《沖虛至德真經四解》Vol. 18

This passage recounts the story of Duanmu Shu from the state of Wei, a descendant of Zigong, one of Confucius' disciples. Inheriting immense wealth accumulated by his ancestors, his family possessed vast riches. Unconcerned with worldly conventions, he lived entirely according to his own desires.

This man lived with extraordinary freedom: whatever his heart desired to experience, he pursued without hesitation; whatever his eyes wished to see, his ears longed to hear, or his mouth craved to taste—even rare delicacies from remote regions—he obtained as effortlessly as plucking fruit from his own courtyard. When traveling, treacherous mountains and distant lands felt to him as simple as taking a few steps.

His home was perpetually filled with guests, the kitchen fires never extinguished, and the halls echoed with continuous music and dance. Beyond indulging himself, he distributed his wealth first to his clan, then to his fellow villagers, and finally to the people across the state. By the age of sixty, sensing his vitality waning, he gave away his entire fortune, including treasures, carriages, horses, and even his servants and concubines, leaving not a single coin for his descendants. Consequently, when he fell ill, he lacked funds for medicine, and upon his death, there was no money for burial.

Those who understand the nature of things recognize that nothing in this world is permanent, and wealth is merely a temporary accumulation. Duanmu Shu knew to indulge fully when it was time to enjoy and to relinquish everything when it was time to let go. How could such a man be bound by worldly reputation or rigid rituals?

The people of Wei who had benefited from his generosity spontaneously pooled resources to bury him and even returned some of the wealth to his descendants. Hearing of this, Qin Guli (a recluse) remarked, "Duanmu Shu was a madman who disgraced his ancestors." Yet Duan Gan (another wise scholar) countered, "Shu was a man of profound understanding, whose virtue surpassed that of his forebears." Though his actions astonished ordinary people, they aligned with the highest principles of the Dao (the Way). The so-called gentlemen of Wei, who rigidly adhered to ritual teachings, were utterly incapable of comprehending such a man's realm.

Those who truly grasp the essence of life ought to live with such unrestrained freedom; those who understand their inherent destiny (ming) remain unburdened by external possessions.

This passage elucidates the Daoist transcendent perspective on wealth, life, and death. Those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) regard material possessions as fortuitous gains, understanding that wealth is merely temporarily accumulated. To cling obsessively to ownership is delusion. Thus they remain unbound by worldly interests—figures like Duanmu Shu (an ancient sage) embodied this wisdom.

Regarding wealth accumulation, the scripture states: Those who can both gather and disperse riches achieve whatever they aspire to and enjoy whatever they desire, following their heart's inclination without obstruction. This cannot be attained by those estranged from life's fundamental truth. To distribute wealth among villagers, relinquish hoarded treasures—to gather and scatter freely—this lies beyond the capacity of those ignorant of their intrinsic nature. To relish present joys unconcerned with posthumous worries—only the enlightened comprehend this principle. Therefore, leaving no burial goods is permissible, just as communal poetic remembrance by the people is acceptable.

The text contrasts two archetypes: Qin Guli, constrained by conventional morality, felt shame; whereas Duan Ganmu, attaining popular affection through enlightened virtue (De), was deemed excessive. Judged by external standards, such conduct astonishes the crowd, yet viewed through inner truth, it reveals the proper path. The ruler of Wei, binding himself with ritual teachings, became imprisoned by form—how could he grasp this essence? Thus he failed to genuinely win hearts.

Concerning mortality, Mengsun Yang asked Master Yang (Yang Zhu): "Can one who cherishes life seek immortality?" Yangzi replied: "By principle, none escape death." "Then may one pursue longevity?" Yangzi said: "By principle, none endure perpetually. Life persists not through cherishing, nor the body strengthens through coddling. What meaning has longevity? Even immortality merits no pursuit."

Human emotions—desires and aversions—remain constant across ages; bodily safety and peril stay identical through time. Life's bittersweet experiences, societal order and chaos—all follow this pattern. Having heard, seen, and lived through such cycles, a century seems excessive—how much more painful would immortality be? A lifetime merely alternates between fortune and adversity, security and danger. If deemed pleasurable, repetition brings no renewed joy; if deemed painful, endured suffering invites no repetition. Thus prolonged life accumulates only sorrow.

