《列子》Vol. 2

After fifteen years on the throne, the Yellow Emperor saw that all the people revered him and began indulging in pleasure. He meticulously cared for his body, immersed himself in sensual delights, and pursued lavish food and drink. Yet instead of thriving, his complexion turned sallow and haggard, his spirit grew absent-minded, and his emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, and happiness—became chaotic and disordered.

Another fifteen years passed, and the Yellow Emperor grew troubled by the poor governance of his kingdom. He exhausted his wisdom and intellect, straining every effort to manage his people, yet his face remained withered, his spirit listless, and his emotional balance disturbed.

The Yellow Emperor lamented, "My faults are grave indeed! Indulgence harms the body, yet exhausting myself in ruling the state also damages my health." So he set aside state affairs, left his palace, dismissed his guards, abolished music and dance, and reduced his meals, retreating alone to a secluded residence. There, he purified his heart and restrained his desires, withdrawing his form and spirit for three full months without attending to court matters.

One day, while sleeping in the daytime, the Yellow Emperor dreamed of traveling to the Land of Huaxu (a legendary utopia). This land lay west of Yanzhou and north of Taizhou, countless thousands of miles from the Central Plains—unreachable by chariot, boat, or foot, accessible only through spiritual wandering.

In the Land of Huaxu, there were no rulers, and everything followed its natural course. The people had no greed, living entirely in accordance with their innate nature. They neither clung to life nor feared death, so none died young; they neither favored themselves nor distanced themselves from external things, existing in perfect harmony with all beings.

The Liezi passage depicts the Daoist ideal of the perfected person (zhiren) and the story of the Yellow Emperor's enlightenment:

Those who have truly attained the Dao (the Way) harbor no preferences or aversions in their hearts, thus transcending all attachment to opposition or compliance. Having risen above considerations of gain and loss, they achieve complete freedom from love and hate, fear and anxiety. In this state, they can enter water without drowning, walk through fire without burning, remain unharmed by sword cuts or whip lashes, and feel no pain from finger prods or insect bites.

They tread upon empty air as if walking on solid ground and rest in the void as comfortably as in bed. Clouds and mist cannot obscure their vision, thunder cannot disturb their hearing, beauty and ugliness cannot sway their minds, and mountain valleys cannot hinder their steps—for they have attained the state of "spirit walking" (shenxing, referring to the freedom of consciousness transcending physical form).

After three months of purification rituals (zhaijie, the Daoist practice of physical and mental cleansing before cultivation), the Yellow Emperor attained enlightenment in a dream and summoned his ministers, saying: "I have finally realized that the supreme Dao cannot be sought through ordinary means." Though he grasped the truth, he found it impossible to convey through words.

Twenty-eight years later, his kingdom became as harmonious as the legendary land of Huaxushi (an ideal state governed through wuwei, non-action). After the Yellow Emperor's ascension to immortality, the people mourned him continuously for over two hundred years.

Another account describes divine beings dwelling on Mount Liegushé (a mythical mountain inhabited by immortals). These sages inhale wind and drink dew without consuming earthly grains, their minds as serene as deep pools.

This passage from the Liezi presents two ideal states of being and a dialogue between master and disciple.

The first part describes the state of one who has attained the Dao (the Way): Outwardly, they appear as pure as an unmarried maiden, neither deliberately drawing close to others nor keeping them at a distance. Even immortals and sages willingly serve as their subordinates. They neither fear nor anger, yet the honest and sincere naturally devote themselves to them. They bestow no favors, yet all things flourish in abundance; they accumulate no wealth, yet they themselves remain free from fault.

The second part depicts an ideal world: Yin and Yang are forever in harmony, the sun and moon forever bright, the four seasons forever orderly, wind and rain forever balanced. All things grow in their proper time, and the harvest is forever abundant. The land knows no calamities, humans do not die young, all beings are without flaw, and even ghosts and spirits cause no mischief.

The third part recounts the story of Liezi (a key Daoist figure) and his disciple Yin Sheng. Liezi studied under Lao Shangshi and befriended Bo Gaozi, and after mastering their teachings, he could ride the wind home. Hearing of this, Yin Sheng followed Liezi to learn from him, not returning home for months. Yet each time he asked to be taught the methods of the Dao, he was refused. Frustrated, Yin Sheng angrily requested to leave—and Liezi did not stop him.

