season with abundant harvests yearly. The land knows no calamities, people suffer no premature deaths, nothing in creation is deficient, and even spirits cause no mischief. What we call "divine" (shen) is the mysterious power that nurtures all things. Those who embody this divine state transcend physical limitations, thus mastering all things without being bound by them.

This scripture passage describes how practitioners attain unity with the Dao through inner cultivation, along with the story of Liezi transmitting the Dao methods.

When practitioners refrain from craving the Five Grains, they become free from attachment to physical nourishment. With a mind as clear as deep spring water and a body as pure as a maiden's, they maintain undivided tranquility. Neither deliberately seeking intimacy nor distance, even immortals and sages would submit to such a state. Without fear or anger, preserving sincere simplicity of heart, one naturally complements the Great Dao. Those who reach this realm move with effortless ease in wuwei (non-action), where yin and yang harmonize spontaneously, and all things remain unharmed. There's no need for forced benevolence nor hoarding of wealth—when yin and yang balance, the seasons follow their course, crops flourish, people avoid premature death, all beings stay free from ailments, and even ghosts cause no disturbances. This reveals how sages perfectly fulfill all things without omission.

Liezi once studied under Master Lao Shang and befriended Bo Gaozi. After mastering their Dao methods, he could ride the wind home. The scripture states: "Those skilled in walking leave no traces; though wind-riding leaves no visible tracks, it still relies on something. Only the realm of shen (spirit) can arrive naturally without external dependence."

When Yin Sheng heard of this, he followed Liezi to study, not returning home for months. Repeated requests for Dao transmission were refused. Though Yin Sheng grew angry and considered leaving, Liezi didn't detain him. Months later when Yin Sheng returned, Liezi asked why he kept coming and going. Yin Sheng admitted initial resentment over rejection but now returned with renewed understanding. Liezi replied: "I originally thought you highly perceptive—never imagined such shallowness."

Liezi then shared his own path: "During my training, for three years I dared not conceive right/wrong in mind nor speak of gain/loss—only then did my teacher glance my way. After five years when I began contemplating right/wrong and discussing gain/loss, he finally smiled. At seven years, thinking freely without judging right/wrong, speaking carelessly of gain/loss, he let me share his mat. After nine years, with complete liberation in thought and speech, I could no longer distinguish my right/wrong from others', nor remember who was teacher or friend."

This scripture describes the physical and mental state of adepts who have attained profound spiritual realization, along with essential cultivation methods.

When practice reaches the stage of internal and external communion, the functions of eyes, ears, nose and mouth merge into oneness without distinction. The spirit becomes concentrated while the body relaxes, as if bones and flesh have dissolved—one no longer feels what supports the body or where the feet tread. Like a drifting leaf or withered husk carried by wind, it becomes impossible to distinguish whether the wind carries me or I ride the wind.

After three years of cultivation, confusion ceases; after five years, one laughs with genuine joy; after seven years, external things no longer create burdens; after nine years, the boundary between self and objects completely dissolves. At this stage, the senses interpenetrate, merging completely with the wind—no need to deliberately contemplate whether wind rides me or I ride the wind.

Master Guan Yin (an important Daoist figure) told Liezi: Those who truly attain the Dao can move unseen without obstruction, tread fire without burning, and walk upon all things without fear. This comes from preserving pure Qi (vital energy), not through cleverness or brute force. All things with form, appearance, sound or color belong to the realm of "objects," but Dao attainees reach the formless and imageless state.

Such individuals dwell in positions neither too deep nor too shallow, conceal themselves within the law of no-beginning and no-end, and wander through the genesis and completion of all things. They unify their innate nature, nurture primordial Qi, preserve complete De (Virtue), and commune with creation itself. With innate nature whole and spirit unbroken, how can external things penetrate them?

Like a drunkard who falls from a carriage yet suffers lighter injuries—because his spirit remains intact in intoxication, unaware of fear—so too with Dao attainees. Neither life nor death, surprise nor fear can disturb their inner being, hence they encounter all things without terror. This is the state of "complete spirit."

The text concludes: To attain the Dao, one must first relinquish attachments—how much more so for emotions like resentment? If even one's own body seems not to belong to oneself, how could one truly possess the great Dao?

This passage describes the spiritual state and realm achieved by "perfected persons" (those who have attained the highest level of cultivation) in Daoist practice. The core meaning conveys:

Those who have truly realized the Dao possess a spirit of pure integrity, undisturbed by external influences. They can dive underwater without drowning, tread on fire without burning, and walk upon all things without fear—not through cleverness or brute force, but by maintaining the purity of their primordial Qi (the fundamental life energy).

Like a drunken man who rides a carriage without fearing its jolts, perfected persons transcend the limitations of all things because they are united with the heavenly Dao. They maintain single-minded concentration, nurture their Qi without depletion, preserve inner De (Virtue) without dissipation, and wander freely with the Creator. In this state, external phenomena cannot penetrate their spiritual realm.

The passage then uses the story of Lie Yukou (Liezi) shooting arrows to illustrate: ordinary archery is the "shooting of shooting"—an intentional act—while the higher state is the "shooting of not shooting." This is exemplified when Bohun Wuren (a Daoist sage) takes Liezi to shoot from the edge of a cliff, testing his ability to remain mentally composed in extreme danger.

The key point lies in how perfected persons, by upholding the Dao of pure simplicity, safeguard their primordial Shen (spirit), and attain unity with the Dao, thereby transcending the constraints of the material world. This is achieved not through external techniques but through the highest level of inner cultivation.

Kou Qianzhi (a renowned Daoist figure) lay prostrate on the ground, drenched in cold sweat. Bohun Wuren (a Daoist master) said to him: "A true master of the Dao can gaze upon the azure heavens above and plunge into the yellow springs below, with his spirit roaming the eight directions while maintaining perfect composure. Your frightened eyes and scattered expression reveal how far your inner cultivation still falls short."

The master then illustrated archery's progressive stages through metaphors: drawing a fully taut bow demonstrates strength, balancing a cup of water on one's elbow shows steadiness, and releasing arrows in rapid succession displays agility—yet these are all mechanical like a wooden puppet's movements. While such skills require concentration, they remain distant from the realm of Dao. This is called "shooting through action" (youwei), not "shooting through non-action" (wuwei). A genuine Daoist master maintains unshaken serenity whether observing heaven-earth or journeying through cosmic extremities, far surpassing the stability of one standing at a cliff's edge. When Liezi (the Daoist sage) trembled prostrate with sweat-drenched fear, it proved his cultivation of undivided Dao was still immature.

The narrative continues with the Fan clan's story: Fan Zihua excelled at cultivating influence, wielding great power in Jin State without holding office—his status surpassed the Three Ministers (high-ranking officials). Those he favored received noble titles; those he disdained faced demotion. Maintaining numerous retainers, he entertained himself by pitting them against each other in intellectual combat, indifferent even to their injuries.

Among Fan's elite retainers was Hezheng Zibo. One night while traveling, he lodged at farmer Shangqiu Kai's home. At midnight, Shangqiu overheard Zibo extolling Fan's power—how he could "make the living die and the dead live, enrich the poor and impoverish the rich." The starving, freezing Shangqiu immediately shouldered his grain stores to seek Fan's patronage. Fan's aristocratic retainers scorned the ragged old farmer, subjecting him to relentless humiliation. Yet Shangqiu never reacted with anger, until finally his tormentors exhausted their repertoire of mockery.

When Shang Qiu Kai was standing on a high platform with others, someone jokingly said, "Whoever jumps from here will be rewarded with a hundred pieces of gold." Everyone cheered in agreement. Shang Qiu Kai took it seriously and was the first to leap down. His body landed as lightly as a bird, completely unharmed. The disciples of the Fan clan thought it was just a coincidence and weren't particularly surprised.

Later, someone pointed to a deep bend in the river and said, "There are precious pearls there—dive in and you can retrieve them." Shang Qiu Kai immediately jumped into the water and indeed found the pearls. Only then did the others begin to suspect something unusual. Zi Hua (the leader of the Fan clan) then granted him the privilege of wearing fine robes and eating delicacies. Soon after, the Fan clan's storeroom caught fire, and Zi Hua announced, "Whoever rushes into the flames to save the brocade will be rewarded according to how much they retrieve." Without hesitation, Shang Qiu Kai charged into the fire, making multiple trips without even a singe on his clothes.

At this point, the Fan clan's disciples realized he was a man of the Dao (the Way) and apologized, saying, "We didn’t know you were truly a man of cultivation, and we mocked you like this. Were you feigning foolishness, deafness, or blindness to test us? Please teach us the secrets of your practice." Shang Qiu Kai replied, "What Daoist arts do I possess? Even I don’t understand how this happened. But I can share my thoughts: Once, two guests stayed at my home and praised the Fan clan’s ability to revive the dead and reverse fortunes. I believed them wholeheartedly, so I came here. Since arriving, I took every word you said as truth and acted with complete sincerity, never considering my own safety. My mind was free of distractions, so neither water nor fire could harm me. Now that I know you were deceiving me, doubts have arisen in my heart. Looking back, I break into a cold sweat at the thought of what I did—how could I dare approach fire or water in such a state?"

From then on, whenever the Fan clan’s disciples encountered beggars or animal doctors on the road, they no longer dared to treat them with disrespect but would dismount and bow. When Confucius’s disciple Zai Yu heard of this, he told Confucius, who remarked, "The utmost sincerity can move all things, shake heaven and earth, and influence spirits and gods. It transcends all obstacles between heaven and earth—how could it be limited to merely braving fire and water? Shang Qiu Kai believed even false promises without hesitation—how much more could be achieved with mutual sincerity? Remember this lesson well."

(Additional note: This story illustrates the Daoist concept of "utmost sincerity moving all things." When a person reaches a state of complete selflessness and undistracted sincerity, extraordinary abilities may manifest. This state resembles the "entering stillness" (Ru Jing) described in later Daoist cultivation practices.)

This scripture primarily expounds on the power of "utmost sincerity" and the art of tiger rearing, revealing the Daoist cultivation wisdom of "sincere resonance through wholeheartedness."

Regarding the Way of utmost sincerity, it states: Genuine faithfulness generates miraculous power, and complete mastery of this power constitutes the path of sages. When sages maintain this spiritual state while engaging with the world, their inner purity becomes complete, naturally transcending utilitarian calculations. Neither fear of death nor worldly anxieties can disturb their hearts—thus they face external matters without dread and walk among all beings without trembling. When others treat them with deception, they respond with sincerity, thereby achieving unimpeded movement wherever they go. The text cites the example of Shang Qiu Kai (a legendary figure of perfect sincerity in ancient lore): He jumped from high platforms unharmed, retrieved precious pearls while swimming in the Yellow River's bends, and walked freely through fire without burns—all manifestations of utmost sincerity's effects.

The Way of utmost sincerity connects humans with divine intelligence, making one forget physical form and worldly gains or losses, thereby transcending material harm. Like drunkards falling from carriages yet remaining uninjured, or the Yellow Emperor's lost Mystic Pearl (symbolizing the Dao) being found by Xiang Wang (the mindless one). Master Guan Yinzi (Laozi's disciple) considered this the result of preserving primordial Qi in its purest form. When the heart harbors cunning schemes, the original pure nature becomes incomplete, the spirit grows unsettled, and one becomes incapable of bearing the Great Dao. Later, when Shang Qiu Kai developed calculating thoughts and recalled his former fearlessness toward water and fire with trepidation, he dared not approach them again—this demonstrates how doubt arises.