Mengsun Yang inquired: "Is swift death then preferable to longevity? May one actively seek death?" Yangzi responded: "Not so. While living, follow nature's course until life's conclusion. Neither deliberately pursue early death nor extended life—this constitutes true understanding of life-death principles."

This passage explores perspectives on life and death, arguing that the obsession with immortality actually contradicts natural laws. It points out that where there is life, there must inevitably be death; where there is beginning, there must be ending—this is the natural order of heaven and earth. Those who excessively cherish life and pursue longevity fundamentally fail to comprehend this principle.

Human emotions and preferences disturb the inner mind, bodily safety and danger create external pressures, the joys and sorrows of worldly affairs burden the heart, while social order and chaos influence behavior. From ancient times to the present, these phenomena have repeated endlessly, filling a hundred years of human life with anxieties and leaving scarcely a moment of true joy. Thus people often feel life is already too long and too bitter—why then pursue further longevity?

Those truly awakened to reality live naturally while alive, satisfying reasonable desires until death arrives; when facing death, they accept it serenely, allowing life to reach its natural conclusion. In this way, they neither harm life's essence through excessive cultivation nor suffer from the fear of death. Living fully when it's time to live, dying peacefully when it's time to die—neither life nor death can disturb their inner tranquility. Such people truly understand the Dao (the Way).

The text also criticizes two extremes: those who obsessively pursue immortality, and those like Mengsun Yang who, upon hearing Yang Zhu's teachings, rush toward death. Both attitudes deviate from the Dao. Truly wise individuals neither deliberately seek longevity nor hasten toward death, but instead follow nature's flow, maintaining detachment between life and death.

This scripture explores the dialectical relationship between "valuing oneself" and "benefiting the world" in Daoist philosophy. It begins by pointing out that excessive pursuit of physical longevity actually brings suffering. Those who truly attain the Dao neither cling to eternal life nor fear death, but instead follow nature's course, remaining at peace with the timing of events.

The discussion then unfolds through the perspective of Yang Zhu (a Daoist thinker from the Warring States period): The ancient sage Bo Chengzi Gao abandoned his royal position to live in seclusion and farm, while Yu the Great controlled floods by passing his own home three times without entering. Yang Zhu advocated "not plucking a single hair to benefit the world," believing everyone should first preserve themselves—neither harming personal interests for the world's sake, nor seizing worldly benefits for personal gain—so that peace would naturally prevail. However, the text notes this extreme "egoism" is overly radical, resembling what Mencius criticized as bordering on animal behavior.

Finally, Fan Shi comments that although Bo Chengzi Gao and Yu the Great acted differently (one for self, one for others), their intention to save the world was identical. The ancients refused to give or take even a single hair when it violated righteousness. While Yang Zhu's position was extreme, Liezi (Lie Yukou, a major Daoist figure) partially agreed with him because, against the historical backdrop of collapsing rituals and rampant deceit, people had forgotten the true meaning of "valuing one's innate nature while disdaining material things." This led to the degeneration of propriety and widespread competition for profit.

The passage embodies the Daoist concept of "preserving one's innate nature and authentic self," emphasizing maintaining fundamental integrity during chaotic times while rejecting extreme egoism. It advocates finding balance between "serving oneself" and "serving others."

This dialogue presents the debate between the Yang Zhu School and the Mohist School on "self-interest" versus "altruism." Qinzi (Qin Guli) asks Yang Zhu: "Would you pluck a single hair from your body to save all under heaven?" Yang Zhu considers this hypothetical meaningless, as one hair could never save the world.

Meng Sunyang (Yang Zhu's disciple) explains his teacher's philosophy through analogy: "If someone offered to pay you ten thousand pieces of gold in exchange for cutting off a piece of your skin, would you agree?" Qinzi says yes. Meng then asks: "What if they offered you an entire kingdom in exchange for severing one of your limbs?" Qinzi falls silent. Meng Sunyang explains: "Skin is composed of countless hairs, just as limbs are made of skin and muscle. What seems like a trivial hair is actually an essential part of the body—how can it be treated lightly?"

Here we see two contrasting approaches to life: Laozi and Guan Yinzi (representative Daoist figures) advocated valuing oneself above external things, while Yu the Great and Mo Di (founder of Mohism) championed self-sacrifice for the benefit of others. Yang Zhu followed Laozi's Dao (Way), hence his stance of "not plucking a single hair to benefit the world," whereas Mo Di followed Yu's path, thus "wearing himself out from head to foot if it could help all under heaven."

