《沖虛至德真經四解》Vol. 20

During the Song dynasty, there was a family that practiced virtuous deeds and accumulated merit for three consecutive generations. Their black ox unexpectedly gave birth to a white calf, which they found strange, so they went to consult Confucius. Confucius said this was an auspicious sign and advised them to sacrifice the white calf to Heaven. A year later, the father of the family suddenly lost his eyesight for no apparent reason, and the black ox bore another white calf. The father again sent his son to ask Confucius, but the son complained that after the last consultation, his father had gone blind—why bother asking again? The father insisted that the words of sages often seem difficult at first but prove beneficial later, and since the matter was unresolved, they should inquire once more. Confucius again declared it a good omen and urged them to continue with the sacrifice. Another year passed, and the son also inexplicably lost his sight.

Later, when the state of Chu attacked Song and besieged the capital, famine struck the city. People resorted to exchanging children for food and splitting human bones for fuel. Able-bodied men were conscripted to defend the walls, and most perished in battle. Yet this family, because both father and son were blind, were spared from military service and the horrors of war. When the siege was finally lifted, their eye afflictions miraculously healed.

This illustrates the principle Laozi spoke of: "Misfortune and fortune depend upon each other." Lu Zhongxuan (also known as the Recluse of Harmonious Light) explains: Those who accumulate virtue through good deeds will receive official honors if talented, and blessings even if untalented. The appearance of the white calf was a sign of their virtuous conduct, ultimately preserving the family's lives. Master Zhenghe (a commentator) adds: Light is born from darkness, form arises from the formless—fortune and misfortune transform unpredictably. Only those with profound virtue enjoy enduring blessings, while calamity naturally stays distant. Fan Yingyuan (another commentator) observes: Auspicious and inauspicious signs may appear similar on the surface, just as the catalpa tree (considered an ill omen by ordinary people) is seen as highly auspicious by divine beings. Worry and joy, fortune and misfortune often arise together; only sages can discern their underlying causes.

(The following passage mentions another story about a Song man named Lanzi, but the text is incomplete and cannot be fully translated.)

The Chongxu Zhide Zhenjing Sijie (Four Commentaries on the Classic of Perfect Virtue) illustrates principles of human conduct through several parables.

The text first contrasts the fates of two street performers. One artist balanced seven swords while juggling them atop two long poles strapped to his legs, earning immediate gold and silver rewards from Lord Yuan of Song, who was delighted. Later, another performer attempted to gain favor by demonstrating "swallow tricks" (a form of contortionist acrobatics), but the ruler grew furious: "My previous gifts were given in a moment of joy—how dare you try to exploit this for gain?" The man was imprisoned for a month before release. This shows how identical skills may yield vastly different outcomes depending on timing.

Commentator Lu emphasizes: Only sustained cultivation of De (Virtue) preserves blessings; reliance on mere technical skill is fleeting. Liezi presents these examples precisely to highlight the importance of moral refinement. The Zhenghe-era commentary observes that worldly affairs lack absolute right or wrong—timing is decisive. Those skilled in techniques but ignorant of the Dao (the Way) court instability. The wise recognize life's unpredictability and thus act with discernment.

Commentator Fan concludes: Seizing the moment brings prosperity; missing it invites ruin. Those who chase petty gains without aligning with circumstance rarely escape misfortune.

The narrative then shifts to Duke Mu of Qin’s dialogue with Bole (the legendary horse judge). When asked whether any descendants could inherit his expertise, Bole replies: "Average steeds can be judged by bone structure, but a truly divine horse transcends form—its presence flickers between being and nonbeing, its speed outruns even dust. My sons recognize only ordinary horses, not celestial stallions. Yet my firewood-gathering companion Jiufang Gao possesses discernment equal to mine."

This equestrian metaphor extends to recognizing talent: superficial traits are easily spotted, but genuine greatness demands vision beyond convention. Masters like Jiufang Gao often dwell unrecognized among humble laborers.

This passage recounts the story of Jiufang Gao, an ancient horse physiognomy master. Duke Mu of Qin dispatched Jiufang Gao to find a thousand-mile steed. Three months later, Jiufang returned reporting he'd found a yellow mare at Shaqiu. But when sent to retrieve it, the horse turned out to be a black stallion. The displeased duke reprimanded Bole for recommending someone who couldn't even distinguish a horse's color or gender.