The difference between sincerely engaging with falsehood and harboring distrust is precisely this vast. As for those who attain perfect faith, they can move heaven, earth, and spirits, traversing the cosmos without obstruction—far beyond merely entering fire or water unharmed.

The latter section recounts how Liang Yang, animal keeper for King Xuan of Zhou, tamed fierce beasts: He maintained tigers, wolves, eagles and other predators in royal gardens, facilitating their breeding in groups while ensuring peaceful coexistence between species. Fearing this skill might be lost, the king sent Mao Qiuyuan to learn it. Liang Yang protested he was but a lowly servant with no special technique to teach, fearing royal accusations of secrecy. He revealed his tiger-rearing secret: "Compliance pleases them, opposition angers them—this is the nature of blood-and-Qi creatures. Yet their emotions never arise without cause, always triggered by opposition." When feeding tigers, he never offered live prey (to avoid awakening their wild instincts).

This scripture employs the metaphors of tiger rearing and boat handling to expound the Daoist wisdom of aligning with natural dispositions in human conduct.

Regarding the principle of tiger rearing: Though fierce by nature, those who understand husbandry feed the tiger according to its hunger and satiety, discerning the patterns of its rage. Though humans and tigers belong to different species, when one conforms to its innate nature, even a tiger becomes docile. The key lies not in deliberate flattery or provocation, but in maintaining the Middle Way—neither excessively indulging it to elicit joy nor opposing it to provoke anger. For excessive joy inevitably transforms into rage, while extreme anger reverts to joy—both being deviations from the Great Dao (Daodejing). When the human mind transcends distinctions of compliance and opposition, birds and beasts regard us as their own kind, willingly remaining in our courtyards without yearning for mountain depths.

The text illustrates with "the softest thing in the world overcomes the hardest" how sages achieve true mastery precisely through this alignment with innate nature. Fierce creatures like tigers, wolves, eagles and owls can coexist peacefully in gardens precisely because of this understanding of harmonious conditioning. The essence of nurturing life lies in conforming to natural dispositions without allowing excessive emotions to disrupt the balance of Yin-Yang (Yin-Yang).

The subsequent dialogue between Yan Hui and Confucius uses boat handling as metaphor: The supremely skilled ferryman operates his vessel with spiritual mastery; good swimmers can teach swimming, while expert divers can handle boats without prior experience. This symbolizes how those who have attained the Dao (Dao) assist the world through realms beyond ordinary comprehension. True Daoist practice transcends superficial techniques, reaching the natural state of "handling boats without having seen them"—the spontaneous perfection of Wuwei (non-action).

This passage employs swimming as a metaphor to elucidate the stages of Daoist mind cultivation. The essential meaning is:

Beginners in swimming can be taught because they haven't yet become constrained by water's nature; skilled swimmers have mastered techniques through familiarity with water's ways; while those truly one with water's essence can expertly handle boats without prior experience—a state so profound it defies measurement. When such adepts are questioned about the Dao (the Way), they often remain silent, for this realm transcends verbal explanation.

Confucius said: "Though we've long studied texts together, we've yet to touch the essence. Like swimming—beginners learn because they don't fear water; proficient practitioners excel by forgetting water's existence; the highest masters become indistinguishable from water's nature, perceiving deep abysses as level ground and capsized boats as parked carts. Though myriad things appear before them, nothing enters their mind—wherever they go, they move with perfect ease."

The text further illustrates with a gambling analogy: When wagering with pottery shards, one plays skillfully; with silver hooks comes tension; with gold comes mental confusion. Though the technique remains identical, the mind becomes shackled by external valuation. Whenever we overvalue external things, our inner freedom becomes constrained.

True Dao-realized individuals maintain inner harmony with the Dao (the Way), undisturbed by external phenomena. Consider the legendary swimmer at Lüliang Falls (an ancient site), who moved effortlessly through thirty-ren-high torrents and thirty-mile whirlpools, outpacing even giant turtles and crocodiles. His mastery came from complete unity with water's essence—where concepts of life, death, fear or excitement couldn't penetrate his mind, much less concerns of gain and loss. This represents the Daoist ideal of perfect inner-outer unification.

This passage recounts a dialogue between Confucius and a master swimmer at Lüliang Falls. The waterfall, towering thirty ren (approximately 24 meters) high with torrents so fierce that even giant turtles, Yangtze alligators, and fish could not navigate them, was effortlessly traversed by a man swimming freely in the raging currents.

At first, Confucius assumed the man was attempting suicide and sent his disciples along the riverbank to prepare a rescue. Yet after swimming several hundred paces, the man emerged from the water, shaking out his hair and singing. Confucius hurried after him and asked, "These waters are perilous—I initially mistook you for a ghost or spirit, only to realize upon closer inspection that you were human. Do you have some secret to your swimming?"

The man replied, "No secret at all. Born among hills, I adapted to life on land; raised by the water, I became attuned to its nature—everything follows its own course. I sink with the whirlpools and rise with the surges, wholly yielding to the water’s way without forcing anything. That is my method."

When Confucius pressed for deeper insight, the swimmer explained, "To live on land and be at ease there is my inherent nature; to grow by water and harmonize with its flow is my inborn tendency. I do not know why it is so, yet it comes naturally—this is destiny." While swimming, he was utterly unaware of danger, his skill appearing miraculous. Yet in truth, he simply followed the water’s movements completely, without deliberate effort.

This exchange illustrates the Daoist principle of "following what is natural" (顺其自然): resisting neither circumstance ("not opposing inherent nature") nor one’s own disposition ("being at ease on land/by water"), allowing life to unfold spontaneously ("achieving without knowing why"). Like the swimmer’s seemingly supernatural ability, true mastery lies in total alignment with the Dao of water ("following the water’s way") and the absence of selfish will ("acting without personal agenda"). Such a state transcends ordinary understanding—hence even Confucius initially mistook it for the supernatural.

Confucius was traveling to the state of Chu when he passed through a grove and saw a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas with a bamboo pole. His movements were so skillful that it seemed as effortless as picking things up casually. Confucius asked him, "Your technique is so remarkable—is there some secret to it?" The old man replied, "I have my own method. After practicing for five or six months, when I could balance two clay pellets on the tip of the pole without them falling, I rarely missed. When I could balance three, I failed only once in ten attempts. And when I could balance five without dropping them, catching cicadas became as easy as picking things up."

The old man went on to explain his state of mind: "When I stand, I’m as steady as a tree stump, and my arm holding the pole is as motionless as a withered branch. Though heaven and earth are vast and all things are abundant, my eyes focus solely on the cicada’s wings. I don’t look around or let anything distract me from them—how could I not succeed?" Hearing this, Confucius turned to his disciples and said, "When concentration reaches its utmost, one attains a divine level of skill—this is what the hunchbacked old man exemplifies."

But the old man said to Confucius, "You scholars in your wide robes and flowing sleeves—what do you know of such things? First cultivate your own foundation, then speak of profound realms." This illustrates that fully focusing the mind on one thing is called "Jing" (essence). Those who master the Dao can accomplish anything. When a person stands as firmly as a stump and holds their arm as still as a withered branch, they forget their physical existence. Though heaven and earth are vast and all things numerous, they focus solely on the cicada’s wings, undistracted. Thus, the mind becomes pure and uncluttered, and external disturbances naturally vanish. The longer the concentration, the fewer the mistakes—at first only occasional errors, then one failure in ten attempts, until finally it becomes as effortless as picking things up. There is no special trick—it is simply the utmost focus. Only the most perfect concentration in the world can connect with the most divine state. Hence it is said, "Only when the mind is undivided can it merge with the wondrous."

There was a man by the sea who loved seagulls. Every morning he would go to the shore and play with them, and often a hundred gulls would circle and dance around him. His father said, "I hear the gulls love playing with you—catch a few for me to enjoy." The next day, when the man returned to the shore, the gulls only wheeled in the sky and would not land. Thus it is said: The highest form of speech is to abandon speech; the highest form of action is Wuwei (non-action). To use cleverness and scheming to grasp things is shallow understanding indeed.

The ancient masters of the Dao discarded cleverness and forgot cunning, their minds pure and uncluttered. Thus, they could walk among beasts without disturbing them and enter flocks of birds without disrupting their formations. Even birds and beasts did not dislike them—how much less would people?

This scripture elucidates the core Daoist concepts of "no-mind" (wuxin) and "abandoning cleverness" (quzhi) through two illustrative stories. The first recounts how Lord Xiang of Zhao encountered a remarkable man who could freely pass through burning stone cliffs. When questioned, this man explained that because he fundamentally didn't recognize distinctions between "stone" and "fire," these external objects couldn't harm him. The second story describes how Marquis Wen of Wei, upon hearing this account, consulted Zixia (a disciple of Confucius). Zixia interpreted that when the human mind merges completely with the Dao, one attains the state of "shared origin between self and things" (wuwo tongyuan), wherein traversing metal and stone or treading through water and fire presents no obstruction.

The text emphasizes that true sages govern not through clever stratagems, as such intellectual artifice yields only superficial understanding. When one excavates the calculating mind (kuxin quzhi) and achieves harmony with nature ("harmony means complete unity with all things"), one transcends material limitations. Like the extraordinary man who, lacking conceptual distinctions between "stone" and "fire," could pass through them freely. Zixia admits his own inability to fully relinquish mental attachments, while Confucius (Fuzi), though capable of such transcendence, consciously chose not to display these abilities.

The passage culminates with a crucial insight: the Dao cannot be attained through deliberate striving. It requires relinquishing discriminating consciousness to reach the state where both self and objects are forgotten (wangwu wangwo). Just as the "heavenly balance" (tianni) naturally harmonizes all things, there's no need to forcibly seek distinction—for all things fundamentally share the same root and origin.

This passage recounts the story of Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) encountering the spirit medium Jixian, revealing the fundamental difference between genuine Dao attainment and mere charlatanism.

A spirit medium named Jixian came to the state of Zheng from Qi, claiming to foresee life, death, fortune, and misfortune with uncanny accuracy. The people of Zheng fled at the sight of him in terror. Yet Liezi became deeply impressed and reported to his teacher Master Hu (Huzi), saying he had originally believed his teacher's Dao methods were the most profound, but now discovered someone even more extraordinary.

Master Hu responded: "What I've taught you remains superficial—you haven't grasped the essence yet. It's like having only a hen without a rooster: how could eggs ever hatch? You flaunt these surface-level techniques in the world, no wonder people see through you." (Here the egg-hatching metaphor illustrates how Dao cultivation requires both substantial and insubstantial aspects.)

Master Hu instructed Liezi to bring Jixian for a reading. After their first meeting, Jixian told Liezi: "Your teacher will die soon—he won't last ten days. I saw his complexion like damp ashes." Liezi tearfully reported this to Master Hu, who explained: "I was demonstrating the 'Earthly Pattern' state (a meditative stillness technique), with Qi completely tranquil. He only perceived my suspended vitality and mistook it for impending death."

During their second encounter, Jixian changed his tune: "Fortunately he met me—your teacher can be saved!" In truth, Master Hu was now displaying the "Heavenly Soil" state (another cultivation realm), allowing subtle vitality to emerge. Jixian could only observe superficial changes, utterly missing the profound mechanism.