Months later, Yin Sheng returned. Liezi asked why he kept coming and going. Yin Sheng admitted that he had been resentful after being denied instruction, but now that his mind was settled, he had come back. Liezi sighed, saying he had thought Yin Sheng was enlightened, but now saw how shallow he truly was. This exchange illustrates the Daoist emphasis on the rigorous refinement of a seeker’s inner disposition.

Let me share my experience of studying under the Master (referring to a Daoist teacher). During the first three years of following the Master and interacting with fellow disciples, I dared not distinguish right from wrong in my heart nor speak of gain and loss with my mouth. Only through such restraint did I barely earn a sidelong glance of approval from the Master.

By the fifth year, I began to naturally contemplate matters of right and wrong and discuss advantages and disadvantages. It was then that the Master first smiled at me. In the seventh year, whether in thought or speech, I no longer clung to distinctions between right and wrong, gain and loss—only then did the Master permit me to sit beside him.

After nine years, my thoughts and actions completely transcended dualistic oppositions of right and wrong, advantage and disadvantage. I could no longer discern whether my views were correct or others' positions were good. I even forgot the Master was my teacher and fellow disciples were my peers—this marked the attainment of higher internal and external cultivation.

At this stage, the boundaries of sensory perception completely dissolved: my eyes could hear like ears, my ears could smell like a nose—all senses became one unified function. With spirit intensely concentrated and body fully relaxed, it felt as though my bones and flesh had melted away. Unaware of physical form, I couldn't tell whether my feet trod upon wind or wind carried me, like a dancing leaf or empty husk completely merging with nature.

Yet you, having just begun studying, repeatedly show signs of discontent. In your current state, even your Qi cannot flow smoothly, and the earth itself would struggle to bear you. How far you remain from the state of "treading emptiness and riding wind" (referring to Daoist flight techniques)! Upon hearing this, Yin Sheng was overcome with shame, not daring even to breathe, and remained silent for a long while.

Liezi asked Guan Yin (a Daoist figure), "Those perfected persons who have attained the Dao can submerge in water without drowning, tread on fire without burning, and walk among all things without fear. How do they achieve such states?"

Guan Yin replied, "This is because they maintain the purity of their primordial Qi (original vital energy), not through cleverness or brute force. Let me illustrate with fish as an example: All things with form, sound, and color are concrete phenomena. Why do phenomena differ? They are merely superficial appearances."

"Those who truly attain the Dao reach the realm of formlessness, abiding in the unchanging ground. One who comprehends and fully embodies this principle—how could external things disturb him? He dwells in perfect balance, neither too deep nor too shallow, concealed within beginningless and endless eternity, roaming the source where all things arise and perish."

"Such a person maintains singular purity of mind, nurtures primordial Qi, preserves inner De (Virtue), and communes with the creative Dao. His heavenly nature remains wholly intact, his Shen (spirit) without gaps—how could external things penetrate him?"

Guan Yin further illustrated with drunkards: "When a drunkard falls from a carriage, even if injured, it won't be severe. Though his bones are like others', the degree of harm differs because his spirit remains whole. Riding, he knows no fear; falling, he feels no panic. Neither fear of life nor death enters his heart, hence he meets accidents without terror. If mere drunkenness can maintain this state, how much more so for one preserved by heavenly Dao? The sage conceals himself within the Dao's workings, therefore nothing in creation can harm him."

(Supplementary note: This passage elucidates the Daoist cultivation state of "guarding Qi and preserving spirit," suggesting that maintaining spiritual wholeness undisturbed by externals leads to transcendent freedom. "Guarding pure Qi" refers to preserving the pristine state of primordial Qi, a key aim in Daoist practice.)

Lie Yukou (a Daoist figure) was demonstrating his archery skills to Bohun Wuren (a Daoist master). He drew his bow to its fullest extent, balanced a cup of water on his elbow, and shot arrows in rapid succession—as soon as one arrow left the string, the next was already nocked. Throughout this display, he remained as still as a wooden statue.