Bole sighed in admiration: "This precisely shows how he surpasses me ten-thousandfold!" Jiufang Gao focused on the horse's inner vitality (tianji, the essential potential) rather than external features. He observed only the crucial spirit (shenqi) while disregarding secondary details like coat color or sex—a method described as "grasping the essence while forgetting the coarse." This represented true mastery of horse appraisal.

When the horse arrived, it proved indeed to be a rare thousand-mile steed. This illustrates how observing things requires grasping their essence (shenqi) rather than being misled by surface appearances (xingzhi). Just as the invisible "formless" (wuxiang, inner principles) moves all things while the visible "formed" merely shows external manifestations. Jiufang Gao's exceptional skill lay precisely in perceiving essence beyond appearances.

This passage expounds the wisdom of Daoist cultivation and state governance.

Regarding cultivation: Ordinary people constantly utilize the Dao (the Way) without recognizing its efficacy, and operate within it year-round without feeling weary. Only those who truly understand and nurture the Dao become masters of cultivation. The key lies in perceiving with one's spirit (Shen) rather than clinging to superficial appearances. The Dao exists in formlessness—seemingly ethereal and intangible, neither visible nor tangible, like a realm that remains elusive even when pursued. Those of average or lesser capacity find this principle difficult to comprehend.

What can be expressed through words merely captures superficial manifestations, while what is perceived through the heart-mind grasps the essence (Jing) of things. Those who truly apprehend the essence forget about appearances—this constitutes a state beyond verbal description. Only by focusing on intrinsic nature while disregarding external forms can one attain transcendent awareness. Like the legendary horse expert Jiufang Gao, who valued only the inner spirit (Shen) of horses while ignoring external features like coat color or gender, thereby identifying truly exceptional steeds.

Regarding governance: King Zhuang of Chu consulted the recluse Zhan He about statecraft. Zhan He replied: "I only understand self-cultivation, not governance." Yet he continued: "We've never heard of well-cultivated individuals presiding over chaotic states, nor of disordered persons governing well-ordered kingdoms. Thus the root lies in self-cultivation—I dare not discuss governance techniques while neglecting fundamentals." The king acknowledged this wisdom.

The conclusion summarizes: Ordinary people seek to harm others for personal gain—this is petty conduct; sacrificing oneself for others merely constitutes reputation-seeking hypocrisy. Those who truly stabilize states put themselves last—masters of self-cultivation naturally govern well. For the ruler forms the state's root, while spiritual cultivation (inner refinement) remains paramount.

This scripture primarily discusses the relationship between self-cultivation, governance, and conduct in human affairs. The core teaching is: the foundation of governing a state lies in cultivating oneself, and the key to self-cultivation resides in calming the heart-mind (shen).

An elder from Huqiu (a place name) said to the Chu minister Sunshu Ao: "People face three situations that easily invite resentment: excessively high noble rank provokes envy, overly great official position arouses the ruler's suspicion, and excessively generous salary invites others' resentment." Sunshu Ao replied: "My method for handling this is: the higher my rank, the more humble my attitude; the greater my official position, the more cautious my conduct; the more generous my salary, the more extensive my charity. In this way, I avoid these three sources of resentment."

The text illustrates this principle through several layers:

First, the foundation of state governance lies in personal cultivation, just as one can catch large fish with fine fishing line—grasping the fundamental method allows controlling the great through the small. Second, Sunshu Ao's "three increases" principle: the higher one's status, the more one should increase humility (zhi yi xia); the greater one's authority, the more one should increase caution (xin yi xiao); the more abundant one's wealth, the more one should increase generosity (shi yi bo). Third, this approach to conduct embodies the Daoist wisdom of "holding to the rear while actually occupying the front"—apparent yielding that in truth preserves one's position.

The text mentions Sunshu Ao, the famous virtuous chancellor of Chu, who served three times as Lingyin (the highest Chu official position) without arrogance and was dismissed three times without distress. It was precisely this detached attitude that enabled him to consistently avoid calamity. This anecdote demonstrates that true wisdom in conduct lies not in external status but in the depth of internal cultivation.

When Sunshu Ao was gravely ill and nearing death, he admonished his son, saying: "The King of Chu has repeatedly offered to bestow fiefs upon me, but I have always declined. After my death, the king will surely offer them to you—you must never accept fertile lands. Between the borders of Chu and Yue lies a place called Qinqiu, whose soil is barren and whose name is inauspicious (the people of Chu believe in ghosts, while the Yue people are superstitious about omens and portents)."