Through Jixian's misjudgments, the story demonstrates: True Dao masters command life's primordial source (the "Pivot of Dao") with perfect control, while charlatans only perceive surface phenomena. Master Hu criticizes Liezi's pursuit of empty fame, emphasizing that Dao cultivation requires grounded practice—otherwise it becomes like a hen trying to hatch eggs alone, forever missing true realization.

(The terms "blocked vital potential" (Dudeji) refers to suspended vitality, while "Earthly Pattern" (Diwen) describes meditative stillness resembling the earth's quiescence—both specialized Daoist cultivation terminology.)

This passage recounts how Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) learned the Dao from his master Master Hu. Through demonstrating different spiritual states, Master Hu taught Liezi the profundity of the Dao.

Master Hu first revealed the "Heaven and Earth" state, where conceptual distinctions cease to function, and vitality surges from the soles of the feet. This seemingly static yet secretly vibrant condition is called "hidden vitality" (Duquan). It resembles damp ashes that appear extinguished but still conceal embers within.

Later, Master Hu manifested the "Supreme Void Without Signs" state, representing perfect Yin-Yang equilibrium. Here "signs" refer to outward manifestations—this realm leaves no trace for observation. Like nine distinct water eddies (swirling like salamanders, still pools, flowing streams, etc.), though their surface movements differ, all ultimately return to the abyss's primal source, embodying the Dao's fundamental unity.

Through these demonstrations, Master Hu taught Liezi: True Daoist practice doesn't reside in external displays but in mastering internal vitality and Yin-Yang balance. Ordinary observers only perceive surface phenomena (like damp ashes or water currents), while adepts must discern the "subtle mysteries" (jiwei) they contain. These manifestations represent different stages of cultivation, ultimately transcending Yin-Yang duality to achieve the harmonious "Supreme Void" state.

This scripture recounts dialogues between Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) and Master Huzi (an accomplished adept), as well as Liezi's encounter with Bohun Maoren (another enlightened master). Through these stories, it elucidates the core Daoist principles of "emptiness, stillness, and non-action (Wuwei)."

When Liezi studied the Dao under Master Huzi, the master demonstrated the state of "never departing from my ancestral source" — meaning constant unity with the primordial origin of the Dao. In this state, one moves like reeds swaying with the wind or waves flowing naturally, remaining unfathomable to others. After grasping this truth, Liezi returned home and secluded himself for three years, living with utmost simplicity. He cooked meals over fire, treated his wife with ordinary kindness, shed all artificiality to return to his original purity, and ultimately attained the state where self and objects are forgotten.

Later, while traveling to Qi, Liezi turned back midway and met Bohun Maoren. He explained his sudden return was prompted by excessive courtesy from a beverage vendor — realizing that if even petty merchants flattered him so, how much more would rulers? This awakened him to the dangers of fame. Bohun Maoren pointed out that true adepts should maintain inner purity, practicing natural non-action without deliberately displaying wisdom. Like the ancient perfected ones (the highest realm of practitioners), they appear muddled yet harmonize with the Dao, leaving no traces while embodying profound mystery.

The text repeatedly emphasizes that cultivators must "hide within heaven" (accord with nature), "never depart from the ancestral source" (remain rooted in fundamentals), and "practice non-action to return to simplicity." Through Master Huzi's three demonstrated states (reed-like yielding, wave-like flowing, and elusive vanishing) and Liezi's personal practice, it illustrates how adepts should eliminate deliberate striving to achieve natural unity with the Dao.

This passage elucidates the Daoist principle of maintaining inner purity and remaining undisturbed by external matters.

The text observes that when a person becomes excessively self-conscious and clings to personal attachments, they cannot transcend the limitations of physical form. When someone exhausts their intellect through excessive involvement in state affairs, it leads to physical ailments and mental unrest. Fear and joy constantly wage war within their heart—how could they avoid becoming agitated and confused?

Bo Hun Muren (an enlightened Daoist master), witnessing this situation, remarked: "You are too concerned with self-display, and thus others will come to depend on you." Soon enough, a crowd gathered outside his door. Bo Hun stood facing north, leaning on his staff with his chin resting upon it. After a moment of silence, he departed. When Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) heard of this, he ran barefoot to the gate to seek his guidance.

Bo Hun explained: "I warned you long ago that people would come to rely on you. It is not that you can make others depend on you, but rather that you cannot prevent them from doing so. Deliberately striving to stand out only unsettles your true nature. Those who associate with you will not correct you—their flattering words are nothing but poison. If you fail to awaken to this, how can you long abide in the true Dao?"

A true sage (zhiren, the perfected person) dims their radiance and conceals their wisdom. Their spirit (shen) remains inwardly guarded, wandering freely in the mundane world without being discerned. If one deliberately seeks attention, they will inevitably attract followers. One should respond naturally, without striving to be extraordinary. Otherwise, not only will others cling to you, but you will also become burdened by external things.

The passage concludes by mentioning Yang Zhu traveling south to Pei and Laozi journeying west to Qin, meeting in the outskirts of Liang. This subtly suggests that cultivators should emulate their carefree wandering, unconstrained by worldly concerns.

Yang Zhu (a philosopher of the Warring States period) once encountered Laozi on the road. Laozi looked up at the sky and sighed, "At first I thought you could be taught, but now I see you cannot." Yang Zhu made no reply. Upon returning to his lodging, Yang Zhu washed respectfully, arranged his attire, removed his shoes, and approached Laozi on his knees, saying, "Earlier when you sighed while looking at the sky and said I was unteachable, I wished to ask why but feared disturbing you. Now seeing you at leisure, may I inquire about my faults?"

Laozi replied, "You always carry yourself with arrogant pride and stare at others with piercing eyes—who would wish to associate with someone like that? The truly pure appear as if covered in dust; those of genuine Virtue (De) always seem lacking." Hearing this, Yang Zhu's countenance changed dramatically, and he bowed respectfully, saying, "I understand."

After this encounter, Yang Zhu's behavior transformed noticeably. Previously when he stayed at inns, the host would welcome him reverently—the innkeeper would personally prepare his mat, the wife would bring towels, other guests would yield their seats, and the cooks would vacate the hearth for him. But after his realization, people began competing with him for seating space.

This contrast illustrates how truly astute merchants conceal their acumen, while those of genuine Virtue appear outwardly dull. Laozi points out that those who deliberately display cleverness or eccentricity to attract attention fundamentally misunderstand the true nature of the Dao. Even Liezi (a Daoist exemplar) who avoided drawing attention still faced criticism—how much more so for someone like Yang Zhu who deliberately stood apart?

"Great purity seems sullied" means a truly pure mind embraces all without showing blemish; "Abundant Virtue seems deficient" describes those of supreme Virtue who still feel inadequate—this represents the highest state of "supreme Virtue not appearing as Virtue." Yang Zhu's transformation from being revered at a distance to interacting as an equal demonstrates the sage's wisdom of "wearing coarse clothes while harboring precious jade within."

Another story tells of Yang Zhu at a Song state inn observing two concubines: one beautiful but disdained, another plain but respected. The innkeeper explained, "The beautiful one considers herself lovely, so I don't find her so; the plain one knows her plainness, so I don't consider her plain." From this Yang Zhu realized: one who embodies worthiness without self-praise will be welcomed everywhere. From the Dao's perspective, all things originally lack distinctions of beauty or ugliness—it's only when standards of "beauty" are established that "ugliness" emerges by contrast.

What the world considers beautiful is called miraculous, while what it detests is called rotten. Yet the miraculous can transform into the rotten, and the rotten can again become miraculous—so how can we truly distinguish between beauty and ugliness? The sage does not cling to worldly judgments of right and wrong, beauty or ugliness, but maintains an empty and tranquil mind, wandering through the human realm with transcendent detachment. They neither show off nor boast, just as one who practices virtue does not flaunt it. Thus, no one in the world can compete with them or dispute their merits. Living in this way, how could they not be beloved by all?

In the world, there exists an eternal path to victory, as well as a sure path to defeat. The law of eternal triumph is "softness and weakness," while the root of inevitable failure is "rigidity and strength." Though this principle seems simple, few truly grasp it. The ancient sages said: Those who rely on force always seek to dominate those weaker than themselves, while those who embrace softness begin with self-cultivation. If one constantly bullies the weak, they will inevitably face danger when encountering an equal opponent. But those who start with inner refinement will never encounter such peril. Cultivating oneself through the way of softness leads to self-fulfillment; governing the world with it achieves effortless action (Wuwei)—seeming not to contend, yet overcoming all; appearing to do nothing, yet accomplishing everything. Master Zhou (an ancient worthy) once said: To be strong, one must take softness as the foundation; to be mighty, one must safeguard weakness. Accumulating softness over time leads to strength, and nurturing weakness eventually transforms it into power. Observe where a person accumulates, and you can foresee their future fortune or misfortune.

Relying on strength can only overcome those weaker than oneself, but employing softness transcends one’s limits—this power is immeasurable. Laozi said: Weapons that are too hard will break; trees that are too rigid will snap. What is soft and weak belongs to the way of life, while what is rigid and strong belongs to the path of death. Only the sage can gather countless small acts of non-contention into ultimate victory. Just as water, the softest thing in the world, can overcome the hardest objects precisely because it never changes its nature. If one drifts with the current and loses oneself, how can they conquer external things? Only by preserving one’s true essence can one maintain constancy amidst endless change, leaving external forces no way to prevail—this is the eternal path to victory.

The principle of strength and weakness may seem simple, yet as Laozi said, "The soft overcomes the hard; the weak overcomes the strong"—though all under heaven know it, few can practice it. Those who always seek to dominate others will eventually meet their match and fall into peril, while those who begin with self-cultivation will never face such danger. For opposing the world inevitably invites resistance; only by being yielding and humble like water can one move unimpeded everywhere.

This passage expounds on the principle that softness and weakness overcome hardness and strength, along with the wisdom of not judging by appearances.

First, it demonstrates how weakness can prevail over strength. Just as the softest things can master the hardest objects in the world, one who maintains a gentle and yielding state is actually most fit to govern the world. Such a person doesn't strive to overpower external things, yet naturally becomes capable; doesn't rely on others, yet naturally assumes responsibility. Like when two armies clash, the side with compassion often prevails. Thus weapons that are too sharp tend to break easily, and trees that grow too thick are more likely to be felled. All things contain both Yin and Yang aspects, requiring their harmonious balance. When the killing energy (Yin) becomes excessive, the harmony of life (chonghe) is lost. Therefore, gentleness is the way of survival, while excessive strength invites destruction.

Next, it discusses not judging by appearances. People with similar appearances may have different minds, while those with similar minds may look different. Sages value inner wisdom over outward form, whereas ordinary people are easily deceived by appearances. Humans instinctively favor those who resemble them and distance themselves from those who look different. A being with a seven-foot frame, distinct limbs, hair and teeth that walks upright is called human, yet may harbor bestial nature; beasts with wings, horns, fangs and claws may possess human hearts. Ancient sage-kings like Fuxi, Nüwa, Shennong and Yu the Great sometimes bore extraordinary features—snake bodies with human faces, ox heads with tiger noses—yet possessed great virtue; while tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang looked human but had bestial hearts. Ordinary people who judge wisdom by appearances can hardly attain true knowledge.

