《沖虛至德真經四解》Vol. 10

Liezi, a prominent Daoist figure, became a disciple of Huzi Qulin (a master who advocated the practice of "daily diminishment") and befriered Bohun Maoren before settling south of the city. Visitors came in an endless stream each day, making it impossible to receive them all even with constant hosting. Remarkably, Liezi himself remained unaware of the exact number of visitors.

Each morning, Liezi would discuss learning with his disciples, their scholarly reputation spreading far and wide. Yet curiously, though separated only by a single wall from his neighbor Nan Guozi, they never visited each other for twenty years. This was because their spiritual states had achieved such profound resonance that mundane social exchanges became unnecessary. When they happened to meet on the road, they would pass as if seeing nothing (demonstrating how the realm of Dao transcends visual appearances). Liezi's disciples mistakenly believed the two harbored some enmity.

A visitor from Chu once asked Liezi: "Master, why are you at odds with Nan Guozi?" Liezi replied: "Nan Guozi's outward form appears substantial while his inner being remains perfectly empty. His ears do not listen, his eyes do not see, his mouth does not speak, his mind does not engage, and his body remains perfectly still. How could I possibly be at odds with such a man?" (indicating Nan Guozi had achieved the state of perfect unity between inner and outer, undisturbed by external phenomena)

Later, when Liezi visited Nan Guozi with forty disciples, they found him as unresponsive as a wooden puppet ("qi po" refers to clay or wooden figurines, describing Nan Guozi's state of supreme mental concentration where his physical form seemed nonexistent). Observing himself, Liezi realized he too had entered this state where spirit and form no longer corresponded, making ordinary interaction impossible (illustrating how advanced practitioners transcend physical limitations through inner cultivation).

Note: Descriptions like "spirit and form no longer corresponding" and "empty mind within complete form" represent advanced stages of Daoist cultivation, where practitioners achieve spiritual transcendence beyond material constraints. These seemingly peculiar behaviors are actually natural manifestations of profound spiritual attainment.

Lu Zhongxuan observed that when Jian's disciples went to pay respects to Nan Guozi, they found him resembling a soulless husk (qi po), standing stiffly like a wooden puppet. This state revealed that Nan Guozi had transcended worldly concerns, with his form and spirit completely detached from external engagement.

Suddenly, Nan Guozi pointed to the disciple at the end of Liezi's procession (mo xing) and engaged him in conversation. This random selection wasn't based on status or hierarchy, but mirrored reality as naturally as a reflection - entirely spontaneous rather than deliberate. His demeanor appeared earnest and focused, seemingly engaged in debate about superiority. Yet when truth reaches its ultimate expression, it needs no words; speech only gives rise to distinctions. The sage interacts with others in accordance with nature - what appears as debate is actually complete unity with all things.

Lu Zhongxuan explained: The last disciple was chosen precisely because he hadn't fully relinquished dualistic thinking; Nan Guozi's seemingly argumentative manner was actually testing the disciple's cultivation. Liezi's disciples were astonished - when they saw Nan Guozi sitting in stillness like earth and wood, yet engaging with phenomena as if making distinctions, this contradiction baffled them.

Returning to their quarters, all wore expressions of doubt. Lu Zhongxuan interpreted this as suspicion that Nan Guozi still harbored competitive thoughts. Fan (Fan Zhixu) alternatively explained "Nan Guo" (Southern Wall) symbolizes "moving from darkness toward illumination." Followers of Nan Guozi studied diligently without respite, yet constantly felt language inadequate to convey truth; their ceaseless day-and-night debates demonstrated their devotion. Yet Nan Guozi and Liezi lived as neighbors for twenty years without interaction - precisely manifesting the Dao's supreme state of "forgetting each other in the rivers and lakes." When two realized beings meet, their apparent disregard actually reflects spiritual communion beyond superficial pleasantries.

A Dao-seeker from Chu inquired about Nan Guozi. Liezi replied: His outward appearance shows perfect fullness without deficiency, while his inner being remains empty like a hollow vessel. His hearing turns inward to contemplate original nature, his vision reflects inward to illuminate the fundamental mind. Through silence he knows truth, thus needing no speech; through awakening he merges with profound mystery, thus transcending knowledge. For one who has reached this state, the body is merely a vehicle for the Dao - how could external phenomena disturb him? Having transcended ordinary existence to dwell in constant stillness, any deliberate display would be artificial affectation, any posturing mere pretense. Hence "why go see him?" Although the great Dao permeates everywhere, among forty fellow disciples, only those already "having feet" (indicating complete cultivation) truly understood this principle.