Lu Zhongxuan comments: The character "禨" has two pronunciations (jù yī qiè and jū xī qiè). The Huainanzi records that the people of Wu and Yue were particularly superstitious about ghosts and omens. Sunshu Ao believed that only land that everyone considered undesirable could be held securely for long. After Sunshu Ao's death, the King of Chu indeed offered fertile land to his son, but the son firmly declined and requested only Qinqiu. As a result, this fief remained in the family for generations without being reclaimed.

Xiao He of the Han Dynasty similarly advised his descendants not to covet prominent fiefs, lest they attract the envy of the powerful. Lu Zhongxuan elaborates: People contend only for immediate gains—things of meager benefit attract no competition. Greed for substantial profits inevitably provokes contention, making them difficult to retain. The world knows only to chase after great advantages, failing to understand the principle of enduring through modest means. Those who have truly attained the Dao realize that contentment with what others disdain leads to lasting preservation.

Zhenghe Zhenren (Emperor Huizong of Song) said: "All under heaven know beauty as beauty—this very recognition makes it ugly. Only by willingly occupying what others shun and contending for nothing does one approach the Great Dao and attain longevity." Fan Yingyuan adds: The ancient Dao attainers actively chose what others detested, refusing to let personal preferences burden their hearts—Sunshu Ao's selection of Qinqiu illustrates this principle.

Another story tells of Niu Que, a great scholar from Shangdi. While traveling to Handan, he encountered bandits at Ousha who robbed him of all his possessions. Yet he departed with unperturbed composure. When the bandits pursued him to ask why, he replied: "A noble man does not harm his inner cultivation for external things." The bandits sighed, "What a worthy man!" But then reflected: "Such a worthy man appearing before the Lord of Zhao will surely mobilize forces against us," and so killed him. When the Yan people heard of this, entire clans warned each other: "Never imitate Shangdi's Niu Que when meeting bandits." Later, Niu Que's younger brother went to Qin and indeed encountered robbers. Remembering his brother's lesson, he fought them fiercely—only to be slain.

Niu Que brought calamity upon himself through excessive generosity (lack of restraint), while a man from Yan suffered misfortune due to extreme stinginess (false frugality). This shows how unpredictable fortune and misfortune truly are.

Lu Zhongxuan (commentator) explains: Those who truly understand cosmic timing and principles remain unconfused when facing events, never missing opportune moments. Their actions align with natural law, adapting flexibly to circumstances. But those who deliberately seek fame, display their deeds untimely, will inevitably encounter obstacles everywhere. Niu Que failed to assess situations properly, and his younger brother's behavior was excessive—like Meng's two sons forcibly imitating Kings Wen and Wu. All who pursue empty fame inevitably meet with disaster.

The Zhenghe era commentator adds: Life isn't preserved through nobility alone, nor the body strengthened merely by cherishing it. Niu Que's murder illustrates this—the privileged harm themselves through pampered living, while the poor injure themselves through excessive profit-seeking. The Yan man's death shows that while disregarding life is dangerous, overvaluing it also brings entanglement. Thus the sages said "The body is life's greatest burden."

Fan Yingyuan (commentator) concludes: Niu Que invited disaster through generosity, the Yan man perished through contention—truly, fortune and misfortune are hard to foresee.

Now the story of the Yu family: This wealthy Liang noble hosted lavish gambling feasts on his high terrace overlooking the main road. When wandering swordsmen passed below, the gamblers above happened to throw "bright jade" (a winning dice combination called mingqiong) and laughed uproariously at their doubled winnings (fanliangyu). At that moment, a hawk dropped a rotten rat that struck a swordsman. Mistaking this for deliberate insult, they raged: "This rich man's enjoyed luxury too long, always looking down on others! Though we've given no offense, he insults us with rotten flesh! Without vengeance, we're unfit for the martial world!" That night they massacred Yu's entire household.

This tragedy shows multiple paths by which arrogance invites ruin. Though Yu hadn't intended offense, his habitual lack of humble conduct (qiantui zhi xing bu su zhu) ultimately brought annihilation.

(Note: "Jibo" refers to ancient dice gambling; "mingqiong" indicates specific winning dice combinations; "fanliangyu" denotes doubled winnings terminology)

This scripture explores philosophical themes of fortune and misfortune, reputation versus reality, and moral choices through several parables.