Finally, it illustrates the relationship between humans and beasts through examples. When the Yellow Emperor battled the Flame Emperor at Banquan, he drove bears, panthers, wolves and leopards into battle—this was controlling beasts through force. When Emperor Yao had his music master Kui strike stone chimes, all beasts danced and phoenixes came to court—this was transforming beasts through music. Clearly, the nature of beasts may not differ from humans; people simply lack the means to communicate with them. The true sage, however, understands all things and communicates with all beings.

This passage describes the harmonious coexistence between humans and nature in ancient times, and how this relationship gradually deteriorated. Here's the core content explained in modern terms:

In primordial times, the wisdom of humans and animals was remarkably similar. Creatures instinctively understood the Dao of survival: males and females paired naturally, mothers cared for their young, they avoided open terrain for sheltered areas, sought warmth in cold seasons, maintained order in groups, moved in formation with the weak protected at the center and the strong guarding the periphery, coordinated while drinking, and called to one another when feeding. During the Great Antiquity era, animals and humans lived together peacefully.

When emperors began ruling, animals grew fearful of humans and scattered. By the decadent age, creatures hid and fled to avoid human harm. Nowadays in the eastern land of Jieshi, people can understand the language of domestic animals—a rare ability. The ancient sages fully comprehended the nature of all beings, could interpret different creatures' sounds, and gathered them for domestication as if they were ordinary people. Thus the sages first communicated with spirits, then educated the masses, and finally tamed birds, beasts and insects—recognizing that all blood-and-Qi creatures share similar consciousness.

In the most virtuous era of perfect Dao and De (Virtue/Power), people maintained childlike innocence, their virtue naturally complete; preserved desireless minds, embodying what's called primal simplicity. Humans and animals coexisted, harmonizing with all creation—one could lead beasts by hand for amusement, peer freely into birds' nests. The Yellow Emperor's Battle of Banquan and Emperor Yao's ritual-music teachings both stemmed from this philosophy. Cases like Ge Jielu understanding oxen or Zhou dynasty officials specializing in animal communication show traces of this legacy.

Liezi lamented the passing of this pure epoch, embedding Daoist truth in his writings to counter cunning decadence and restore simple honesty. The text illustrates with a story: A Song dynasty monkey trainer understood his monkeys as they understood him. When rationing family food to feed them became unsustainable, he tried limiting their portions by first offering "three acorns at dawn, four at dusk"—angering the monkeys—then reversing to "four at dawn, three at dusk," which pleased them.

This passage illustrates the core Daoist concept of "governing through non-action (Wuwei)" through several allegorical stories.

First is the tale of the monkey keeper: He gave three acorns in the morning and four in the evening, making the monkeys happy. The total remained unchanged—only the distribution was adjusted. The sage guides people with wisdom, just as the keeper managed his monkeys. Without altering names or substance, things are naturally accepted.

Ancient masters of the Dao didn't seek to make people clever, but to preserve their simplicity. People could be guided in action without needing to understand every principle. True practitioners simply followed natural patterns, avoiding forced cleverness.

The story of Ji Xiazi training fighting cocks for King Xuan of Zhou: After forty days, the cock transformed from initial bluster to complete calm—like a wooden statue—when provoked. Its De (Virtue) became perfect; other cocks wouldn't dare fight, fleeing at its sight.

True masters of victory don't contend. Precisely because they don't compete, none in the world can compete with them. For inner stillness, calm your Qi (vital energy); for focused Shen (spirit), follow nature's course. Such people possess complete innate nature, their spirits leaving no gaps for external things to penetrate. Even when encountering external phenomena, they remain fearless and unharmed. This is the protection of pure Qi—unattainable through mere strategy or bravery.

The story of Hui Ang meeting King Kang of Song: The king valued only military might, disdaining benevolence. Hui Ang claimed he could make even courageous men miss their thrusts, strong men fail their strikes. Better still, he could eliminate the very desire to harm others. Most importantly, he could cultivate hearts that cherish and benefit others—a far greater influence than brute force.

This passage recounts the story of Hui Ang admonishing the King of Song, illustrating how benevolence and virtue (De) prove more effective than brute force in winning hearts. Hui Ang addressed the ruler: "Throughout the lands, men and women now rejoice in drawing near to and supporting those who embody virtue. This influence far surpasses that of mere martial prowess, representing a higher realm of attainment. Does Your Majesty not aspire to such distinction?"

The King of Song replied: "This is precisely what I wish to achieve." Hui Ang continued: "Confucius and Mozi exemplified this principle. Though possessing no fiefdoms, they were honored like sovereigns; holding no official posts, they were cherished like magistrates. The common people stretched their necks and stood on tiptoes, yearning for their beneficence. Now as ruler of ten thousand chariots, should Your Majesty truly embrace this aspiration, your entire populace would reap blessings—an influence far exceeding that of Confucius or Mozi." The king fell silent, and Hui Ang withdrew with haste.

The subsequent commentary observes: "Sages govern the world through numinous wisdom rather than slaughter, wielding compassion as their treasure. Thus when benevolence permeates the realm, none fail to submit; when righteousness fills the land, none refuse obedience. This constitutes the constant victory of the Dao, far superior to martial might. Herein lies the reason all under heaven cherish them."

The simultaneous mention of Confucius and Mozi reflects Zhuangzi's perspective on ancient Daoist arts—that each school possesses unique strengths. Though Mozi's cultivation of the Dao lacked completeness, he nevertheless stood as an exceptionally talented specialist.

During the reign of King Mu of Zhou, a "Shape-shifter" arrived from the Western Regions. This man possessed extraordinary abilities—he could traverse fire and water, penetrate metal and stone, invert mountains and rivers, move entire cities, float in midair without falling, pass through solid objects unimpeded, and transform endlessly. Not only could he alter the forms of objects, but he could also influence human thoughts.

Those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) of transformation recognize this as the work of divine spirit (Shen). Fire and water could not harm him; metal and stone could not obstruct him. To him, height and depth, distance and nearness held no distinction, and the boundaries between reality and illusion dissolved. Such boundless transformation and omnipotence may indeed be called miraculous. Yet what we call "divine" is ultimately that which transcends all things and remains unfathomable. The Shape-shifter's ability to alter forms and shift perceptions was, in essence, achieved by mastering principles and aligning with change—hence his name, "Shape-shifter."

King Mu revered this man as if he were a deity, treating him as an honored guest. He housed him in the most splendid palace, offered him the richest sacrifices, and selected the most exquisite music and dances to please him. Yet the Shape-shifter found the king's palace too crude to inhabit, his food too foul to eat, and his consorts too vulgar to approach. King Mu then undertook massive construction, exhausting the treasury to build the "Mid-Heaven Tower," rising a thousand ren (an ancient unit of measurement, approximately eight feet) atop Mount Zhongnan. He also handpicked the most beautiful women from Zheng and Wei, adorning them in fine robes, fragrant herbs, and jade ornaments, and had them perform elegant music such as "Cloud Gate," "Six Brilliances," and "Nine Harmonies" to entertain the Shape-shifter. Only after offering jade garments monthly and exquisite delicacies daily did the Shape-shifter reluctantly accept.

People often elevate certain things as miraculous while dismissing others as worthless. Yet the miraculous and the worthless transform into one another—how can beauty and ugliness truly be distinguished? The Shape-shifter disdained King Mu's palace, food, and consorts, insisting on reconstruction and refinement before accepting them. This reveals that he had not yet transcended the discriminating mind that clings to beauty and ugliness, preference and aversion. Thus, King Mu's reverence for him ultimately amounted to nothing more than marveling at the "art of transformation" as a mere spectacle.

This scripture recounts the miraculous encounter between King Mu of Zhou and a transformative being (a xianren or immortal with supernatural powers):

The transformative being took King Mu soaring through the skies to a celestial palace. Constructed of gold and silver, adorned with pearls and jade, it floated above the clouds—appearing from below like piled cloud formations. Everything within this palace—its sights, sounds, fragrances, and flavors—transcended anything found in the mortal realm. King Mu believed this to be the "Qingdu Ziwei" (the Daoist celestial palace where the Heavenly Emperor resides), and his own royal abode seemed but a mound of dirt and thatch in comparison. He dwelled in this heavenly palace for what felt like decades, completely forgetting his earthly kingdom.

Later, the transformative being took King Mu to even more wondrous realms where neither sun nor moon could be seen when looking up, nor mountains nor rivers when gazing down. Blinding light dazzled his eyes, deafening sounds roared in his ears, causing his internal organs to tremble with fright and his spirit (Shen) to become disoriented. Unable to endure it, King Mu begged to return.

Upon awakening, he found himself seated exactly where he had been, with the wine and dishes before him untouched. His attendants claimed he had merely been sitting quietly for a short while. King Mu remained in a daze for three months afterward until the transformative being explained: they had only been "spirit-journeying" (Shenyou, traveling in spirit), with their physical bodies never having moved. The celestial palace he saw was ultimately no different from earthly palaces, and the realms they visited were comparable to human gardens. Only then did King Mu realize that the pinnacle of transformation could occur so swiftly as to blur the lines between reality and illusion.

The passage illustrates how the spirit can traverse all directions in an instant—while the body remains still, the mind travels far. Ordinary people habitually regard familiar things as real and unfamiliar phenomena as illusory, yet truth and illusion are ultimately separated by but a single thought. Practitioners of the Dao can transcend physical limitations through spiritual cultivation, attaining the realm of "spirit-journeying."

The story of King Mu of Zhou (the fifth ruler of the Western Zhou Dynasty) illustrates mortal yearning for the realm of immortals. Obsessed with pleasure-seeking, he once traveled in a chariot drawn by eight divine steeds: Hua Liu and Lü Er on the right, Chi Ji and Bai Yi on the left, driven by the legendary charioteer Zao Fu. They reached the land of the Jusou people, where locals offered him crane's blood to drink and bathed his feet in mare's milk. Later, King Mu ascended Mount Kunlun, visited the Yellow Emperor's palace, and feasted with the Queen Mother of the West (Xiwangmu, the highest-ranking female immortal in Daoism) at the Jade Pool, exchanging ritual songs. When witnessing the magnificent sunset, he suddenly realized his insufficient virtue (De) amid such indulgence, fearing historical condemnation.

This narrative reveals that despite King Mu's ability to traverse ten thousand li daily and visit celestial realms, he ultimately relied on chariots and horses—not true transcendence. As the text critiques, he "approached divinity without being divine," suggesting mortals cannot break physical limitations through mere wanderlust.

Later passages describe Lao Chengzi failing to master illusion techniques after three years of study under Master Yin Wen, demonstrating spiritual cultivation requires destined opportunity. When Master Yin Wen invited him for private instruction, it hinted at the necessity of deeper master-disciple transmission in authentic practice. The entire story explores the core Daoist theme of "form-spirit relationship"—while the physical body perishes, the spirit (Shen) may transcend time and space.

When Laozi (Lao Dan) journeyed westward, he once turned back to tell me: All living breaths and formed objects are illusory. At the beginning of Heaven and Earth's creative process, the transformations of Yin-Yang manifest as what we call birth and death. That which exhausts the patterns of Heaven-Earth and penetrates the Dao of transformation, following the changes of form, we call metamorphosis and illusion. The profound mystery of the Creator (referring to the Dao of Heaven) is unfathomable—its creative work runs too deep to investigate thoroughly. Yet transformations dependent on physical forms display obvious techniques with shallow efficacy, thus appearing and vanishing with circumstance. Only those who understand that illusion and reality share the same essence as birth and death are qualified to study the art of transformation. In truth, both you and I are illusory existences—why deliberately study such arts?