This passage depicts a scene of Daoist cultivation. When Nanguozi (a Daoist practitioner) encountered Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure), he found him in a trance-like state, as if his spirit had departed from his body, making normal communication impossible. Liezi's physical form and spiritual essence (Shen) appeared separated, presenting an image of solitary transcendence. Later, when Nanguozi conversed with Liezi's disciples, he discovered their dialogues arose spontaneously without deliberate intention.

Outwardly, the Liezi school appeared serene and content, finding joy in cultivating the Dao (the Way). In stillness they maintained profound concentration, while in movement they acted with natural directness. Though they might seem to display competitive tendencies, their hearts remained anchored in the attitude of Wuwei (non-action) – never striving for achievement. Those who followed them often marveled at how they employed Daoist methods to engage with the mundane world.

Liezi said: "Those who truly comprehend the Dao need no words; those who deeply understand true knowledge require no expression. Having thoroughly investigated cosmic principles and realized ultimate truths, they naturally forget both speech and consciousness. Using 'wordlessness' to express is still expression; using 'knowledgelessness' to know is still knowing. Those who attempt to negate words through 'wordlessness' or reject knowledge through 'knowledgelessness' remain attached to words and knowledge nonetheless."

The authentic perfected person (Zhiren) maintains an empty, luminous mind. When responding to phenomena, they speak without feeling it is themselves speaking, and know without feeling it is themselves knowing. Thus they may remain wordless throughout the day yet never be called silent, or employ wisdom constantly yet never be considered laboring. This achieves the state of "speaking everything yet saying nothing, knowing all yet understanding nothing."

The passage concludes by observing that people's astonishment stems from their inability to comprehend how the most sublime realms often appear crude, and the loftiest states seem ordinary. To be surprised by the extraordinary manifestations of cultivators in their movement and stillness – that would be the true delusion of unnecessary wonder.

This passage presents profound Daoist insights on speech and cognition. Both the highest state of "ultimate knowing" (zhizhi) and ordinary "deliberation" (yi) should be relinquished—even language itself must be transcended. If one insists on distinguishing higher and lower states, words may be used as guidance, but the true Dao is realized through "wordless speech" and "unknowing knowledge."

The author points out that the Great Dao naturally discerns all things. It neither speaks nor remains silent, neither knows nor is ignorant. This is the original face of the Dao—nothing to find strange. During the Zhenghe era, some lamented that Confucius' realm was unattainable, and Liezi's Dao could not truly be seen. Daily debates yield no true Dao, for the Dao cannot be grasped through hearing; forced argumentation only distances one from it.

The passage describes the state of those who attain the Dao: their physical organs are complete (all bones and nine orifices intact), yet their minds are empty and still (yaoran kongran). They have human form but do not cling to human emotions, thus transcending the limits of seeing, hearing, speaking, and knowing. Like the "deceptive image" (qipo) that appears real yet is illusory, when form and spirit separate, the spirit no longer resides in the body. When Nan Guo Ziqi observed Liezi's Dao, it was like an overbearing person failing to understand feminine subtlety—hence his disciples were perplexed.

True speech exists to convey the Great Dao, but once the true meaning is grasped, words must be forgotten. What can be discussed with language is merely the surface of things; those who penetrate deep knowledge ultimately let go of speech. Speaking through silence is the highest form of speech, knowing through unknowing the highest wisdom. Aligning one's silence with the Dao's wordlessness and one's unknowing with the Dao's unknowing—from the perspective of grasping true meaning and deep knowledge—this itself is the finest speech and cognition. The Great Dao is no other than this principle—why be astonished?

Fan Yingyuan concludes: True meaning cannot be conveyed by words, so upon realizing it, one must transcend language.