The passage concludes by noting the limitations of both philosophies: excessive self-interest neglects others, while extreme altruism leads to self-negation. Meng Sunyang understood Yang Zhu's philosophy of self-worth, while Qin Guli adhered to the Mohist principle of universal love—both grasping only partial truths. This reflects the Warring States period's "Hundred Schools of Thought" contention regarding individual value versus social responsibility.

Fan Zihua said to Lord Zhaoxi: "If all the people of the world were to sign a contract before you today, stating that using your left hand to grasp would cripple your right, and using your right hand to grasp would cripple your left—but whoever succeeds in grasping would gain the entire world—would you reach out to grasp?" Lord Zhaoxi replied: "I would not. To me, my two arms are more precious than the whole world." If that is so, then would it be worth harming one's flesh for ten thousand pieces of gold, or severing a limb to gain a kingdom?

Yang Zhu (a Daoist thinker of the Warring States period) placed excessive emphasis on the self. Those who recorded his teachings intended only to correct the social ills of their time. But when measured against the standards of the sages, this perspective appears one-sided. Thus, Qin Guli (a Mohist disciple) said to Meng Sunyang: "If you were to pose your argument to Laozi or Guan Yinzi (representatives of Daoism), your view would be correct, for their teachings value the self over external things. But if I were to pose my argument to Yu the Great or Mozi, my view would be correct, for their teachings emphasize selflessness in service to the world."

Yang Zhu remarked: "All the praise and glory of the world are bestowed upon Shun, Yu, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius, while all the blame and infamy fall upon Jie and Zhou. Yet Shun toiled in the fields of Heyang and made pottery at Leize, exhausting his limbs without rest, never tasting fine food. His parents did not love him, his siblings did not cherish him, and at thirty, he took a wife without his parents' consent. When he received Yao’s abdication, he was already old and his mind weakened. His son Shangjun proved unfit to rule, forcing him to pass the throne to Yu. He remained burdened with worry until his death—truly the most afflicted man in the world.

Gun failed in his efforts to control the floods and was executed at Mount Yu. Yu carried on his father’s work, serving his father’s enemy, laboring endlessly at flood control—so much so that when his son was born, he did not return home. His hands and feet grew calloused. After receiving Shun’s abdication, he lived in a humble palace yet had to wear ceremonial robes and crown, suffering in distress until death—truly the most toil-worn man in the world.

After King Wu of Zhou passed away, King Cheng was still young, and the Duke of Zhou governed in his stead. The Duke of Shao resented this, and rumors spread among the feudal lords. For three years, the Duke of Zhou lived in the east, executing his elder brother Guan Shu and exiling his younger brother Cai Shu, barely managing to preserve himself. He lived in constant fear until death—truly the most anxious man in the world.

Confucius propagated the ways of the ancient kings, traveling from state to state at the invitation of rulers. Yet in Song, trees were felled to drive him away; in Wei, he was barred from entering; in the lands of Shang and Zhou, he was reduced to poverty; between Chen and Cai, he was besieged. He suffered humiliation at the hands of the Ji family and contempt from Yang Hu, dying in frustration and unfulfilled ambition."

This scripture examines the relationship between life/death and reputation/reality by contrasting the life circumstances of ancient sages with those of tyrants.

The text mentions four sages (Shun, Yu, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius) who endured hardship during their lives but left behind enduring legacies, while two tyrants (Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang) indulged in pleasure during their lives but were condemned after death. However, the author points out that reputation is ultimately illusory—whether praise or slander, the dead can no longer perceive it, just as wood and clay have no awareness.

Though the sages gained honorable reputations, they suffered throughout their lives; though the tyrants were reviled, they enjoyed boundless pleasure. Yet in the end, they all met the same fate: death. All things differ in their nature, but death is their shared destination. Whether sage or tyrant, wise or foolish, all ultimately return to nothingness.

From a higher perspective, the author argues, there is no real distinction between life and death, nor should reputation and reality be overly differentiated. Those who are truly liberated (wanderers beyond the mundane world) can see through the illusion of life and death, remaining detached from both joy and sorrow. Fan Shi (possibly a commentator) concludes: All things differ in the process of life but are the same in the outcome of death. The sages gained honor yet died in sorrow; the tyrants bore infamy yet died in pleasure—but death itself is impartial.