After returning, Lao Chengzi devoted himself to contemplation for three months following Master Yin Wen's (a Warring States period philosopher) teachings, ultimately mastering the secret of making things appear and disappear at will. He could make thunder roll in winter or ice form in summer, could interchange the natures of birds and beasts—yet never displayed these arts in his lifetime, hence they remain unknown to the world.

For those capable of comprehending the Great Dao, one may guide them into mystical realms; for the uncomprehending, transmission must be cautious. The revolutions of Yin-Yang, the succession of four seasons, the patterns of myriad things' transformations—all abruptly emerge and swiftly vanish. Thus we say all living breaths and formed objects are illusory. All things take birth as their beginning and death as their end. People commonly regard life as the norm and death as anomaly, yet both are governed by the operations of Yin-Yang's creative transformations.

The Dao of Heaven (the Creator) is mysteriously unfathomable—its creative work profound and obscure; human manipulations of form are visible yet easily perishable. From the perspective of the Great Dao, while birth and death undeniably exist, and transformations may be artificial, neither is eternally real. Since even you and I are illusory existences, what need is there to study arts of transformation? Would this not be like interpreting dreams within a dream—utterly superfluous?

The dreamer speaks of things with those who are attached to the existence or extinction of things; in fact, things either exist or perish, while the substance of the “I” exists eternally. Just as a banner moves with the wind yet one can still clearly perceive the changes of the four seasons, this shows that one can harness Yin-Yang without being controlled by Yin-Yang; phenomena such as thunder in winter and ice in summer show that one can govern the four seasons without being constrained by them; birds walking on the ground and beasts flying in the sky show that one can direct the myriad things without being directed by them. The subtle power of this state is profound, so much so that one can roam with the Creator, yet throughout life one does not reveal one’s methods, and the world cannot transmit them—precisely because this state is hard to exhaust, hard to attain, hard to fathom, and hard to know. Therefore, one who is truly skilled in the Dao of transformation must first establish the cognitive foundations of “constant non-being” and “constant being” before fully mastering this state.

Liezi said: One who is skilled in the Dao of transformation keeps his arts deeply hidden and unexposed, yet they are useful everywhere; his merit and virtue are no different from those of ordinary people. The virtue of the Five Emperors—Huangdi, Zhuanxu, Diku, Yao, and Shun—and the achievements of the Three Kings—Yu of Xia, Tang of Shang, and King Wen of Zhou—did not necessarily depend entirely on wisdom and courage; perhaps they were accomplished through natural transformation. Who can say clearly? The virtue of the Five Emperors is called “virtue,” and the achievements of the Three Kings are called “achievement”; these are merely differences in their outward manifestations, while the Dao within them was actually the same. People neither dare to assert that these were entirely the result of wisdom and courage, nor are they free of doubt about the claim that they were “formed through transformation.” This unfathomable realm of transformation is probably the realm of becoming one with Heaven, Earth, and nature.

In waking life people have eight signs (ba zheng), and dreams have six categories (liu hou). The eight signs are: first, past experience (gu); second, present action (wei); third, gain; fourth, loss; fifth, sorrow; sixth, joy; seventh, life; eighth, death. These eight are all manifestations of the physical form coming into contact with the external world. The six dream categories are: first, natural dreams (zhengmeng); second, dreams born of suppression (e meng); third, dreams caused by longing (simeng); fourth, dreams in a half-awake state (wumeng); fifth, dreams of joy (ximeng); sixth, dreams of fear (jumeng). These six are all results of the spirit’s interaction with the external world. Those who do not understand the source of these feelings and changes are confused when they encounter things; those who understand the source know the ins and outs when they encounter things. When awake and dealing with concrete matters, one verifies them with the eight signs; when dreams contain Heavenly principles, one divines them with the six categories. The so-called “gu” refers to past experience; “wei” refers to present action; “de” indicates gain; “sang” indicates loss; sorrow and joy stir the inner heart; life and death alter one’s own state. These eight are all verifiable manifestations of the physical form coming into contact with the external world.

This scripture primarily discusses the relationship between dreams and the fluctuations of Yin-Yang within the human body. It explains that dreams are actually the result of interactions between the hun and po souls (Daoism posits that humans possess three hun and seven po souls) and external phenomena. During daytime wakefulness, the physical body is active, while at night during sleep, the souls wander—this alternation between day and night embodies the transformations of Yin and Yang.

When Yin Qi (vital energy) becomes excessive in the body, one may dream of wading through deep waters and feel fear; when Yang Qi is excessive, one may dream of raging fires. If both Yin and Yang Qi are abundant and harmonious, one might dream of new life; but if they are excessive yet unbalanced, dreams of violence may arise. Overeating leads to dreams of giving food to others, while extreme hunger brings dreams of seeking sustenance.

The text also enumerates specific dream symbols: those with a light, floating constitution dream of soaring, while those with a heavy constitution dream of drowning; sleeping while pressing on a belt may evoke dreams of snakes, and having one’s hair tugged by a bird may inspire dreams of flight. Drinkers paradoxically experience sorrow in dreams, and those who sing and dance may weep—all manifestations of how opposites complement one another.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) states: "When the spirit encounters external things, dreams arise; when the physical body interacts with the world, waking reality occurs." Thus, those whose minds are deeply focused naturally experience fewer distractions and dreams. A true adept of the Dao (zhenren) forgets the self while awake and does not dream while asleep—this is no empty claim.

Finally, the text asserts that all phenomena between heaven and earth are composed of a single Qi (the fundamental energy underlying all existence). Therefore, the waxing and waning of the human body correspond to the rhythms of the cosmos. These dream phenomena reflect the natural laws of Yin-Yang transformation, where one recedes as the other flourishes.

This scripture describes the living conditions of three different states, revealing the realm of the "Perfected Person" (Zhenren) through comparison. In the western land called Gumang, Yin and Yang do not interact—there are no seasons, no cold or heat, no day or night. The people neither eat nor wear clothes, spending most of their time asleep, waking only once every fifty days. They consider their dreams to be reality, while dismissing their waking experiences as illusory.

The central state, Zhongyuan, is vast and fertile, with clearly defined seasons and the regular alternation of day and night. Its people vary in wisdom and foolishness, and the land is abundant with thriving creatures and diverse arts. They have established systems of governance, rituals, and laws. They regard their waking actions as real, while viewing dreams as mere illusions.

To the east lies the state of Fuluo, where the climate is scorching and the land barren. The people survive on wild roots and fruits, their temperament fierce and warlike. They remain awake most of the time, rarely sleeping.

Through this contrast, the text illustrates that the western state belongs to Yin, where people favor stillness and much sleep; the eastern state belongs to Yang, where people prefer movement and little rest; while the central state maintains the harmonious balance of Yin and Yang, with regulated activity and rest. The truly enlightened—the Perfected Person—transcends the duality of dreaming and waking, reaching the state of "forgetting both reality and illusion," which is the true realization of the eternal Dao (Dao).

Finally, the text cites the example of a Zhou dynasty nobleman named Yin: his elderly servant toiled day and night, utterly exhausted, groaning during labor by day and collapsing into deep sleep at night. This illustrates how ordinary people remain trapped by their physical forms, their spirits scattered, unable to attain the transcendent state of the Perfected Person. The reason the Perfected Person can surpass the distinction between dream and wakefulness is their unity with the Dao, unswayed by superficial appearances.

This passage presents two stories about dreams and reality, along with Daoist philosophical reflections on human awakening and dreaming.

The first story tells of a man named Yin who lived as a ruler enjoying luxury by day, but always dreamed of being a suffering servant at night. His friend explained: "Yin and Yang must maintain balance. Since you indulge excessively during the day, you naturally compensate through suffering at night." When Yin subsequently reduced his servants' labor and his own obsessive thoughts, his condition improved. This teaches us that excessive attachment to worldly gains and losses disrupts natural equilibrium.

The second story describes a woodcutter from Zheng who accidentally killed a deer, hid it, then forgot the location and thought it was just a dream. Someone overheard his mutterings and actually found the deer. Returning home, this man boasted: "That woodcutter merely dreamed of getting the deer—I'm the real winner." His wife countered: "Perhaps you're the one dreaming about the woodcutter finding a deer? Who's really dreaming now?" Finally the man declared: "The deer's in my hands—why bother whose dream it is?"

Both stories explore the boundary between reality and dreams. Daoism suggests what ordinary people call "wakefulness" might just be a grander dream—only those who attain the Dao (the Way) can awaken from this greater illusion. As the text states, foolish people assume they're awake, yet only through "great awakening" (enlightenment) can one realize life itself is but a dream. Whether king or shepherd, obsession with worldly status remains superficial.

The phrase "the harmonious balance of alternating Yin and Yang" reflects core Daoist philosophy emphasizing equilibrium. When people excessively pursue one aspect (like daytime pleasures), imbalance naturally manifests elsewhere (like nighttime dreams). Only by reducing attachments can one return to natural harmony.

The woodcutter found a deer on his way home. That night, he dreamed of hiding the deer, then dreamed of giving it to someone else. The next morning, he actually found the deer at the location from his dream and quarreled with the man who had received it in the dream. The official ruled: "When you first found the deer, you thought it was a dream; when you dreamed of receiving it, you took it as reality. Now both of you claim the deer, and even your wife testifies it feels like a dream. Since we can't determine ownership, split the deer equally." When the king of Zheng heard this, he laughed: "Is the official also dreaming of dividing a deer?" Consulting his prime minister, he received the reply: "Between dreams and reality, even I cannot distinguish. Only the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) and Confucius could tell them apart—but they're long gone. Let's follow the official's judgment."

From the perspective of Dao (the Way), what difference exists between waking and dreaming? Right and wrong both arise from the same primordial Qi (vital energy)—where are absolute standards? Only after conceptual distinctions emerged did judgments of truth and falsehood appear. Calling a real deer a dream, treating a dreamed deer as real—this tangle of contradictions, who can truly unravel it? When the Yellow Emperor and Confucius judged matters by truth, were they absolutely correct? When the official applied common reasoning, was he wholly wrong? Since we cannot consult Huangdi or Confucius now, we must follow the official's decision.

In the Yangli district of Song, Hua Zi developed amnesia in middle age. Things taken in the morning were forgotten by evening; items received at night vanished from memory by dawn. On roads, he forgot destinations; at home, he forgot to sit down. He couldn't distinguish past from present or comprehend his immediate circumstances. His whole family despaired—diviners failed, shamans' prayers proved useless, and medicines brought no cure. Then a Confucian scholar from Lu claimed he could heal him. Hua Zi's wife offered half their wealth for the remedy. The scholar said: "This illness lies beyond divination, prayer, or medicine. I'll attempt to transform his consciousness—perhaps recovery may come." He deliberately exposed Hua Zi to cold until he sought clothes, to hunger until he desired food, to darkness until he craved light. Elated, the scholar told Hua Zi's son: "The cure works! But my method stays secret." After dismissing all witnesses, he secluded himself with Hua Zi for seven days—none knew what transpired—and the decades-old ailment vanished completely.

This story presents two philosophical parables about Hua Zi and the son of the Pang family.

After Hua Zi suddenly regained his memory, he flew into a rage—scolding his wife, punishing his children, and even chasing Confucian scholars with weapons. When the people of Song captured and questioned him, Hua Zi explained: "When I was without memory, my mind was empty and clear, unaware even of heaven and earth's existence. Now that my memories have returned, decades of gains and losses, joys and sorrows, loves and hates all surge within me. I fear these emotions will continue disturbing my mental state. That brief state of self-forgetfulness—can it ever be regained?"