This passage elucidates the relationship between spiritual cultivation and cognitive understanding in Daoist practice. The essential meaning is:

Those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) do not cling to verbal debates, for the Dao itself transcends linguistic cognition. Those who claim "non-speaking" have not yet truly relinquished speech; those who profess "non-knowing" have not yet genuinely surpassed knowledge. Though there appears to be speaking and knowing, fundamentally there is neither deliberate rejection nor binding attachment. Speaking naturally in accordance with all things is equivalent to not speaking at all; knowing spontaneously while following all phenomena is equivalent to not knowing at all. This is the realm of the Dao—what is there to marvel at?

The text then illustrates the progressive stages of cultivation through the story of Liezi learning the Dao:

• In the first three years, he dared not entertain thoughts of right/wrong in his heart nor speak of gain/loss with his mouth—only then did his teacher (Old Shang) glance at him briefly
• After five years, he could again contemplate right/wrong and discuss gain/loss—his teacher began to smile at him
• After seven years, his thoughts and speech no longer distinguished between right/wrong or gain/loss—his teacher then permitted him to share the same mat
• After nine years, he reached a higher state—completely transcending all distinctions of right/wrong and gain/loss, with body and mind unified to the point where physical form became imperceptible—only then did ultimate truth fully manifest

The passage concludes by noting this content is explained in detail in the "Yellow Emperor Chapter." Its repetition here first demonstrates how ultimate realization of the Dao enables harmonious adaptation to infinite transformations, then shows how clarified mind-nature illuminates all things. Each chapter emphasizes different aspects requiring careful contemplation.

(Note: "Old Shang" refers to Liezi's teacher Huqiuzi Lin; "glancing" implies a sidelong look; "unfurling countenance" means revealing a smile)

This scripture primarily discusses the varying states of "wandering" (you), revealing the true essence of cultivation through the dialogue between Liezi and Master Huzi.

Liezi delighted in traveling far and wide, believing the joy of wandering lay in constantly encountering new sights. Ordinary people focus only on the surface changes of scenery during their travels, while Liezi observed the underlying patterns governing the transformations of all things. Master Huzi pointed out that once one recognizes the fleeting nature of all phenomena, what appears novel is, in essence, no different from the ordinary.

The key lies in distinguishing between "external wandering" (waiyou) and "internal contemplation" (neiguan): fixating on the changes of external phenomena is merely a superficial experience, whereas turning inward to realize the self is the highest state of "wandering." Though the human body is small, it contains the principles of heaven and earth (the head, round like heaven; the feet, square like earth). A true cultivator should turn their gaze inward to recognize the cosmic truths within.

The text cites the example of the Yellow Emperor (a sage-king revered in Daoism) to illustrate that the most profound teachings often transcend words. When cultivation reaches the state of "form filled with emptiness" (xing chong kongxu)—where the body is tranquil and the mind concentrated—form and spirit unite, merging completely with the Dao. In this state, truth reveals itself effortlessly. Such a realm is unfathomably profound, far surpassing shallow displays of supernatural abilities like wind-riding flight.

This passage explores the difference between "inner observation" (neiguan) and "external wandering" (waiyou) through a dialogue between Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) and Master Huzi.

The human body inherently embodies cosmic principles: our feet support us like the earth, the bridge of our nose rises like a mountain peak, the mouth forms a valley-like hollow, muscles resemble soil, and blood vessels flow like rivers. Internal warmth corresponds to fire, while breath mirrors wind and clouds. One need not travel extensively to observe nature—by turning inward, we discover all universal principles already present within ourselves.

Master Huzi points out that people often consider themselves unique, yet appear no different in others' eyes. Ordinary people focus on external changes while remaining unaware of their unchanging inner nature. Those who pursue only external experiences without cultivating inner observation may perceive myriad phenomena but lose touch with their true selves. Genuine practice does not depend on accumulating external impressions.

After this teaching, Liezi ceased all outward travels—not as self-isolation, but as a turn toward inner cultivation. While ordinary sightseeing focuses on superficial forms and sensory pleasures, Daoist practitioners observe the fundamental patterns of growth and decline. By perceiving all things through our essential nature, we discern eternal principles of transformation. Clinging to external phenomena reveals only impermanence, while introspection maintains inner freshness.

Those chasing external experiences change along with phenomena, seeing appearances but missing essence; practitioners of inner observation return to their original mind, perceiving essence without attachment. Like echoes following sound or shadows depending on form, true practice lies in "turning back to find the self within" (fanqiu zhuji). Master Huzi concludes: The highest "wandering" is not knowing where one goes; the most profound "observation" is not clinging to what one sees. When both self and objects are forgotten, all things become subjects for contemplation.