There was a man named Yuan Jingmu who collapsed from hunger on the road. Qiu, a bandit from Hufu, saw him and fed him with gruel he carried with him. After three meals, Yuan Jingmu regained his sight and asked who his benefactor was. Upon learning that he was a bandit, he immediately refused to eat further, lying on the ground trying to vomit the food, and ultimately starved to death. The author comments: The food itself was not stolen, yet Yuan rejected it solely because the giver was a bandit—this confuses the essential distinction between reputation and reality. To pursue empty virtue at the expense of practical survival, as Yuan Jingmu did, is to lose life itself. A true follower of the Dao (the Way) would not act this way. If one could inspire even a bandit to act with kindness, both saving a life and preserving moral integrity, that would be the ideal outcome.

Another story tells of Zhu Lishu, who served Duke Ao of Ju but, feeling unappreciated, withdrew to live by the sea, eating water chestnuts in summer and acorns in winter. Later, when Duke Ao faced calamity, Zhu Lishu resolutely went to die with him. His friend asked in confusion, "Didn’t you always feel misunderstood?" This tale echoes the story of Bo Yi and Shu Qi, who refused to eat the grain of Zhou, illustrating how sages sometimes take principles to extremes.

The text points out that fortune and misfortune are both self-invited. Extravagance corrupts De (Virtue), indulgence harms one’s nature—both violate the essence of the Dao. Like the Yu clan, who enjoyed prolonged wealth and luxury but gradually lost humility, leading to their swift downfall. The true Dao eliminates excess and maintains moderation.

Finally, the text contrasts this with a parable from Mencius about "food given with contempt": even a beggar would refuse condescending charity, let alone food from a bandit. Yet it also argues that if, while defending a city’s gates, an enemy offers aid with proper courtesy, even Confucius would accept it—one should not refuse rightful assistance simply because the giver is a thief.

This scripture explores the relationship between "gratitude for recognition" and life-or-death choices through several historical anecdotes. The story of Zhu Lishu (a Spring and Autumn period figure) recounts how he left his lord after feeling unrecognized for his talents. When the lord later died, Zhu interpreted this as final proof of being misunderstood and chose to commit suicide—hoping future rulers would take warning. However, the author critiques this resentment-driven act as unwise, fundamentally at odds with Daoist principles of preserving life and cherishing the Dao (the Way).

The text presents contrasting views: while some argue noble men may sacrifice themselves for benevolence and righteousness, deliberately courting death through contrarian acts of frustration violates true nobility. The worthiness of death depends on its purpose—illustrated by historical figures like Zhao Hu (who died for his lord) and Guan Zhong (who survived the same crisis yet faced no censure from antiquity). Suicide motivated purely by resentment finds no approval among true gentlemen.

Yang Zhu (a Warring States Daoist philosopher) articulates the principle of "cause and effect": kindness begets gratitude while enmity invites calamity—as naturally as shadows follow forms or echoes answer sounds. Thus the wise remain vigilant in conduct. Yet the author laments how some contemporary Daoist practitioners distorted this teaching, abandoning ritual norms in self-indulgent excess like Ji Kang and Ruan Ji (Zong), who courted disaster while remaining blind to true Daoist wisdom.

The passage concludes by emphasizing how words and deeds create far-reaching consequences—local actions become visible from afar—underscoring the need for careful conduct. Blending Confucian ideals of "dying for virtue" with Daoist "life-preservation" philosophy, it critiques extremism while advocating judicious deliberation in matters of life and death.

This passage explains how our words and actions can invite either misfortune or honor, thus a noble person must act with prudence. Both fortune and misfortune, honor and disgrace, are consequences we bring upon ourselves—like echoes that return what we send out.

Two examples illustrate this principle. The first tells of Yangzi’s neighbor who lost a sheep. Despite many people joining the search, the sheep couldn’t be found due to the maze of branching paths. Yangzi remained deeply troubled all day, leaving his disciples puzzled by his excessive concern over a single sheep.

The second example involves Xinduze asking Yangzi about three brothers who studied the Dao of humaneness and righteousness (Ren-Yi) under the same teacher, yet each emerged with starkly different interpretations. The eldest believed humaneness meant protecting one’s body from harm; the second held it justified sacrificing one’s life; the third saw it as preserving both body and reputation. Yangzi responded with an analogy: riverside dwellers learn swimming to make a living, yet half drown in the process. An art meant to sustain life instead brings death.