When Zigong heard this, he found it strange and reported it to Confucius. The master responded: "This surpasses your understanding," then instructed Yan Hui to record the incident. Confucius believed: Forgetting distinctions between right and wrong represents mental tranquility; relinquishing attachment to the physical form and abandoning cleverness allows one's innate nature (original endowment) to manifest spontaneously, silently merging with the Dao (the Way). This state—apparently muddled yet profoundly perceptive—eludes ordinary people's comprehension. While commoners pursue worldly success, sages embrace primal chaos; transcending mundane affairs to penetrate fundamental truths, comprehending origins to attain spiritual freedom. This explains why sages remain untroubled, while ordinary people mistake such enlightenment for illness.

The Confucians sought to "cure" Hua Zi through various methods, but actually burdened his body and disturbed his spirit with concerns about survival, gain/loss, sorrow/joy, and preferences. Their so-called "treatment" amounted to harming him. Confucius didn't explain to Zigong because his knowledge was too fragmented; he specifically tasked Yan Hui with recording precisely because he recognized Yan's capacity to achieve "sitting in forgetfulness" (a meditative state of self-oblivion).

The second story concerns a son of the Pang family in Qin—brilliant in childhood but afflicted with cognitive disorder as an adult: hearing songs as weeping, seeing white as black, smelling fragrance as rot, tasting sweetness as bitterness, mistaking wrong actions for right. His perceptions became completely inverted, with all sensations of heaven/earth, directions, water/fire, and hot/cold reversed. When Yang Shi suggested to the father, "The Lu state has many talented scholars who might cure him?", the father encountered Laozi (Lao Dan) while passing through Chen and described his son's condition. Laozi replied: "How can you be certain your son is confused? Nowadays all people under heaven are deluded by right/wrong and profit/loss—those sharing his condition are legion, yet none realize it. One person's confusion cannot affect an entire household; one household's confusion cannot affect an entire village..." (The original text breaks off here, but implies Laozi's perspective that "the whole world is drunk while I alone am sober")

This passage speaks about how people lose their original nature. If one person is lost, it cannot affect an entire nation; if a whole nation is lost, it still cannot affect the world. But if everyone in the world is lost, who then can guide them? Suppose the minds of all people were like yours—then you would instead be the one who is lost. Joy and anger, sorrow and happiness, sensual desires, right and wrong—who can truly distinguish them clearly? Even these words I speak may themselves be a form of delusion. What’s more, those self-proclaimed wise gentlemen of Lu are themselves deeply lost—how could they possibly help others find clarity? You’d better pack your belongings and hurry back.

The more rigidly people cling to distinctions of right and wrong, the more the great Dao (the Way) is diminished. You have your judgments, and I have mine. Thus, songs and cries, black and white, fragrance and rot, sweetness and bitterness—people across the world each insist on their own version of truth while rejecting others’. For ages, people have been lost like this, privately convinced of their own understanding while calling others confused. How could I possibly sort it all out? That’s why Laozi once said to a father: How do you know your son is confused? He also said: Joy and anger, sorrow and happiness, sensual desires, right and wrong—who can truly distinguish them? It’s like when the Mysterious Pearl (a metaphor for the Dao) is lost—only Xiangwang (the state of no-mind and no-form) can find it. How could ordinary people ever understand this affliction of delusion?

There was a man from Yan who grew up in Chu. In his old age, he longed to return to his homeland. Passing through Jin, his companions played a trick on him—pointing to Jin’s city walls, they said, This is Yan’s city, and his expression darkened with sorrow. When they pointed to a shrine and called it his hometown’s altar, he sighed deeply. When they pointed to a house and claimed it was his ancestral home, tears welled up in his eyes. And when they gestured toward a grave mound and declared it his forefathers’ burial site, he broke down in sobs. His companions burst into laughter, confessing they had deceived him—this was, in fact, still Jin. The man was deeply ashamed. But when he finally reached Yan and beheld its real walls, altars, ancestral homes, and graves, his grief was not as sharp. When emotions reach their peak, once the sorrow or joy passes, the original intensity fades away.

This teaches us that people are often misled by appearances, clinging to illusory feelings. True awakening means transcending these external fluctuations of joy and sorrow, gain and loss.

This passage recounts a dialogue between Confucius and his disciples Yan Hui and Zigong concerning "joyfully accepting Heaven's will and understanding destiny," revealing profound Daoist insights into fate and spiritual cultivation.

When Zigong noticed Confucius looking troubled but dared not inquire, he informed Yan Hui. Yan Hui began playing the zither and singing, prompting Confucius to summon him and ask: "Why are you so content alone?" Yan Hui quoted Confucius' earlier teaching that "one who joyfully accepts Heaven's will and understands destiny has no sorrow" to explain his happiness.

However, Confucius solemnly corrected him: You've misunderstood. What I said before was correct for that time, but by present standards it's incomplete. Those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) know that teachings evolve with changing circumstances. You assume joyful acceptance of fate means having no worries, yet fail to recognize this very acceptance contains greater concerns.

Here two levels of spiritual attainment are revealed:

The first concerns personal cultivation: maintaining equanimity by recognizing that gain and loss, poverty and success, life and death lie beyond our control. This is the state of "having no minor worries."

The second involves embracing universal concern: when practitioners carry the world in their hearts, they develop "great worries." True joy isn't simple happiness, nor is true wisdom mere knowledge.

Ancient Dao-realized sages understood: human actions depend on Heaven's will rather than personal effort; success and failure rest with destiny rather than striving. They took no pride in prosperity nor shame in adversity, remaining at ease in all circumstances and flowing with nature's course. Thus neither grief nor joy could disturb their inner peace.

This exchange embodies the Daoist principle of "moving with the times and adapting to changing circumstances," illustrating how spiritual cultivation progresses through stages: personal liberation forms only the foundation, while universal compassion represents higher attainment. It simultaneously demonstrates truth's relativity—how understanding deepens and transforms with evolving awareness.

This passage reflects Confucius' profound contemplation on the path of self-cultivation and state governance. Initially, Confucius believed that governing the world could be achieved through poetry, historical texts, rituals, and music. However, he later observed the growing disorder among rulers and ministers in the state of Lu, witnessing the decline of benevolence, righteousness, and virtue. He realized that these methods couldn't even effectively govern a single state, let alone influence future generations. This revelation made him understand that poetry and rituals alone couldn't truly resolve the issues of chaos and order, though he hadn't yet found a way to reform them—precisely what troubles those who comprehend the Mandate of Heaven (Tianming).

Poetry and historical texts record the principles of governance, while rituals and music serve as its tools. Confucius had truly grasped the Dao (the Way) and used it to cultivate himself, transcending the superficial aspects of form and reputation. Yet, witnessing the world's flaws, he still advocated benevolence and righteousness, clarified rituals and music, and employed various methods to pacify people's hearts. Unfortunately, people were too deeply immersed in material desires to return to their innate nature, leading to the further decline of benevolence and righteousness. These methods had already become ineffective in his time, leaving Confucius deeply concerned for future generations.

However, Confucius ultimately realized: true joy and wisdom are not what the ancients described as joy and wisdom. The absence of joy and knowledge is true joy and true knowledge. In this state, one can experience boundless joy, omniscience, freedom from worry, and unrestricted action. If so, why discard poetry, rituals, and music? Why deliberately seek reform? When Yan Hui (Confucius' disciple) heard this teaching, he was deeply inspired. But Zigong (another disciple) was bewildered, returning home to ponder for seven days without rest, becoming emaciated and exhausted. Later, Yan Hui went to enlighten him, and only then did Zigong return to Confucius' teachings, devoting his life to studying rituals and music.

The passage concludes: If virtue (De) is not abandoned, why would benevolence and righteousness be needed? If human nature remains untainted, why would rituals and music be necessary? True "joy in Heaven" is not the joy spoken of by the ancients, and true "understanding of destiny" is not the knowledge they described. True joy in Heaven transcends joy itself, and true understanding of destiny surpasses mere cognition. Reaching this state allows one to experience boundless joy, omniscience, freedom from worry, and unrestricted action—roaming with the transformations of creation and influencing others wherever one goes. At this point, studying poetry, rituals, and music becomes harmless; one may even transcend benevolence and righteousness and let go of rituals and music.

This passage recounts two stories about sages, revealing the Daoist understanding of the "sage's state."

The first story tells of a high official from Chen visiting Lu, who privately met with Shusun Shi. Shusun praised Confucius as a sage, claiming he could "discard the mind and employ the body" (transcending thought to directly utilize physical form). The Chen official responded that their state also had a sage named Kangcangzi, who could "see with his ears and hear with his eyes." The contrast illustrates: Confucius harmonized with external things while forgetting his original mind, hence the description of "discarding the mind and employing the body"; Kangcangzi harmonized with innate nature while forgetting physical form, hence "seeing with ears and hearing with eyes." Both states are likened to the up-and-down movement of an ancient well-sweep—equally natural manifestations.

The second story describes how the Marquis of Lu, hearing of Kangcangzi's extraordinary abilities, invited him with lavish gifts. Kangcangzi clarified that the rumors were mistaken—he didn't literally see with ears or hear with eyes. Rather, he had attained the state where "the body unites with the mind, the mind unites with Qi (vital energy), Qi unites with Shen (spirit), and Shen unites with nothingness." In this condition, all things near or far within his perceptual range became naturally known. This awareness didn't rely on the seven orifices or four limbs, but was a holistic, natural perception.

When Confucius heard of this, he smiled without comment—implying the true sage's Dao transcends physical traces and shouldn't be fixated on external displays. So-called supernatural abilities like "seeing with ears" still ultimately depend on physical form; the more profound state surpasses sensory limitations to achieve natural awareness in unity with the Dao.

The passage describes a realm beyond physical perception and Confucius' humble attitude toward the title of "sage."

First, it depicts the profound state attained by Daoist practitioners: When one transcends physical constraints, sensory organs like ears and eyes remain attached to the body but become insufficient. True adepts don't rely on these senses—their bodies become like empty space, enabling them to see in darkness and hear in silence, merging completely with divine consciousness. This state manifests as: When form unites with mind, inner cultivation proceeds from external to internal; when mind unites with Qi (the fundamental element of Daoist practice), one progresses from substance to emptiness; when Qi unites with Shen (spirit), one stands in unfathomable realms; when Shen unites with non-being (the ultimate state of Dao), action becomes limitlessly free. Here, hearing occurs not through ears but via Qi's perception; seeing happens not through eyes but through Shen's encounter. This is what's called "entering the seamless through the formless."

Later, the dialogue between Confucius and Minister Shang is recounted: When asked if he was a sage, Confucius modestly replied he was merely erudite. Asked whether the Three Kings (of Xia, Shang, Zhou dynasties), Five Emperors, or Three Sovereigns were sages, Confucius noted they respectively excelled in applying wisdom/courage, benevolence/righteousness, and timely adaptation—yet refused to acknowledge them as sages. Confucius held that while these rulers acted according to circumstance, their achievements remained deliberate actions, inferior to the Wuwei (non-action) state revered in Daoism, hence unworthy of the sage designation.

Finally, when the astonished minister asked who truly qualified as a sage, Confucius' expression shifted without direct reply—implying real sages transcend nominal definitions. This exchange reveals Confucius' humility as "sage-yet-unclaiming," while subtly resonating with Daoism's governance-through-nonaction philosophy.