Bohun Wuren, however, remarked, "This is merely the skill of shooting for the sake of shooting, not yet the realm of non-shooting shooting (the highest state of archery). How about we climb a high mountain, stand on a precarious rock by the cliff’s edge, with a sheer drop of a hundred feet below? Could you still shoot like this then?"

True to his word, Bohun Wuren led him up the mountain, stood on the jutting rock, and stepped backward until his heels hung over the abyss. Calmly, he bowed to Lie Yukou and invited him to shoot. Terrified, Lie Yukou collapsed to the ground, sweat pouring down to his heels.

Bohun Wuren said, "A true master of the Dao can observe celestial phenomena above and explore the underworld below. His spirit (Shen) reaches all directions, yet his composure never wavers. Now, you’re so frightened you can’t even open your eyes—this shows how far you still are from true inner cultivation!"

In the Fan family, there was a man named Zihua who excelled at cultivating his reputation, earning the admiration of the entire state. Though he held no official position, he enjoyed the favor of the ruler of Jin, surpassing even the three high ministers in influence. A mere glance from him could secure someone a noble rank in Jin, while a word of disapproval could see them dismissed from court.

Zihua, a powerful and influential man, kept a bustling residence, with visitors arriving in numbers like officials attending court. He maintained a group of retainers and often set them to pit their wits and strength against one another: the clever would humiliate the foolish, and the strong would bully the weak. Even when someone was injured and bleeding on the spot, no one paid it any mind. They amused themselves this way day and night, until it had nearly become the custom throughout the country.

Hesheng and Zibo were retainers of the Fan family. Once, while traveling through the countryside, they sought lodging at the home of Shangqiu Kai, an old farmer. In the middle of the night, the two discussed Zihua’s power: he could make the living die and the dead live; he could make the rich poor and the poor rich. Shangqiu Kai was then suffering from hunger and cold, and he secretly overheard them beneath the window.

The next day, Shangqiu Kai borrowed some grain, shouldered a basket, and went to Zihua’s residence. Zihua’s retainers were sons of eminent families. They wore white silk robes, rode in splendid carriages, and strutted about as they walked. Seeing Shangqiu Kai’s frail old age, dark skin, and tattered clothes, they all looked at him with contempt.

The retainers began finding all sorts of ways to torment him, shoving and beating him and playing one prank after another. Shangqiu Kai remained completely unruffled, which soon made his tormentors lose interest. Later, they led him up onto a high platform and announced in front of everyone, “Whoever dares to jump down from here will receive a hundred taels of gold!” The other retainers only pretended to vie for the prize. Shangqiu Kai alone took them at their word.

(Note: This story illustrates the Daoist idea of “great wisdom appearing foolish.” Shangqiu Kai seems dull-witted, but is in fact guileless. The passage that follows will reveal how his freedom from distracting thoughts enables him to perform wonders, echoing the spiritual state of “the Way of utmost sincerity” in the Liezi.)

(Shang Qiu Kai) leapt from the high place without hesitation, his body descending as lightly as a bird in flight—not a single bone was broken. The retainers of the Fan clan dismissed this as mere coincidence, paying it little mind. Then someone pointed to the deep waters of the river bend and said, "There are precious pearls down there—dive in and retrieve them." Immediately, Shang Qiu Kai plunged into the water and indeed retrieved the pearls.

The crowd began to marvel at this. Only then did Zihua (the head of the Fan clan) grant Shang Qiu Kai the privilege of wearing silk and eating fine meats. Not long after, a fire suddenly broke out in the Fan clan’s storeroom. Zihua declared, "Whoever dares to rush into the flames to save the brocades will be rewarded according to the amount they retrieve." Without the slightest hesitation, Shang Qiu Kai charged into the inferno, moving back and forth unscathed—his clothes untouched by soot, his body unharmed by the flames.

At this, the Fan clan’s retainers finally believed that he truly possessed the Dao’s power (De) and collectively apologized: "We did not realize you were a man of the Dao (Dao) and deceived you, nor did we recognize you as a divine being and insulted you. Please regard us as fools, deaf, and blind. May we ask what method of cultivation you practice?"