(Note: "Inner observation" refers to the Daoist practice of examining one's true nature; "external wandering" denotes worldly travel and sightseeing. "Growth and decline" describes the natural cycles of waxing and waning. "Turning back to find the self within" represents a core Daoist principle of returning to one's original nature.)

This scripture expounds the supreme state of "wandering" (you) and "observation" (guan) in Daoist cultivation. The term "wandering" refers to the mind's complete freedom and lack of constraints, while "observation" means contemplating all things through one's original true nature.

Authentic "ultimate wandering" means moving in accordance with one's inherent nature without deliberate pursuit of destinations, because any attachment inevitably limits the infinite potential of one's true nature. Similarly, genuine "ultimate observation" directly perceives reality through original nature without fixating on particular objects, as focusing on individual aspects obstructs comprehension of the whole. Those who attain this state appear to wander among and observe myriad phenomena, yet remain unattached to any specific thing, roaming in harmony with the Creator (the Dao).

The text notes that ordinary people enjoy wandering by focusing on superficial changes in phenomena, taking pleasure in external appearances. However, the wandering and observation of realized beings means roaming with the Creator while perceiving the cyclical return to the source within all manifestations. The reason Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) delighted in wandering and observing lay precisely in his understanding of this principle.

Yet the scripture cautions that focusing solely on external transformations (outer wandering) while neglecting internal contemplation (inner observation) still falls short of the highest state. Zhuangzi taught that those who truly comprehend the Dao can wander freely in the world without being trapped by worldly affairs. Practitioners devoted to inner observation transcend conceptual constraints, while those obsessed with outer wandering become burdened by external phenomena.

Through contrasting mundane wandering with the wandering of perfected beings, this passage clarifies the essential Daoist practice of "inner observation and outer wandering": one must both follow natural spontaneity while maintaining inner awareness, ultimately reaching the supreme state of "carefree wandering without dependence."

This scripture conveys two main teachings: first, the cultivation states of "ultimate wandering" (zhiyou) and "ultimate observation" (zhiguan); second, the dialogue between Long Shu and Wen Zhi regarding "illness of the heart."

The first part reveals that true freedom and ease (ultimate wandering) do not come from seeking external material things, but from turning inward to contemplate oneself and realize the Dao. Clinging to external objects only leads to losing genuine joy. Practitioners who reach the highest state achieve unity between their inner being and the Dao, perceiving all things in accordance with the Way—everywhere becomes a realm of liberation. In this state, there's no need to deliberately pursue external pleasures, because all things are already complete within. By reflecting on one's intrinsic nature, the greatest joy is attained. Ancient Daoist adepts maintained serenity and ease regardless of whether others understood them.

The second part recounts the story of Long Shu seeking treatment from the renowned physician Wen Zhi. Long Shu describes his "symptoms": feeling neither honored by local praise nor shamed by national slander; remaining unmoved by gain or loss; seeing no difference between life and death, wealth and poverty, humans and animals; regarding his home as a temporary lodging and his hometown as a foreign land. While ordinary people would view these as signs of transcendental detachment, Long Shu considers them a "heart illness" requiring treatment.

In truth, this describes a highly advanced state of cultivation (known in Daoism as the "equalization of all things" [qiwu] realm), where one transcends worldly value judgments and emotional fluctuations. Wen Zhi, as a conventional physician, could only treat physical ailments—he was powerless before this spiritual state of "forgetting form and transcending convention." The passage concludes by pointing out: people become bound by external things because their minds make distinctions; if one sees through the fundamental sameness of all phenomena, external circumstances can no longer disturb them.

(Note: "Huzi" refers to Liezi's teacher; "xiaoxiao" describes a state of serene contentment; "equalization of all things" [qiwu] is a key concept in Zhuangzi's philosophy, denoting the cognitive state that dissolves distinctions and oppositions among things.)

This passage expounds the Daoist concept of transcending worldly concerns. Master Long considered himself afflicted by a peculiar "illness"—complete indifference toward worldly achievements, fame, wealth, honor, and disgrace. The renowned physician Wen Zhi had him stand with his back to the light, observed him from behind, and remarked: "I see your heart has become empty, nearing the state of a sage, though one aperture remains unopened." (Ancient belief held that a sage's heart possesses seven apertures.)