Xinduze then realizes: just as multiple paths cause sheep to stray, studying too many divergent methods obscures life’s true meaning. All genuine learning shares one root, though its manifestations differ—only by returning to this essence can we avoid losing our way.

This scripture elucidates the principle of maintaining one's original nature through several allegorical stories.

The parable of the lost sheep illustrates that spiritual cultivation resembles a shepherd tending his flock—the essential point lies in guarding the Shen (spirit). Once the Shen is lost, it's like sheep straying onto wrong paths that are hard to retrieve. Those who truly attain the Dao neither cling to gain and loss nor depend on external things. Those who excessively pursue human virtues are as futile as searching for sheep on diverging paths.

The text mentions three Shang dynasty sages—Weizi, Bigan, and Jizi—who chose different paths (Weizi departed, Bigan remonstrated unto death, Jizi feigned madness), yet all returned to the great Dao. This demonstrates that as long as one maintains the fundamental principle, different approaches can all lead to the Dao. If all people could reach the same destination by different routes, the troubles of gain and loss would cease to exist.

The story of Yang Zhu's brother is particularly vivid: Yang Bu went out wearing white clothes but changed into black after being caught in rain. His household dog failed to recognize him and barked wildly. This metaphor shows that if cultivators cannot maintain inner purity while their external manifestations keep changing, they'll invite misunderstanding and rejection from the world. Just as seagulls could originally approach those who preserve their true nature, if cultivators lose their fundamental purity, even household dogs would react with fear.

The text ultimately points out that genuine cultivators should maintain unchanging inner constancy while allowing external expressions to adapt circumstantially. Losing one's essential nature while focusing only on surface appearances—like shifting between black and white—inevitably makes external things perceive strangeness. All phenomena undergo constant transformation with varying standards of right and wrong. Clinging to superficial appearances without understanding the fundamental principle only generates illusory distinctions.

This scripture explores profound truths about virtuous conduct, fame and fortune, and the Dao of life and death through several stories and dialogues.

Yang Zhu (a Daoist philosopher) said: True virtuous deeds are not performed for the sake of fame, yet fame naturally follows; when one doesn't deliberately pursue profit, benefits will naturally accrue. Though one doesn't actively contend for gain, contention will come seeking them. Therefore, the noble person must be cautious in virtuous actions. When a person displays wisdom, others will debate with them; when one demonstrates strength, others will compete - this is the natural order. Never has there been a case where dwelling amidst fame and fortune didn't invite calamity. As the ancient saying goes, "Practice virtue without approaching fame" - these words are indeed trustworthy.

Lu Zhongxuan explained: Virtue performed for fame inevitably provokes contention. The phrase "practice virtue without approaching fame" means precisely not to contend with others for profit. To accomplish what ordinary people cannot, yet refrain from self-praise - this is the mark of cautious virtue.

Zhenghe Zhenren further elaborated: Virtuous deeds originally don't seek fame, yet fame naturally arrives; fame originally doesn't pursue profit, yet profit naturally follows. When wealth accumulates, contention breeds disaster. The sage can foresee consequences by observing phenomena, therefore one must be cautious in speech and action even when alone. This is precisely what Zhuangzi meant by "practice virtue without approaching fame."

Fan Yingyuan added: Virtuous conduct is what everyone naturally admires, but once greed enters, some will desperately chase fame while others insatiably pursue profit, even violating their true nature to contend, leading to theft and deception without restraint. Thus Boyi chose to starve at the foot of Shouyang Mountain while Robber Zhi rampaged at Dongling - isn't this utterly bewildering?

The text then presents a parable about the Dao of immortality: A man claimed to know the method of deathlessness, so the ruler of Yan sent an envoy to learn it. Before the teaching was complete, the man died. The furious ruler wanted to execute the envoy, but a wise minister admonished: What people fear most is death, what they value most is life. If this "deathless" man himself died, how could he make the ruler immortal? Only then did the ruler relent.

In Qi, another man wishing to learn the deathless art heard the teacher had died and beat his chest in regret. Master Fu laughed at this: "The one who wanted to learn immortality has died, yet you regret it - this shows complete misunderstanding of true learning." But Master Hu disagreed: "In this world, some know methods but cannot practice them, while others can practice without knowing the methods. Like the man from Wei skilled in calculation - on his deathbed he told his son the secrets, who memorized them but couldn't apply them. When others came for instruction, the son repeated his father's words but couldn't perform the calculations. This shows theory and practice are two different things."