Shang Qiu Kai replied, "I know nothing of any Daoist arts. Even I don’t understand why these things happened. But I can tell you my thoughts: When your two retainers stayed at my home, they extolled the power of the Fan clan to the skies, claiming you could make the living die and the dead live, the rich become poor and the poor rich. I believed every word, so I came here without hesitation."

The Liezi passage recounts several stories illustrating the principle of "utmost sincerity moving all things":

Originally, there was a man who completely believed his companion's words. With wholehearted devotion, he acted upon them without regard for personal safety, maintaining only pure faith in his heart. In this state, external things could not harm him.

Later, when he discovered his companion had deceived him, his mind became filled with suspicion and his demeanor turned tense and guarded. Recalling his previous daring exploits, he trembled with fear and dared no longer approach dangers like fire or water.

From then on, when disciples of the Fan family encountered beggars or animal doctors on the road, they no longer dared to treat them with contempt or insult. They would invariably dismount from their carriages to pay respects. Confucius's disciple Zaiwo reported this incident to Confucius.

Confucius said: "Those with utmost sincerity can influence all things. Their genuine hearts can move heaven, earth, and spirits, connecting all directions without obstruction—how much more can they safely pass through danger or traverse fire and water? When Shang Qiu Kai believed in falsehoods, he still remained unharmed—how much more when both parties act with sincerity? Remember this principle well!"

The text then recounts another story from King Xuan of Zhou's reign about a beast-tamer named Liang Yang. Skilled in handling fierce birds and wild animals, he fed them in the royal gardens, taming even the most ferocious creatures like tigers, wolves, eagles, and ospreys. Male and female beasts alike became docile in his presence.

This passage describes the scene where Liang Yang, an ancient animal trainer, imparts his method of tiger rearing. Various animals lived together in groups, with different species mingling harmoniously without biting or fighting.

King Xuan of Zhou, fearing this skill might be lost, sent Mao Qiuyuan to learn it. Liang Yang humbly replied, "I am but a lowly animal keeper—what skill do I have to teach? Yet, lest the king accuse me of withholding knowledge, let me explain my approach to raising tigers. If you comply with them, they are pleased; if you oppose them, they grow angry—this is the nature of all creatures with blood and qi (vital energy). But joy and rage do not arise without cause—they emerge only when provoked."

The specific method for rearing tigers is as follows: when feeding them, never offer live prey, lest the act of killing awaken their ferocity; nor give them whole animals, lest tearing the prey apart incite their wrath. One must gauge their hunger and fullness, guiding their irritable nature. Though tigers and humans are of different kinds, tigers will still favor their keeper if their nature is respected. Those harmed by tigers are always those who oppose them.

Liang Yang continued, "How would I dare deliberately provoke a tiger to anger? Yet neither do I blindly indulge it to keep it pleased. For excessive joy inevitably turns to rage, and subsided rage often reverts to delight—both extremes stray from the Middle Way. Now, in my mind, there is no distinction between opposition or compliance, so birds and beasts regard me as one of their own. Thus, the animals that roam my garden do not long for lofty mountains or vast marshes; those resting in my courtyard do not yearn for deep forests or secluded valleys. This is the principle of following nature."

Yan Hui, a disciple of Confucius, once asked his teacher: "When I crossed the deep abyss called Shang Shen, I witnessed a ferryman whose boat-handling skills were divinely skillful. I asked him, 'Can this skill of rowing be learned?' He replied, 'It can. Those who can swim may be taught, while proficient swimmers can master it quickly. As for those capable of diving underwater, they could handle a boat immediately even if they'd never seen one before.' When I pressed further, he remained silent. Master, what is the principle behind this?"

Confucius responded: "Alas! We've been studying the surface of words without grasping their essence. Those who can swim may be taught because they don't fear water; proficient swimmers learn quickly because they've completely forgotten water's existence. As for the divers who handle boats effortlessly without prior experience, they perceive the abyss as level ground and view a capsized boat as merely a carriage backing up."