This passage conveys two main ideas through the dialogue between Yang Zhu and the King of Liang:

The first layer illustrates that governing a kingdom operates on an entirely different level than handling trivial matters. Just as a shepherd boy can effortlessly direct his flock, the sage-kings Yao and Shun would become flustered if tasked with herding sheep. The text employs vivid analogies: giant fish capable of swallowing boats don't swim in narrow streams, and the solemn tones of Huangzhong and Dalü (the first two pitches of ancient Chinese musical temperament) aren't suited for accompanying dances. These metaphors all emphasize that those accomplishing great deeds shouldn't be constrained by minutiae - managing state affairs requires grasping fundamental principles rather than micromanaging like a household steward.

The second layer presents Yang Zhu's perspective on historical transience. He observes how ancient events have long vanished without trace, the deeds of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors remain obscure, and even contemporary occurrences elude complete understanding. Over 300,000 years have passed since Fuxi's era, yet all things - whether wise or foolish, beautiful or ugly, successful or failed - ultimately fade with time, differing only in duration. Yang Zhu finds it absurd how people torment their bodies and minds pursuing fleeting fame, striving for posthumous recognition lasting mere centuries.

The references to "Huangzhong and Dalü" (representing solemn ceremonial music) and mythical creatures like the Kun (the giant fish from Zhuangzi) and the phoenix all serve as metaphors for grand undertakings requiring vast space to unfold. These images collectively stress that true greatness demands transcending the limitations of trivial concerns.

This passage explores the illusory nature of human existence and the futility of attachment. The text observes that the empty fame accumulated through history cannot nourish withered bones—what true joy can life really offer? The grandeur of the Zhenghe era (Emperor Huizong of Song's reign) vanished in an instant. Future generations will view our present just as we view the ancients—those who cling to temporary praise or blame, believing life to be joyful, fundamentally fail to comprehend the truth of the cosmos.

The distant past is too remote, its traces long obliterated; the era of the Three Sovereigns is slightly closer, their deeds hovering between existence and non-existence; the age of the Five Emperors is nearer still, their records like dreams, indistinct between reality and illusion; by the time of the Three Kings, their legacies flicker in and out of view like vanishing imprints. Even events we personally experience become the past in an instant; occurrences unfolding before our eyes dissolve the moment our gaze touches them. Though time may seem long or short, and records detailed or sparse, all ultimately return to nothingness.

Distinctions between wise and foolish, beautiful and ugly, success and failure, right and wrong—all will eventually dissolve into oblivion. Yet people exhaust themselves in lifelong toil, shackled by external things, vying for empty fame, coveting posthumous glory, all while deluding themselves that this is cherishing life. Fan Yingyuan (a Song dynasty Daoist) remarked: All worldly affairs suddenly form and just as suddenly crumble; prosperity and decline, rise and fall, cycle endlessly. Over countless millennia, from ancient times to the present, regardless of wisdom or folly, beauty or ugliness, right or wrong, success or failure—all ultimately return to stillness. The ignorant fail to grasp this truth, exhausting heart and mind daily, their inner selves clogged with distractions, bound layer upon layer by external attachments, never finding peace throughout their lives. Where is the joy in such an existence?

Yang Zhu (a Warring States period philosopher) added: Though humans embody the numinous essence of heaven and earth and the nature of the Five Phases (referring to benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trust), without understanding that all things ultimately return to emptiness, every attachment is but futile labor.

This scripture primarily discusses the relationship between humans and all things, as well as the way of being for sages.

Though humans share similarities with Yin-Yang and the Five Phases (the fundamental elements in ancient philosophy), they are the most spiritually intelligent among all living beings. Human nails and teeth are insufficient for self-defense, skin and muscles inadequate to resist harm, and running speed too slow to escape calamity. Without feathers to withstand heat and cold, humans must rely on external things to sustain life. Therefore, humanity depends on wisdom rather than brute force—wisdom is valued for its ability to protect the self, while brute force is considered inferior because it harms others.

Our bodies do not truly belong to us, yet since we are alive, we must preserve them. External things are not truly ours either, for what we possess will eventually be lost. The body is the vessel of life, while external things are tools for nurturing life. Even if we preserve the body, we should not cling to it; even if we use external things, we should not claim ownership of them. To forcibly claim the body or external things is to attempt to seize all under heaven as private property.