This scripture explores the relationship between knowledge and practice, as well as the fundamental nature of the Dao (the Way), through several parables and analogies.

Regarding the relationship between knowledge and practice: The text points out that people's talents and innate abilities vary greatly. Some can articulate principles but fail to put them into action (such as those who understand the methods of longevity but cannot practice them), while others can perform but struggle to explain the underlying rationale. This illustrates the gap between merely knowing the theory and truly embodying it. As Scholar Lu remarks, those who grasp the principles through hearing and reflection are still better off than those who remain entirely ignorant—yet what truly matters is the unity of knowledge and action.

Two examples are given: Xiao Liangyi possessed the talent of a sage but lacked understanding of the Dao (the Way), while Nü Yu comprehended the Dao but did not possess the corresponding abilities. This shows that to become a sage, one must cultivate both talent and mastery of the Dao. This also explains why some who understood the techniques of immortality in life could not transmit them to the living after death—because they lacked the practical conditions for realization.

On distinguishing root from branch: The story of Handan villagers capturing turtledoves on New Year’s Day to present to Lord Jian for release reveals how seemingly virtuous acts can lead to unintended harm. A guest points out that this "capture first, release later" approach actually results in more bird deaths—far worse than simply prohibiting the practice outright. As Scholar Lu observes, small acts of compassion (like releasing animals) may undermine greater compassion (the principle of non-harming). Most people focus only on outward forms (the traces of conventional virtue) without grasping the deeper principle (the true function of the Dao).

Finally, the summary by Master Zhenghe emphasizes: Heaven and Earth nurture all things by allowing them to develop according to their inherent nature (self-fulfillment). This implies that true Daoist practice does not lie in contrived acts of virtue but in following the natural order of things.

This passage illustrates the Daoist concept of "the equality of all things" through several stories. When the Tian family of Qi held a banquet in their courtyard, they gazed at the fish and geese on the table and marveled at how Heaven had favored humans by providing them with food. However, a twelve-year-old boy from the Bao family countered: All beings between Heaven and Earth are equal lives, with no inherent hierarchy. Humans consider themselves noble and look down on other creatures, but they merely prey upon one another by virtue of physical size and intellectual advantage—it isn’t that Heaven specially created food for humans. Just as mosquitoes drink blood and tigers and wolves eat meat, did Heaven specifically create human blood for mosquitoes or flesh for beasts?

Master Lu commented: Carnivores preying on one another violates the natural order (Dao), while the Bao child’s words align with principle. Some cite Fuxi inventing fishing nets and Suiren teaching humans to cook, arguing that sages are no different from tigers and wolves in eating meat. Yet Daoist scriptures clarify that the teachings of Chinese sages primarily benefit humanity, while Buddhist (Shakyamuni’s) teachings aim to liberate all beings. The writings of Liezi elucidate this view, revealing that the teachings of the great Dao share the same essence.

Master Zhenghe observed: Heaven, Earth, and I share the same origin; the myriad things and I are one body. What appears different actually belongs to the same category. Distinctions like strength and weakness, wisdom and ignorance arise naturally—thus sages advocate following the spontaneous development of all things without forced interference.

Master Fan remarked: Humans should regard all beings equally. Practices like "releasing life to show kindness" are unreasonable; Heaven nurtures the myriad things not solely for human service. The text also recounts a poor man who begged in the city to no avail, then worked in the Tian family’s stables for food. When mocked by townsfolk, the beggar replied there was no shame in it, implying that survival needs render artificial hierarchies meaningless. These stories collectively express the Daoist "Discourse on the Equality of Things" (Qiwulun): All things are fundamentally equal, and human-imposed distinctions of nobility and baseness are merely relative constructs.

This scripture reveals several common cognitive fallacies through vivid analogies.

First, it discusses the act of "begging." There is nothing more humiliating in the world than begging, yet if even begging is not truly shameful, why should one feel ashamed to seek help from a horse doctor (veterinarian)? The author points out that when a person is in dire straits, their sense of shame naturally shifts. Scholars who flatter for political advancement and those who work in lowly clinics to make ends meet are, at their core, both striving for survival. People often judge honor and disgrace by the amount of profit gained, yet few truly understand their essence.