"Such men remain utterly composed when facing all manner of dangers, their inner state completely undisturbed. Is there anything such people wouldn't accomplish with ease? When gambling with pottery shards, one's movements are deft; with silver hooks, hesitation appears; with gold at stake, the mind becomes confused. The skill remains identical, yet external concerns make one value material things. Whoever values external objects inwardly becomes clumsy."

When Confucius observed the waterfalls at Lüliang, he saw cascades plunging thirty ren (about 70 meters) from cliffs, their spray reaching thirty li (15 kilometers), so terrifying that even giant turtles and crocodiles dared not approach. Yet there was a man swimming joyfully in the torrents. At first suspecting him to be suffering and suicidal, Confucius ordered his disciples to follow the current to rescue him.

A man leaped from the Lüliang Waterfall, which was dozens of zhang high (approximately 54 meters), swam hundreds of paces downstream, and emerged from the water, strolling along with his hair loose while singing. Confucius hurried after him and asked, "The Lüliang Waterfall is thirty ren high, with raging currents and churning foam stretching thirty li—even giant turtles and crocodiles cannot swim through it. Yet I just saw you plunge into the torrent. At first, I thought you were suffering and seeking death, so I quickly sent my disciples along the riverbank to prepare to rescue you. But then you climbed ashore, singing with your hair unbound, and I nearly mistook you for a ghost. Upon closer inspection, I realized you were alive. May I ask what secret technique you use for swimming?"

The man replied, "There is no secret. I simply follow my innate nature as it develops, until I reach a state of complete naturalness. I sink with the whirlpools and rise with the surges, wholly yielding to the water's flow without forcing anything—that is my method." Confucius pressed further, "What do you mean by 'following innate nature as it develops'?" The man explained, "Born among hills, I became accustomed to hills (living environment); raised by the water, I adapted to its nature (natural disposition). Without deliberate striving, I attained this state (destined by fate)."

Later, when Confucius traveled to the state of Chu, he saw a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas (using a bamboo pole smeared with glue to trap the singing insects) as effortlessly as picking things up. Confucius marveled, "You are truly skillful! Is there some trick to it?" The old man said, "I have a method."

These are several Daoist parables that illustrate the wisdom of "focused Wuwei (non-action)."

There was an old man with extraordinary skill at catching cicadas, who could capture them with a bamboo pole as easily as picking things up. He explained that during practice, his body stood as steady as a tree stump, his arms remained motionless like withered branches, and his eyes saw nothing but the cicada's wings—no external distractions could divert his attention. When Confucius witnessed this, he sighed in admiration: "This is the state of single-minded concentration where skill approaches the divine!"

By the seaside lived a man who loved seagulls. Every day he played with them, and hundreds of gulls grew close to him. Later, his father said: "I hear the gulls follow you—catch a few for me to play with." The next day when the man returned to the shore, the gulls circled overhead but wouldn't land. This shows that the highest form of speech is wordless, and the highest form of action is effortless. When one tries to force outcomes with cunning intent, the opposite effect is achieved.

(Here the original text is incomplete regarding Zhao Xiangzi leading 100,000 followers to hunt in Zhongshan—implying that excessive force often backfires.) These stories collectively demonstrate that one should emulate the cicada catcher's pure focus and the gull-lover's natural Wuwei. Deliberate striving often yields contrary results.

A great fire swept through the mountain forest, its flames stretching for hundreds of miles. Amid the conflagration, a man emerged from a stone cliff, walking effortlessly through the smoke and ashes. The onlookers all thought they were witnessing a supernatural being.

When the fire subsided, the man stepped out calmly as if completely unaffected by the raging flames. Lord Xiang of Zhao, astonished, detained him for observation and found the man's facial features perfectly normal, his breathing and speech no different from ordinary people. Lord Xiang asked him, "What method did you use to dwell within the stone? And how did you walk through fire?"

The man countered, "What do you mean by 'stone'? And what is 'fire'?" Lord Xiang explained, "The place you emerged from was stone, and what you passed through was fire." But the man simply replied, "I know nothing of these things."