This passage explores the nature of true sages and governance through several dialogical scenarios.

When someone told Confucius about a sage in the West who "governs without governing yet there's no disorder, speaks not yet inspires natural trust, teaches not yet everything functions spontaneously, with virtue so vast the people cannot describe it," Confucius grew doubtful - was this a true sage or an impostor? The Grand Steward of Shang secretly wondered: "Is Confucius deceiving me?"

Zhuangzi, in discussing successive emperors from Suiren, Fuxi, and Shennong to the Yellow Emperor and Yao-Shun, observed that all rulers since antiquity believed morality was in decline. Confucius's understanding of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors' governance actually missed the essence of true sageliness. The Western sage embodies the Dao's movement through time. The governance of the Five Emperors and Three Kings resembles spring and summer - focused on external achievements; whereas the Western sage resembles autumn and winter - returning to primal simplicity, manifesting sagely virtue through stillness.

True sagely governance operates thus: the best governance is non-governance, for without artificial interference, disorder naturally ceases; trust emerges without words, for true integrity transcends language; teaching leaves no traces, functioning with the spontaneity of nature itself. This state is what we call "Wuwei (non-action) yet perpetually natural." The realm of Dao cannot be circumscribed by language, hence the people's inability to describe it.

When Zixia (Confucius's disciple) asked about his fellow disciples' virtues - Yan Hui surpassing the master in benevolence, Zigong in eloquence, Zilu in courage, and Zizhang in dignity - he pressed: "Then why do they still follow you?" Confucius explained: Yan Hui was benevolent but inflexible; Zigong eloquent but knew not silence; Zilu courageous but fearless; Zizhang dignified but lacking adaptability. Confucius embodied the balanced application of all these virtues, thus becoming their teacher.

Through these contrasts, the text illustrates how true sagely governance relies not on external methods but on aligning with natural tendencies, while revealing that perfected character requires harmonious balance of qualities - precisely what elevated Confucius above his disciples.

This passage discusses the limitations of Confucius' disciples and the profound interaction between Liezi (Lie Yukou, a Daoist master) and Master Nanguo, embodying deep Daoist wisdom.

Confucius evaluated his disciples: Yan Hui (Hui) was benevolent but lacked transcendence; Zigong (Ci) was eloquent but unskilled in silence; Zilu (You) was courageous but ignorant of yielding; Zizhang (Shi) was dignified but deficient in flexibility. Each grasped only a partial aspect of the Dao, whereas the sage (referring to Confucius himself) could embrace all to attain the "Middle Way." Precisely because these disciples recognized their incompleteness compared to their teacher, they remained devoted followers.

The narrative then recounts the story of Liezi (Lie Yukou, a prominent Daoist figure). He studied under Master Huliang Zilin, befriended Bohun Wuren, and later retired to live in Nanguo. There lived a recluse named Master Nanguo, who for twenty years as Liezi's neighbor never interacted with him, passing by without acknowledgment when they met on the road. Liezi's disciples assumed there was animosity between them.

When a visitor from Chu questioned why Liezi seemed at odds with Master Nanguo, Liezi explained: "Master Nanguo's form appears substantial yet his mind remains in perfect emptiness—his ears hear nothing, his eyes see nothing, his mouth speaks nothing, his mind thinks nothing, his body takes no action. He has attained the state of 'sitting in forgetfulness' (zuowang)." Later, when Liezi brought forty disciples to visit Master Nanguo, they found him utterly unresponsive like a wooden puppet. Suddenly, however, Master Nanguo addressed the last disciple in line with remarkable focus and eloquence. Liezi told his followers: "One who truly embodies the Dao needs no words; supreme wisdom transcends verbal teaching. Communicating through silence, knowing through unknowing—this constitutes genuine knowledge and speech."

Through these contrasts, the passage illustrates the Daoist ideal of "great wisdom appearing foolish"—where true sages seem devoid of ordinary awareness yet respond perfectly to circumstances. Master Nanguo's behavior vividly embodies the Daoist principles of "harmonizing radiance with the dust" (heguang tongchen) and "supreme persuasion beyond words," forming a striking contrast with the one-sidedness of Confucius' disciples.

This passage expounds profound Daoist insights on cognition and speech. Those who truly understand the Dao (the Way) are neither omniscient nor completely ignorant; neither garrulous nor entirely silent. They attain a state where speaking and not speaking, knowing and not knowing become indistinguishably unified, like a mirror naturally reflecting all things without effort.

The text recounts how Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) studied under his teacher Lao Shang: In the first three years, he dared not judge right and wrong in his heart nor speak of gain and loss with his mouth, barely earning an approving glance from his master. After five years, when he could once again naturally contemplate right and wrong and discuss advantages and disadvantages, his teacher responded with a smile. This illustrates that true enlightenment isn't about forced suppression, but rather a return to one's original nature in spontaneous harmony.

Regarding the relationship between speech and true knowledge: words can only convey superficial understanding, while the highest wisdom (zhi zhi) transcends language. As Laozi said, "Those who know don't speak; those who speak don't know." The most profound discourse is actually "not speaking," and the deepest understanding is paradoxically "not knowing." When practitioners reach the state where "wordless" and "not speaking" merge, where "unknowing" and "not knowing" interpenetrate, they truly grasp the essence of the Dao.

The text employs metaphors like "qi po" (false appearances) and "xiang ren" (wooden puppets) to describe those who possess form but lack spiritual substance, emphasizing the importance of "maintaining unity of form and spirit (xing shen xiang shou)." True Dao-realized individuals, though possessing complete human form (with all bones and orifices), maintain inner emptiness and stillness (yao ran kong ran), unentangled by worldly emotions. Thus they preserve the balance between inner fullness and luminous emptiness.

This passage recounts the process of Liezi (an important Daoist figure) cultivating enlightenment under his teacher Master Huzi, which can be understood through three progressive stages:

The first stage describes gradual spiritual attainment: After seven years of practice, Liezi's mind no longer distinguished between right and wrong, and his speech no longer weighed gains and losses. Only then did his teacher permit him to sit at the same mat. By the ninth year, even the concepts of "right/wrong" and "gain/loss" vanished entirely. The boundaries between inner and outer dissolved completely, and sensory functions became interchangeable (eyes seeing like ears, ears hearing like a nose). He reached the state of "concentrated spirit and dissolved form" (xin ning xing shi) — where consciousness achieves intense focus while bodily sensations dissipate completely, as if bones and flesh had melted away. In this state, one perceives the essence of all things, and truth manifests spontaneously.

The second stage explains the characteristics of this attainment: When practitioners achieve complete emptiness of bodily awareness, inner truth reveals itself naturally. Like two people understanding the Dao through a shared smile, this realization transcends physical constraints.

The third stage reveals the essence of cultivation through discussing "wandering" (you): Liezi originally delighted in external travels. Master Huzi pointed out there are two kinds of true "wandering" — ordinary people wander amid superficial appearances (sights, sounds, and forms), while Dao cultivators wander through the internal patterns of transformation (the waxing-waning rhythms of growth and decline). Clinging to external phenomena while demanding perfection misses the essence; turning inward to find fulfillment represents the highest form of "wandering." Liezi consequently never journeyed outwardly again, realizing he had never truly understood authentic wandering.

Key concepts include "concentrated spirit and dissolved form" (xin ning xing shi), a crucial Daoist meditative state where intense mental focus naturally dissolves physical awareness; and "waxing-waning rhythms" (xiao xi ying xu), referring to the natural cycles of growth and decline. Through Liezi's spiritual journey, this passage illustrates the Daoist path from attachment to external phenomena to the enlightened return of inward contemplation.

This scripture explores the profound meanings of "wandering" (spiritual cultivation) and "observation" (cognitive states). It reveals that the true "self" is in constant renewal and transformation, just as all things in the universe are ever-changing. Those who focus solely on external phenomena perceive only superficial changes in things, failing to see their intrinsic nature; while those who turn their gaze inward can return to their original truth, perceiving their nature without being deluded by external objects.

Seeking external sounds is like pursuing completeness from outward things, just as hiding in the shadows to make one's shadow disappear resembles seeking fulfillment from within oneself. Thus, the key to determining whether one has attained the highest state of "wandering" lies in whether the focus is outward or inward. The lifelong seclusion of Liezi (a Daoist exemplar) serves as a model of this inward-seeking practice.

Master Huzi (a Daoist sage) said: True "ultimate wandering" is not knowing where to go, and true "ultimate observation" is not knowing what to look at. When all things can wander freely and all things can be observed as they truly are—this is what I call true wandering and true observation. The highest state of "wandering" is movement in accordance with one's nature, while "observation" is the direct realization of that nature. Because nature has no end and no obstruction, true "wandering" has no fixed destination, and true "observation" has no specific object.

To reach the state where one wanders everywhere yet does not wander at all, observes everything yet does not observe at all—to roam with the Creator—this is the highest attainment. The scripture repeatedly emphasizes "wandering at its utmost," pointing out that this carefree state of unity with the Dao is the ultimate goal of cultivation.

This passage records a dialogue between Long Shu and the renowned ancient physician Wen Zhi. Long Shu describes his peculiar "illness": when praised by his community he feels no honor, when disparaged by the state he feels no shame. He neither rejoices in gain nor grieves over loss, regards life as death, views wealth and status as poverty, perceives others as livestock, sees himself as an ordinary man, dwells in his own home as if it were an inn, and looks upon his hometown as barbarian lands. These symptoms prevent him from serving his ruler, maintaining friendships, or managing his household of wives, children and servants.

Wen Zhi instructs Long Shu to stand with his back to the light while the physician observes him against the illumination. After examination, he exclaims in amazement: "I see your heart! Within that small space lies perfect clarity and emptiness—you've nearly attained the realm of sages. Your heart has six open passages with only one remaining obstructed. That you consider this sage-like wisdom an illness is probably the root cause? This surpasses the capacity of my limited medical arts to cure."

The text explains that what Long Shu calls "symptoms" are actually manifestations of transcendence beyond worldly concerns: neither slander nor praise can affect him, neither gain nor loss can shake him, neither life nor death can alter his resolve, neither poverty nor wealth can burden his form. His perception of others as livestock reflects forgetting humanity's superiority over creatures; seeing himself as ordinary shows he's forgotten distinctions between self and others. In this state, neither official ranks nor rewards can motivate him, nor can punishments intimidate him—the rise and fall of worldly affairs, pleasure and anger, joy and sorrow cannot touch him.

The passage concludes by noting how ancient figures who declined great responsibilities often claimed to "suffer from hidden worries." Wen Zhi's method of examining Long Shu against the light was precisely to verify whether he truly possessed these "hidden worries"—referring to his transcendent state of mind beyond material concerns.

This passage expounds how the sages' path most values the state of "emptiness." Observing your mind today, I find that the space between your brows has already achieved this void state, bringing you close to sagehood. Human ears, eyes, nose and mouth all connect with the heart-mind. When the six orifices (referring to the five senses plus the heart) are unobstructed, the eyes can hear like ears, ears can smell like the nose, and the nose can speak like the mouth. If any single orifice is blocked, the heart-mind stagnates. How can external phenomena truly burden the heart-mind? What we call illness—isn't it precisely the malady of forgetting one's original nature?