The text explains: Standing with one's back to the light symbolizes returning to conventional thinking, while facing the light represents pursuing supreme truth. The emptiness of heart arises from relinquishing attachments; the single unopened aperture indicates incomplete perfection. A true sage with all seven apertures opened would never mistake transcendent wisdom for an illness. Such a "disease" lies beyond Wen Zhi's ability to cure.

Master Long's "symptoms" manifested as: Praise and slander failing to sway him, gain and loss unable to stir joy or sorrow, life and death incapable of altering his resolve, wealth and poverty powerless to burden his physical form. He regarded people as pigs and dogs (transcending human hierarchies), equated himself with ordinary folk (dissolving ego distinctions), treated his home as an inn (non-attachment to dwelling places), and viewed his homeland as wilderness (freedom from geographical ties). In this state, neither rank nor salary could tempt him, punishments couldn't intimidate him, prosperity or adversity couldn't change him, grief or joy couldn't shake him—he had completely liberated himself from material and worldly constraints.

Zhenghezi (likely another adept) considered Wen Zhi's medical skills exquisite, yet recognized that Master Long's "illness" actually represented an advanced stage of Daoist cultivation—a condition ordinary medicine could never treat.

This passage explores the Daoist concept of "emptiness and stillness" through a dialogue. Though Uncle Long is diagnosed with "melancholic illness," his condition actually manifests the transcendent state of one who has realized the Dao.

Those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) perceive all things without discrimination, maintaining equanimity toward all circumstances. Even if the whole world praises them, they feel no elation; even if the entire world condemns them, they feel no dejection. They neither consider life as cause for joy nor death as reason for sorrow, viewing birth and death as natural processes. They neither pursue wealth and honor as desirable nor despise poverty as detestable, regarding both as ordinary states. They see others as they would see pigs and dogs (symbolizing transcendence beyond distinctions of nobility and baseness), and view themselves as they would view others (surpassing the separation between self and other). Dwelling in their own homes feels like temporary lodging in an inn, while their homeland appears as a foreign country (describing detachment from worldly attachments).

Those who attain this state cannot be tempted by high positions and generous salaries, nor intimidated by severe punishments and harsh laws. Neither prosperity nor decline, benefit nor harm can alter their hearts; neither sorrow nor joy can shake their resolve. Even the Son of Heaven cannot make them submit, nor can feudal lords establish friendship with them. Their wives and children cannot become overly intimate, while lowly servants cannot treat them with disrespect. This state of unity with the Dao is so profound that worldly people mistake it for illness and attempt to cure it with medicines, unaware that this condition lies beyond the reach of any remedy.

In the text, Wen Zhi instructs Uncle Long to stand with his back to the light (symbolizing pursuit of the most profound and mysterious Daoist realm) while he himself faces the light to observe (representing diagnosis through conventional methods). These diametrically opposed postures precisely illustrate the fundamental difference between Daoist practitioners and ordinary people: the former seek inner emptiness and stillness, while the latter cling to external appearances. The practitioner's "heart becomes empty within a square inch of space" (the mind becomes luminous and void), with all senses interconnected (the six apertures flow freely), achieving a transcendent state of forgetting both self and objects. This is precisely the realm approaching that of sages.

This passage expounds the Daoist profound insights on life, death, and the Dao. The core teaching reveals:

What truly exists eternally is the Dao itself, which depends on no external conditions for its being. Those who can forget personal gains and losses while harmonizing with nature's rhythms remain unobstructed whether in favorable or adverse circumstances—not even death can truly harm them. This is the sage's realm.

The text employs vivid metaphors: "the square-inch space of the heart becomes empty" illustrates the practitioner's mind becoming lucid and pure like a polished mirror, achieving the mystical state of "excavating the heart" (彻底净化心灵). The phrase "your heart has six passages flowing freely, with one remaining blocked" suggests ordinary people's minds still have obstructions—being just one step away from perfection, yet this final step cannot be reached through conventional means.