Only sages understand this truth: the body cannot be privately owned, and external things cannot be exclusively possessed. The highest-level "perfected person" (zhiren) can regard the bodies of all people as their own and all things in the world as their possessions. This is not something ordinary people can achieve—only those who recognize the error of selfish desires and understand the correctness of public-mindedness can reach the supreme state of "ultimate perfection."

Additional notes:

• The "Five Constant Virtues" (wuchang) refer to the five fundamental moral qualities: benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness.
• The "perfected person" (zhiren) is the Daoist ideal of the most cultivated individual.
• The text emphasizes using wisdom to master external things rather than being enslaved by them.
• Sages understand that the body is merely a vessel for the spirit (shen), while external things are merely tools for the senses.

This scripture primarily explores how to properly regard the body and external things, as well as the wisdom of attaining supreme sagehood.

Though the human body serves as the vessel of life, one should not cling to it possessively. Nourishing the body requires external resources, yet one must avoid excessive craving for material things. If one covets external possessions while simultaneously fixating on the body internally, they fall into partiality, violating the Dao's principle of universal impartiality. The sage understands that the body is merely a temporary form entrusted by Heaven and Earth, thus viewing all beings equally; recognizing the fundamental sameness of all things, they treat everything with fairness. Only the most supreme sage can attain this state.

Master Fan remarks: Your body never truly belongs to you—to forcibly claim it is to privately appropriate what belongs to all under heaven. External things cannot be forcefully obtained—to insist on possessing them is to privately hoard the world's resources. Laozi teaches that true impartiality comes from embracing all things, while Zhuangzi says the great person merges with all creation in universal harmony. Those who reach this realization understand that neither the body nor external things possess inherent substantiality, naturally transcending selfishness. Only the "Perfect Person" (Zhiren) can completely relinquish selfhood, while ordinary sages still haven't fully surpassed human limitations.

Yang Zhu identifies four causes of human restlessness: first, suppressing desires in pursuit of longevity; second, restraining conduct to seek fame; third, compromising integrity to gain status; and fourth, withholding expenditure while coveting wealth. Those bound by these four concerns live in fear—of spirits, others, authority, and punishment—becoming "fugitives from nature" (Dunren) who violate their innate disposition. The truly enlightened neither oppose destiny nor crave extended life; they neither prize high status nor pursue empty reputation; they neither court power nor remain constrained by external pressures.

(Note: The "Perfect Person" represents the highest Daoist attainment, while "fugitives from nature" denote those who act contrary to natural spontaneity. These concepts embody the Daoist advocacy for following nature and transcending material desires.)

This passage elucidates the contrasting life states of aligning with natural disposition versus defying cosmic principles.

Those who truly follow nature's way neither covet wealth nor envy material possessions, for they comprehend the essence of life (physiology). Such individuals remain inwardly unshackled by external objects, masters of their own destiny. In contrast, those chasing fame, status, and riches harbor constant anxiety—fearing human censure by day and ghostly reproach by night, toiling ceaselessly without peace.

The scripture distinguishes two types: "defiers of Dao" who violate natural laws find their life, death, fortune and misfortune controlled by external forces; while "followers of nature" who adhere to their innate disposition govern all things without being dominated by them. Those excessively worried about longevity stray further from nourishment of life (yangsheng); those obsessed with reputation lose their true nature; power-seekers dread authority and wealth-chasers fear punishment—all manifestations of opposing heavenly nature.

Those who truly apprehend the Dao (Dao) abide contentedly in their original state, harmonizing with natural rhythms. They accept what comes with equanimity and release what goes without resistance, never yearning for external things. Such individuals unite with heaven and earth, transcend material desires, and become sovereigns of all transformations.

The passage concludes with a proverb: "Without marriage or official rank, human desires halve; without pursuit of food and clothing, hierarchies between ruler and subject naturally dissolve." Like the old farmer who considers dawn-to-dusk labor his nature and coarse fare his delicacy—his muscles rugged yet his joy complete—this illustrates the life state of aligning with one's natural disposition.

This passage illustrates the core Daoist concept of "abiding by one's inherent nature" through vivid anecdotes and metaphors.