Next, the story of a man from Song who picked up a discarded tally (a notched bamboo or wooden token) satirizes worldly folly. This man treasured the empty tally as if it were a treasure, counting its notches and boasting to his neighbors about his impending wealth. This mirrors those who cling to empty reputations while seeking real benefits or stubbornly adhere to outdated doctrines in hopes of attaining the true Dao (the Way). People often obsess over superficial forms, much like the man who felt no shame begging on the streets but was embarrassed to be employed—an equally absurd contradiction.

Finally, the tale of the withered wutong tree illustrates how people are easily swayed by seemingly reasonable yet self-serving advice. A neighbor warned that the dead tree was inauspicious, prompting the owner to hastily chop it down—only for the same neighbor to then ask for the firewood. This exposes how people are often misled by rhetoric that appears impartial but conceals ulterior motives; advice that seems sound on the surface may hide private gain.

Through these everyday examples, the passage exposes humanity’s tendency to be deceived by appearances, cling to empty fame, and be easily influenced by others' words. A true cultivator of the Dao must transcend such worldly notions and perceive the essence of things.

This passage illustrates through several stories how preconceived notions can lead to erroneous judgments about reality.

The first tale tells of a wealthy man whose wall collapsed during rain. His son warned, "If we don't repair the wall, thieves may come," and an elderly neighbor gave the same advice. That very night, robbers indeed struck. The family praised their son's wisdom while suspecting the old neighbor might be the thief. This shows how once suspicion takes root, even correct advice from others becomes twisted in our perception.

The second story is more classic. A man who lost his axe suspected his neighbor's son of stealing it. Suddenly, the boy's walk seemed like a thief's gait, his expressions appeared guilty, even his speech sounded like a culprit's. When the axe was later found in the valley, the neighbor's son no longer resembled a thief at all. This "suspecting the neighbor of stealing the axe" parable perfectly demonstrates how subjective assumptions distort our perception of facts.

The third account describes Bai Gongsheng, a minister of the Chu State during the Spring and Autumn period, who became so obsessed with plotting rebellion that during court sessions he remained distracted - even holding his staff upside down and poking his own chin without noticing. This reveals how fixation on certain thoughts can impair basic judgment.

These examples collectively demonstrate how many worldly conflicts and misunderstandings stem from subjective assumptions. When viewing things through prejudiced lenses, it's like wearing tinted glasses that distort even black and white, square and round. Only by maintaining inner clarity, free from selfish thoughts, can one perceive reality accurately. Daoist practice emphasizes overcoming such subjective attachments to restore the original purity of mind.

This passage reveals how desires can cloud human perception through several vivid anecdotes.

In the state of Zheng, a man walked into a tree stump so forcefully that blood dripped to the ground without him noticing. A bystander marveled: "This man is so absorbed that he forgets even pain!" It is like someone tripping over a stump or bumping their head against a tree trunk yet remaining oblivious. This illustrates how, when the spirit (Shen) is intensely focused on one thing, even bodily sensations are ignored.

In the state of Qi, a man obsessed with gold dressed formally and went to the marketplace in broad daylight, boldly snatching gold from a shop before fleeing. When caught, the official asked, "How could you dare to steal in front of so many witnesses?" He replied, "I only saw the gold—I didn’t see any people at all." When desire grows this strong, even living beings before one’s eyes become invisible.

The ancients put it well: "One who stares at the tip of a hair cannot see Mount Tai; one absorbed in tuning an instrument cannot hear thunder." When the mind is tightly bound to external things, even the most obvious forms and sounds are overlooked. How much more, then, should those who cultivate inner purity and restrain their desires remain undisturbed by external distractions?

Zhang Zhan (a Jin Dynasty metaphysician) remarked: "Desire can disorder the mind to such an extreme." This chapter serves as a warning against indulging greed, the root of self-destruction. Today, people harm their bodies in pursuit of pleasure, believing they are nourishing themselves. If one could regard the physical form lightly, what use would gold be? The "no-self" mentioned here does not mean annihilating the body but rather avoiding excessive attachment to it.

The story of the gold thief concludes aptly, resonating with the philosophy in the Tian Rui chapter of the Liezi: "Even thieves have their principles." Lord Bai of Chu (a Spring and Autumn period minister) was so preoccupied with rebellion that he absentmindedly pierced his chin with his cane, just as the Qi man, impeccably dressed, robbed gold in the marketplace—both cases of the spirit being so absorbed that the body is forgotten. Should we not take these lessons to heart?

(Note: Tian Rui is a chapter in the Liezi; "even thieves have their principles" refers to the idea that even outlaws follow their own logic.)