Later, Marquis Wen of Wei heard of this incident and asked Zixia (a disciple of Confucius): "What kind of person was that?" Zixia answered, "From what I learned from my teacher, one who achieves perfect harmony with all things cannot be harmed by external phenomena. Such a person could indeed pass through metal and stone, tread through water and fire."

The Marquis pressed further, "Then why don't you practice this yourself, Master?" Zixia replied, "To empty one's mind and abandon all cleverness—this I cannot yet achieve. But I can attempt to explain the principle." When the Marquis asked, "Why didn't Confucius do such things?" Zixia explained, "Our master could have done so but chose not to." Hearing this, Marquis Wen was greatly pleased.

(Note: This passage illustrates the Daoist ideal of "unity between self and all things," where realized beings transcend material limitations. Zixia's response reflects the Confucian understanding of the "Middle Way," emphasizing the cultivated restraint of "able yet choosing not to act.")

A powerful shaman from the state of Qi came to settle in Zheng, named Ji Xian. He could foresee life and death, misfortune and fortune, longevity and premature demise—predicting events down to the year, month, ten-day period, or even the exact day with uncanny accuracy. The people of Zheng were so terrified of him that they would flee at the sight of him.

When Liezi encountered Ji Xian, however, he became utterly fascinated. Returning to his teacher, Master Huzi (a Daoist sage), he exclaimed, "I used to believe your mastery of the Dao had reached the pinnacle, but now I see there are even greater adepts."

Master Huzi replied, "What I’ve taught you so far is merely superficial—I haven’t yet transmitted the true essence. How can you claim to have truly attained the Dao? It’s like having only a hen without a rooster: how could you expect eggs to hatch? You’ve been testing your half-realized arts against worldly people, so of course they see through you. Next time, bring him here to examine me."

The following day, Liezi brought Ji Xian to meet Master Huzi. Upon emerging, Ji Xian immediately told Liezi, "Alas! Your teacher is doomed—he won’t last more than ten days. I saw in him an eerie pallor, like damp ashes devoid of vitality."

Liezi went inside in tears and relayed the words to Master Huzi. The master said, "Just now, I showed him the stillness of the earth—where the breath of life stirs, yet appears motionless. He must have perceived me shutting down the signs of vitality. Bring him again another day!"

The next day, Jixian, an ancient physiognomist, again accompanied Liezi to see Huzi, a Daoist master. As they left, he said to Liezi, “Your teacher is fortunate to have met me! His condition is improving. I saw the life force that had been blocked beginning to stir, like a spark rising from dead ashes.”

Liezi went inside and told Huzi. Huzi said, “Just now, I showed him the image of Heaven and Earth in harmony—the state in which Yin and Yang are balanced. Fame, profit, gain, and loss did not enter my mind, and the life force surged up from the soles of my feet. This is the state of something stirring within what is blocked. He probably saw only signs that I was getting better. Bring him back another day!”

Another day passed, and Jixian saw Huzi for the third time. But afterward he said, “Your teacher is unsettled today. I can’t read his physiognomy. Wait until his mind is calm, then I’ll look again.”

Liezi relayed this to Huzi, who explained, “This time, I showed him the state of the Great Void in primordial chaos—the Daoist state of emptiness. He probably sensed signs that my Qi was balanced. It is like a whirlpool that can form nine different kinds of depths: one stirred by whales, one still, one flowing, one overflowing, one pouring out, one running sideways, one blocked, one seeping through, and one fertile. Bring him back another day!”

When they met on the fourth day, Jixian had only just come to a stop…

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) once chased after a fleeing man but failed to catch him. Upon returning, he reported the incident to his teacher, Master Hu (a Daoist sage). Master Hu explained: "What I demonstrated earlier was the state of 'not yet departing from my ancestral root' (the source of the Dao). I interacted with him in emptiness and stillness, following natural spontaneity, making it impossible for him to grasp my true state. Thus he became confused and could only flee."

This incident made Liezi deeply realize he had not yet truly comprehended the Great Dao. He then returned home and devoted himself to practice for three years, relinquishing all worldly identities: he personally cooked for his wife, treated pigs and dogs with the same equality as humans, and maintained detachment from worldly affairs. He abandoned artificial refinement, returning to his simple, unadorned nature—existing like a lump of earth in solitary stillness. His mind remained serenely self-contained, maintaining this practice throughout his life.