There was a farmer from the Song state who could only wear tattered hemp clothes for warmth in winter. When spring came for plowing, he basked in the sunlight for warmth, completely unaware that the world contained grand warm houses or luxurious furs. Naively, he told his wife: "Sunbathing feels so wonderful, yet others don't know about it. I'll present this secret to our ruler and surely receive rich rewards." A wealthy villager warned him: "Long ago, someone thought wild beans, hemp stalks, and water celery were delicious delicacies and recommended them to the local gentry. After eating them, the gentry got stomachaches and everyone laughed at him. You're exactly that kind of person."

Through this story, the author demonstrates how each person's accustomed way of living differs and shouldn't be forcibly changed. What seems good to a country villager may not suit others. Just as the obligations between ruler and subject or the propriety between husband and wife, though ordained by heaven's mandate (Tianming), must still align with human nature; while appetites for food and comforts are natural inclinations, they must also be restrained by heaven's principles.

Yang Zhu (a prominent Daoist figure) said: "With splendid mansions, fine garments, delicious food, and beautiful companions—if one still craves more after possessing these four, it reveals insatiable greed." This greedy nature disrupts the balance of Yin-Yang (阴阳), not only burdening oneself but also depleting vital Qi (气). Just as excessive punishment harms people, unbridled desires become internalized punishment.

The passage concludes with the metaphor of the giant Peng bird and the quail, showing how all creatures have their suitable environments without needing to envy each other. If everyone in the world could abide by their inherent nature and destiny, then wealth and poverty could coexist peacefully. But when people become restless, it breeds mutual disdain between the simple and clever, creating endless competition.

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing Sijie primarily examines the relationship between "name" (名) and "substance" (实), as well as the importance of abiding by one's inherent nature.

The giant turtle of the Eastern Sea cannot dwell in a tiny puddle, while the frog at the bottom of a well leaps about joyfully. All things have their natural boundaries and should not be forcibly altered. If one insists on pursuing what lies beyond their proper station, it will only fuel greed and personal biases, ultimately harming the innate truth of life. Just as calamity arises from the imbalance of Yin-Yang, how can humans escape such consequences?

This passage was originally intended to correct the excessive indulgence of its time. Yet if one fails to grasp this intent and instead treats indulgence as the norm, then more and more people in the secular world will endanger themselves in pursuit of external things, abandoning their true nature—how then can they abide by their proper station?

The text cites the example of the old farmer: blind loyalty cannot secure a ruler’s stability but instead endangers oneself; misguided righteousness cannot benefit all things but instead harms life. The true way of the ancient sages ensures peace for both ruler and subject, benefiting all beings as well as the self.

Master Yu (鬻子), a Zhou dynasty thinker, said, "Those who abandon empty fame have no worries," and Laozi (老子) also stated, "Fame is but the shadow of true Virtue (De)." Yet people in the world compete fiercely for reputation. With fame comes honor and glory; without it, one faces disgrace and humiliation. In truth, anxiety and suffering injure one’s innate nature, while ease and joy align with it. What matters is the substance—why cling to empty names? Still, one must be wary of damaging substance in the name of preserving reputation, for then even personal safety becomes uncertain, let alone the enjoyment of happiness.

From the perspective of inner cultivation, abandoning empty fame indeed brings freedom from worry. From an external standpoint, having reputation does confer respect. But the sage (圣人), in accordance with the natural way (Dao), does not deliberately pursue such things. They relinquish achievement, profit, and status, appearing no different from ordinary people—not for the sake of avoiding worry. Even when possessing true Virtue (De), they decline the honors others bestow—not for the sake of seeking glory. The truly wise remain transcendent between "name" and "substance."

This passage expounds on the principle of following one's natural disposition. Reputation is not something to be seized through factionalism, nor acquired through empty boasts, nor forcibly demanded through power. Thus the ancients said fame is like communal property—it cannot be excessively hoarded.

The heroic sacrifice themselves for reputation, the virtuous prize it highly, while the cunning steal renown. How could they understand that those who have truly attained the Dao (Zhiren) regard fame as shackles binding their true nature? Hence there exists a state called "Wuwei Mingshi" (not becoming a corpse to fame)—this text begins by examining the pursuit of reputation precisely to ultimately shatter such attachments and be liberated from fame's burdens.

(Note: "Wuwei Mingshi" is a key Daoist concept meaning non-attachment to empty fame, treating reputation with the detachment one would show toward a corpse. Through contrasting three types of people's attitudes toward fame, the text reveals the transcendent realm of adepts who rise above name and gain.)