Regarding life and death: Living in accordance with natural law is the Dao; while desperately clinging to longevity paradoxically hastens demise—this too manifests the Dao. Laozi's teaching that "those who die but do not perish attain longevity" (肉身虽死但精神长存才是真正的长寿) refers to sages comprehending life's essence, maintaining life's principle even in death. Conversely, those who cunningly strive for self-preservation through cleverness, clinging fearfully to life, often meet misfortune instead.

The passage concludes with two normal patterns: effortless existence through non-action accords with the Dao; completing life's journey following celestial patterns is also natural. Conversely, courting death by violating natural law constitutes "the path toward death," while accidental survival is mere luck. True wisdom lies in applying the sage's Dao, allowing both life and death their proper places.

(Note: The "Lu's commentary" refers to annotations by Tang Dynasty Daoist priest Lu Chongxuan. By contrasting worldly Confucian rituals with Daoist truth, he emphasizes how clinging to physical form and dogmatic views of life-death represents mundane normality, while transcending the life-death duality embodies genuine cultivation.)

This passage explores the Daoist understanding of life, death, and the Dao (the Way). The core teaching states that both living and dying in accordance with natural laws (Dao) are normal states, while violating these principles constitutes true misfortune.

The text begins by observing how some people harm themselves through excessive cunning—a phenomenon that paradoxically still manifests the Dao's workings. Ordinary individuals often exhaust their mental faculties until death, mistakenly believing this to be the path of benefiting the world. What the masses recognize as "Dao" and the genuine transcendent Way share the same name but differ completely in essence.

The true Dao transcends life and death, existing eternally. Those who live following the Dao may experience physical death, yet their spirit (Shen) never perishes—this is the natural order. Conversely, premature death caused by violating natural laws constitutes true misfortune. Similarly, those who die in harmony with the Dao, even if not reaching full lifespan, cannot be considered abnormal.

Creation (zaohua) originates from the transformations of Yin-Yang, where life emerges and dissolves within this flux. Those who comprehend this truth perceive the essence of life and death, remaining unperturbed by their changes. Ordinary people, however, remain trapped in the cycles of day and night, life and death—some clinging desperately to life, others sacrificing it for profit—utterly failing to grasp the underlying principle.

The example of Yan Hui (Yanzi), who died young, illustrates how dying in accordance with celestial patterns is normal, whereas surviving through violation of natural laws is mere chance. True Dao cultivators understand: those who live in harmony with nature, even upon natural death, never truly perish; those who die in accordance with the Dao, even prematurely, fulfill the natural order.

This scripture explores the Dao of life and death through several illustrative cases. When Jiliang (a Daoist figure) passed away, Yang Zhu (a Daoist philosopher) sang before his gate—because Jiliang had followed the natural Dao throughout his life, and death represented the natural conclusion of existence, unworthy of sorrow. Yet when Suiwu (another figure) died, Yang Zhu wept bitterly while touching the corpse, for Suiwu had failed to comprehend the Great Dao during his lifetime, meeting an unfortunate death.

As for ordinary people (referred to as "commoners"), their births and deaths provoke either songs or lamentations from the crowd, for they fail to grasp life’s true meaning, their emotions fluctuating with external circumstances. Lu Zhongxuan (a commentator) explains: Those who fully realize life’s truth and die well receive no mourning from sages; it is only those who perish having strayed from their innate nature and violated cosmic principles that evoke grief in the wise. The sorrow or joy common people display toward life and death are merely habitual reactions—they do not truly understand its essence.

The Zhenghe commentary adds: Those who die in harmony with the Dao of Heaven may be joyfully sent off (hence the singing), while those who meet unfortunate deaths alone deserve mourning (hence the weeping). As for ordinary people’s responses—whether songs or lamentations—they merely follow convention without grasping the truth of life and death.

Fan Yingyuan (another commentator) cites ancient rites: According to ritual propriety, singing is forbidden on days of mourning, for auspicious and inauspicious occasions must be distinguished. But those who embody the Dao differ—Jiliang’s death, aligned with the Dao of Heaven, prompted Yang Zhu to celebrate his fulfilled life through song; Suiwu’s death, resulting from self-attachment, moved Yang Zhu to express regret through weeping. However, those truly attaining the Dao do not deliberately display sorrow or joy—such responses arise spontaneously.