That which eternally exists, neither born nor perishing, is the Dao (the Way). Following natural patterns to live, even when life ends, one never truly perishes—this is the constant principle. Following nature yet perishing—this is misfortune. Following death's principle to die, even when life ends prematurely—this remains the constant principle; resisting death's pattern to live—this is mere chance. Therefore, not deliberately seeking life accords with the Dao, while following heavenly patterns to end is the norm; deliberately seeking life yet dying still aligns with the Dao, as does following natural patterns to death.

The Dao's preciousness lies in governing both life and death. The Dao exists independently and omnipresently. Because it exists independently, we say "eternal life without origin"; because it permeates everywhere, we say "constant death with origin." Following the Dao's patterns to live, even when the form perishes, the spirit (Shen) remains—this is the constant principle. Following life's patterns yet perishing constitutes abnormal death—hence called misfortune. Following the Dao's patterns to die, even premature death isn't strange; resisting death's patterns to live merely means escaping death by chance.

During creation's beginnings, when Yin-Yang transforms, there exists both transformative life and transformative death. Both life and death follow heavenly patterns, surrendering to spontaneity. Simultaneously living and dying—this is the constant principle. When Jiliang died, Yang Zhu gazed at his gate and sang; when Suiwu died, Yang Zhu wept while touching the corpse. Ordinary people—when born, crowds sing in celebration; when dead, they gather weeping.

If after death the spirit (Shen) doesn't perish, such death merits celebration—hence Yang Zhu's singing at the gate. If death comes through misfortune, it warrants mourning—hence weeping over the corpse. As for ordinary people's life and death, whether crowds follow with songs or gather weeping—these are common responses.

This passage conveys two main teachings.

The first illustrates the principle that things reverse upon reaching their extremes. Just as those on the verge of blindness may first perceive fine hairs with unusual clarity, those nearing deafness might detect a mosquito's wings before others, and those whose bodies are stiffening may suddenly rush about frantically. When phenomena reach their limits, they inevitably turn toward their opposites—this is the Dao's natural rhythm. The sage does not cling to external physical transformations, but perceives radiance within chaos and hears harmony within silence, never allowing the physical form to burden the spirit.

The latter portion presents a parable: In Zheng State, the garden marshes of Puzhe teemed with virtuous sages, while Dongli abounded with talented scholars. When Bofengzi passed through Dongli, he encountered Deng Xi (a renowned logician of the Spring and Autumn period), who mocked Bofengzi's followers as "swine and hounds living off others." Bofengzi's disciple retorted: "Consider how Qi and Lu States overflow with master craftsmen—some excel at architecture, others forge weapons; some master music, while others specialize in documents and arithmetic; some command armies, others preside over temple rites. Though each talent differs, all require someone to deploy them wisely. In truth, rulers are directed by our collective talents—what grounds exist for pride?" Deng Xi stood speechless.

The conclusion reflects: The hundred schools' arts resemble eyes, ears, mouths, and noses—each serves distinct purposes, yet all are governed by the "True Sovereign" (the Dao or natural law). Crafting tools, applying skills, leading soldiers, managing rituals—these abilities matter, but remain utilitarian "having" (you). What truly animates them is the unseen "non-having" (wu)—the Dao's invisible workings.

This passage illustrates the core Daoist concept of "Wuwei (non-action) yet nothing is left undone" through two parables.

The first story tells of Deng Xi, a famous logician of the Spring and Autumn period, who was mocked for his attachment to "youwei" (deliberate action). True wisdom resembles that of Bofengzi, who remained silent—refraining from argumentation actually demonstrates higher attainment.

The second parable recounts the story of Gongyi Bo. Though renowned among feudal lords for his strength, when King Xuan of Zhou ceremoniously invited him, the monarch found him appearing like a timid scholar. Challenged by the king, Gongyi Bo explained: His master Shangqiuzi (a Daoist sage), though peerless in strength, never displayed it, keeping even his family unaware. Gongyi Bo had gained fame only by violating his master's teaching of "concealing one's abilities." True wisdom doesn't rely on brute force but on skillful application of power. Just as learning to see begins with the broad view, and learning to hear starts with loud sounds, when inner cultivation is complete, external manifestation follows naturally.

The conclusion summarizes the essential Daoist practice: One should study what others cannot accomplish, seek realms others cannot perceive, and cultivate disciplines others avoid. Clinging to mastered skills actually obscures true insight—just as straining to see blurs vision, and forcing hearing distorts sound. Authentic cultivation achieves the state of Wuwei (non-action), through which all things become possible.

This passage recounts a dialogue between Zhongshan Prince Mou of Wei and his contemporaries Gongsun Long and Lezheng Ziyu, centering on the philosophical debate about names and realities (ming-shi).

Zhongshan Prince Mou was a virtuous nobleman of Wei who enjoyed befriending worthy scholars while remaining aloof from political affairs. He particularly admired Gongsun Long of Zhao, which drew ridicule from Lezheng Ziyu. Ziyu criticized Gongsun Long for lacking proper scholarly lineage, having no foundation for his theories, and indulging in sophistry that missed the point. He accused Gongsun Long of deliberately crafting bizarre statements to stand out, much like a market peddler using clever words to deceive people.

When Prince Mou defended Gongsun Long, Ziyu cited two examples of his absurd claims: first, that a divine archer could make each subsequent arrow hit the tail of the preceding one, forming an unbroken chain; second, that the legendary archer Hongchao, in a fit of anger, once shot his wife in the eye with a famed bow, yet the arrow reached her without her blinking, and it fell without stirring dust. Ziyu dismissed these as preposterous.

Prince Mou explained that the words of the wise are inherently beyond the comprehension of the foolish. The principle of archery lies in mastering the momentum of the arrow—whether in linking arrows or stopping them just before the eye without reaction, both are results of controlling the arrow’s force. Ziyu then listed even more outlandish statements by Gongsun Long, such as "deliberate intention leads to the loss of the original mind," "a white horse is not a horse," and "an orphaned calf never had a mother"—all seemingly illogical propositions.

Prince Mou countered that these seemingly paradoxical statements contained profound meaning: only by not striving deliberately can the mind unite with the Dao (the Way); only by not fixating on particulars can one grasp the whole; only by exhausting the nature of things can one perceive eternity. Shadows appear motionless because the light source moves; a single hair can pull a thousand jun (an ancient weight unit) when forces are balanced; "a white horse is not a horse" emphasizes the distinction between names and realities. He argued that Ziyu’s failure to understand these deeper truths—mistaking them for fallacies—revealed Ziyu’s own limitations.

This exchange exemplifies the Warring States period’s philosophical discourse on names and realities, using metaphors like archery and shadows to explore the relationship between perception and reality. It underscores the importance of transcending superficial appearances to grasp essential truths.

This passage consists of two parts: a debate scenario and the story of Emperor Yao's abdication.

The first part recounts a debate between Gongsun Long (a representative figure of the School of Names during the Warring States period) and Lezheng Ziyu. Gongsun Long puts forward paradoxical arguments such as "an orphaned calf never had a mother" (claiming that a calf that has lost its mother cannot be said to have once had one). Lezheng Ziyu counters that such reasoning is as absurd as sounds coming from the wrong orifices of the body. Upon hearing this, Gongzi Mou falls silent for a long while before taking his leave, saying he would return another day to continue the discussion. The passage then shifts to the principle of archery: true mastery lies not in the sequence of arrows hitting the target but in grasping the overall momentum of the shot. While debate may win arguments, it rarely convinces the heart—this is the limitation of the sophist.

The second part tells of Emperor Yao, who after ruling for fifty years, travels incognito among the people and hears children singing an ancient verse: "You nurture the multitudes, none fail to follow the Dao of Heaven." Realizing this as divine will, Yao abdicates the throne to Shun. The text emphasizes Yao's governing principle: he neither deliberately asserts his presence ("not forcing his rule upon others") nor actively seeks the people's affection ("not making himself seen by others"). Instead, he governs in accordance with natural spontaneity, so that when the world is well-ordered, the people scarcely feel they are being ruled at all.

Key terms in the passage include:

• "守中" (Shouzhong) — maintaining a state of tranquil equilibrium
• "佞给" (Ningji) — clever but insincere rhetoric
• "漫衍" (Manyan) — eclectic and impure doctrines

These concepts reflect the Daoist advocacy for natural non-action (Wuwei) and returning to simplicity.

This scripture primarily expounds on the supreme governance of the Great Supreme (the highest manifestation of the Dao) and the ideal state of cultivation for practitioners.

Regarding the governance of the Great Supreme, the scripture states: In true sagely rule, the people remain unaware of the ruler's presence. When people are well-fed and clothed, living in accordance with natural patterns, they perceive these conditions as arising spontaneously. This represents the most sublime form of governance.

Guan Yinxi (disciple of Laozi) then elucidates the method of cultivation: Practitioners should flow like water that follows contours, reflect like a mirror that shows things as they are, and respond like an echo that arises naturally. The relationship between the Dao and all things is such that while phenomena may stray from the Dao, the Dao never abandons them. Those who truly embody the Dao need neither strain their senses nor force their intellect. In fact, deliberate efforts to pursue the Dao through sensory perception or mental exertion prove counterproductive. The Dao permeates all existence—it neither draws near when sought nor withdraws when ignored. Only through silent contemplation and natural alignment with one's inherent nature can the Dao be realized. True wisdom lies in knowing without clinging, in possessing capability without deliberate action.

The text further explains: The Dao operates within all things, and sages emulate it by following nature's course without leaving traces. To "move like water" means conforming to the patterns of phenomena; to "remain still like a mirror" means reflecting reality without preconceptions; to "respond like an echo" means neither initiating action nor resisting, but answering spontaneously. Though the Dao manifests through all things, phenomena often deviate from it. The Dao cannot be heard through ears or seen with eyes, because any Dao perceived through sensory means ceases to be the true Dao. The Yellow Emperor said: Only by not fixating on specific locations or forms can one abide in the Dao; only by relinquishing discriminative thinking can one truly understand it. Therefore, those who embody the Dao require neither forced effort nor deliberate intention, for external manifestations like form, color, name and sound can never fully express the Dao's essence.

This passage discusses how the pursuit of the Dao (the ultimate truth) requires transcending ordinary perception. The original text conveys that attempting to seek the Dao through visual observation, auditory perception, physical sensation, or intellectual reasoning is fundamentally misguided. The Dao appears to be ahead, yet suddenly manifests behind us—demonstrating its immeasurable nature. It permeates the six directions of heaven and earth (up, down, and the four cardinal directions), yet vanishes when actively pursued—revealing its ungraspable essence.

Those who truly attain the Dao enter a state of "no-mind" (wuxin), where even the concept of "mind" ceases to be an object of attachment—this constitutes genuine realization. Those who deliberately strive for this "no-mind" state still remain bound by the very concept they seek to transcend, thus failing to achieve true De (Virtue/Power). The Dao is comprehended in silent communion and realized through natural alignment with one's inherent nature—it requires no forced mental striving.

True wisdom means knowing without emotional entanglement—this is called genuine knowledge; having capability without contrived action—this is called authentic ability. When actions arise from a state of non-knowing, how could emotions possibly govern them? When movements emerge from a state of non-striving, how could artificiality possibly taint them? The Great Dao itself never acts deliberately, yet accomplishes everything effortlessly.

(Note: "Six voids" refers to the entire spatial dimension encompassing up, down and the four directions; "no-mind" is a Daoist cultivation term denoting the state beyond subjective attachments.)