Later, Liezi set out for the state of Qi but turned back midway, encountering another Daoist master, Bohun Maoren. When asked why he returned, Liezi replied: "I was startled." It turned out that among ten shops selling gruel, five had voluntarily offered him their goods first. Bohun Maoren pointed out: "This shows your inner self has not yet achieved true transcendence. Your external manifestations are too dazzling—using superficial virtue (De) to awe others will only make people disrespect true elders of dignity, inviting misfortune."

The vendor selling fermented rice water does it merely to earn a modest profit from his humble trade, where both gains and influence are meager, yet he still exhausts himself in the endeavor. How much more so for the ruler of a mighty state with ten thousand chariots at his command? Such rulers labor for their kingdoms and exhaust their spirits in governance. If such a sovereign were to appoint me to office and demand political achievements, I would indeed tremble with apprehension.

Bo Hun Muren (a Daoist recluse), upon hearing this, remarked: "Your observation is profoundly insightful! By conducting yourself this way, people will naturally come to rely on you." Before long, numerous visitors indeed came calling on Liezi, leaving their shoes piled outside his door. Bo Hun Muren stood facing north, leaning on his staff with his chin resting upon it. After standing silently for some time, he departed without a word.

When Liezi's disciples reported this, Liezi rushed out barefoot, carrying his shoes, and asked at the gate: "Since you've come, Master, why not offer me some instruction?" Bo Hun Muren replied: "Enough. I already told you people would come to depend on you—now it's come to pass. This isn't because you can make people rely on you, but because you cannot prevent them from doing so. Why must you deliberately display your uniqueness? Such affectation only invites abnormal reactions. Moreover, it inevitably stirs responses that disturb your fundamental nature—this is utterly meaningless."

"Those who associate with you won't truly enlighten you either. Their petty words are all poison to the human heart. Without awakening or enlightenment, how can there be mutual understanding?"

Yang Zhu (a Warring States period philosopher) was traveling south to the region of Pei, while Laozi (founder of Daoism) was journeying westward to the state of Qin. The two met in the countryside. When they reached Liang territory, Yang Zhu encountered Laozi again. Midway on the road, Laozi looked up to heaven and sighed, saying, "At first I thought you could be taught, but now I see it's impossible." Yang Zhu made no reply.

Upon reaching their lodging, Yang Zhu respectfully presented washing utensils and a comb, removed his shoes outside the door, and approached on his knees, saying: "Earlier, Master looked up to heaven and sighed, saying 'At first I thought you could be taught, but now I see it's impossible.' This disciple wished to inquire about the meaning, but the road was no place for discussion, so I dared not ask. Now that Master has leisure, may I ask where I went wrong?"

Laozi replied: "You carried yourself with such arrogant self-importance—who would want to associate with you? The truly pure appear as if stained; those of genuine De (Virtue) seem deficient." Hearing this, Yang Zhu's expression changed dramatically, and he bowed respectfully, saying: "I shall remember this teaching."

When Yang Zhu first arrived at the inn, the entire household had welcomed him with deference—the master personally arranged his seat, the mistress brought washing utensils; other guests yielded their places, and those warming themselves by the fire voluntarily gave up their spots by the hearth. But after his transformation, the guests contended with him for seating as equals.

Later, when passing through Song territory, Yang Zhu lodged at an eastern inn where the keeper had two concubines—one beautiful, the other plain. Yet the plain one was favored while the beautiful one was neglected. Yang Zhu inquired about the reason for this.

The young man at the inn replied:

“I do not know what is beautiful about those who consider themselves beautiful, nor what is ugly about those who consider themselves ugly.”

Yangzi (Yang Zhu) said:

“Disciples, remember these words! When someone does what is virtuous without boasting of their virtue, wherever they go, will they not be welcomed?”

In the world, there are ways of prevailing consistently and ways that do not prevail consistently. The way of prevailing consistently is called yielding and weakness; the way that often fails is called hardness and force. People have heard of both principles, but have not truly understood them. The ancients said, “Hardness means placing yourself at a disadvantage first; yielding means beginning by giving something of yourself.”