Note: The "natural Dao" mentioned here refers to the Daoist principle of aligning with nature’s patterns; "those who embody the Dao" denotes practitioners who have realized its profound truth. These examples illustrate Daoism’s transcendent perspective on life and death: those in harmony with the Dao experience birth and death as natural, while only those opposing it warrant compassion.

This passage reveals the natural law of things reaching their peak before declining through the phenomenon of sensory deterioration in the human body. When our sensory functions begin to decline, certain反常 (contrary) omens often appear first.

Those about to lose their eyesight may反而 (conversely) first perceive the finest autumn hairs; those going deaf may initially hear the faint buzz of mosquitoes; those losing taste may反而 distinguish the subtle differences between the waters of Zi and Mian rivers (two streams in Shandong); those whose嗅觉 (sense of smell) fails may first detect scorched or rotten odors; those whose bodies are about to collapse may反而 run desperately; and those whose minds approach delusion may first become obsessively fixated on distinguishing right from wrong.

These six faculties—eyes, ears, mouth, nose, body, and mind—will remain stable if maintained in a state of 中和 (harmonious balance). But when pushed to extremes, they inevitably decline. The decline of all things invariably begins at their peak—this is the natural principle of 物极必反 (things reversing upon reaching their extremity). Therefore, sages maintain中庸平和 (moderate equilibrium) in life: their eyes see what should be seen, ears hear what should be heard, bodies do what can be done, and minds understand what is understandable. Thus their wisdom permeates all things, preserving themselves throughout life.

As Lu Zhongxuan (a Tang Dynasty Daoist) explained: When the tongue loses normal taste, it反而 obsesses over distinguishing peculiar flavors; when the nose loses normal smell, it反而 fixates on certain odors; the body runs wildly before collapsing; and when the mind loses the Dao, it becomes entangled in disputes over right and wrong. Ironically, these very disputes manifest the loss of true大道 (Great Dao).

Nothing reverses without first reaching its extreme—it must attain its limit before returning. Thus seemingly clever memorization skills may反而 become the very means toward confusion and decline. Like those who see autumn hairs but miss Mount Tai, or hear mosquitoes but miss thunderclaps. This recalls Zhuangzi's saying: "If you blindfold Li Zhu (legendary for sharp vision), the whole world would反而 see clearly."

This passage explores the path of returning to one's authentic nature while critiquing worldly pursuits of superficial skills and knowledge. The text observes how craftsmen like Lu Ban (Gongshu) with their ingenious techniques have led all under heaven to chase clever artifice, while the blended doctrines of Confucianism and Mohism spark debates about right and wrong—treating such conceptual distinctions as treasures and considering the dregs of past thinkers' traces as talent. How can one return to pure, innate nature through such means?

The Book of Changes speaks of the true state as "no thought, no action" (Wuwei)—a mind utterly still yet responsive to all things, penetrating everything. This is the realm where sages diligently cultivate the great Dao (Daode). When worldly affairs reach their extreme, they reverse course, and so does the human heart. Once fixed cognitive patterns form, they become difficult to shake off. Yet sages remain unconfined by appearances: amidst chaos they alone perceive radiance, in silence they alone hear harmony. How could they let physical form burden their spirit (Shen)?

The text then illustrates the harm of excessive pursuits through sensory examples: staring at autumn hairs (the finest details) and priding oneself on sharp vision, unaware that dazzling colors actually blur the eyes; hearing the buzz of mosquitoes and boasting acute hearing, oblivious that chaotic sounds deafen the ears. Though the mouth may distinguish the flavors of the Zi and Mian rivers, an overload of tastes ruins the palate. The nose detects scorched or rotten scents, but overpowering odors clog the senses. Like Dong Ye's famed charioteer whose horses raced too fast and ultimately failed, those destined for confusion first fixate on judgments of right and wrong. It is precisely these dichotomies that erode the great Dao.

All things return when they reach their extreme—this is nature's law. Understanding this, sages maintain emptiness and stillness, moving in accord with the waxing and waning of phenomena, never straying from the proper path whether advancing or retreating, surviving or perishing. Their eyes and ears aren't enslaved by external stimuli; their mouths and noses don't indulge in excess. Body and mind harmonize, while the spirit (Shen) merges with primal Qi (Yuanqi). Not even life-and-death events can alter their fundamental nature—how much less could trivial matters of gain, loss, fortune, or misfortune?