Place yourself at a disadvantage first, and when the other person becomes your equal, you will be in danger. Begin by giving something of yourself, and you will have nothing to worry about. Use this principle to govern yourself and those around you, and it is like moving with the current. Use it to take on the affairs of the world, and it is likewise like moving with the current. This is called seeming not to contend for victory, yet winning naturally; seeming not to force yourself into a role, yet naturally taking on responsibility.

Zhouzi said:

“To become firm, you must safeguard yourself through gentleness; to become strong, you must preserve yourself through weakness. When gentleness has accumulated to a certain point, it becomes firmness; when weakness has accumulated to a certain point, it becomes strength. Observe what a person has been accumulating in daily life, and you can see where good fortune or misfortune will come from. If hardness prevails only over those weaker than itself, then when it meets an equal, the danger brought by its firmness will become clear. If weakness can prevail over those stronger than itself, its power is immeasurable.”

Lao Dan (Laozi) said:

These passages from the Liezi discuss the relationship between external appearance and inner essence, using examples from nature and history to illustrate why one should not judge by appearances.

The first section employs natural metaphors: weapons that are too hard tend to break, and trees that are too rigid easily snap. What appears soft and yielding often brims with vitality, while what seems hard and unyielding tends toward decay. This expresses the Daoist principle of "the soft overcoming the hard."

Next comes the relationship between human appearance and wisdom: One's features need not resemble a child's innocence, yet wisdom can maintain childlike purity; wisdom need not be simplistic like a child's, yet one's appearance may retain youthful sincerity. Sages value the pure wisdom of children, while ordinary people only appreciate childish looks. Humans instinctively favor those who resemble themselves and distance themselves from those who look different.

Then comes the distinction between humans and animals: A being with a seven-foot frame, differentiated limbs, long head hair, teeth in its mouth, and upright posture is called human—yet may harbor a beast's heart. Conversely, creatures with wings and horns, sharp claws and fangs, capable of flight or swift running, may possess human kindness. Yet regrettably, people often befriend human-like beasts while shunning kind-hearted creatures of different form.

Finally, historical examples: Sage-kings like Fuxi, Nüwa, Shennong, and Yu the Great bore extraordinary appearances—some with serpent bodies and human faces, others with ox heads or tiger noses—yet possessed sagely virtue. Tyrants like Jie of Xia, Zhou of Shang, Duke Huan of Lu, and King Mu of Chu looked perfectly human yet harbored bestial hearts. Ordinary people judge wisdom by appearances alone, making true understanding difficult to attain.

These passages embody the Daoist rejection of superficial judgment, emphasizing inner cultivation and perceiving essence beyond appearances.

When the Yellow Emperor and the Flame Emperor fought in the wilderness of Banquan, the Yellow Emperor led bears, brown bears, wolves, leopards, fierce beasts called chu, and tigers as his vanguard. He used vultures, pheasants of prey, eagles, and kites as his banners and emblems. This was a way of using force to drive beasts.

Emperor Yao put Kui, a legendary official renowned for his mastery of music, in charge of music. When Kui struck stone chimes and played a melody, all kinds of beasts danced along. When the ninth section of the “Xiao Shao” music was performed, phoenixes too flew in to pay homage. This was a way of moving birds and beasts through music.

So how do the minds of birds and beasts differ from those of people? Their forms and sounds alone are different; people simply do not know how to communicate with them. The sages knew and understood everything, so they could guide and command them.

Some of the wisdom of birds and beasts is naturally shared with humankind. Like people, they seek to preserve their lives, and they do not need to learn this wisdom from humans: males and females pair with one another, and mothers and young remain close; they avoid open ground and rely on steep terrain, flee the cold and seek warmth; they live together in groups and move in orderly lines; the young stay in the middle while the strong protect them from the outside; they help one another drink and call to their companions when foraging.

In ancient times, birds and beasts lived alongside people in peace. Only under the rule of emperors did they begin to flee in fright. By the declining age at the end of the world, they hid and ran away to escape the harm humans brought.

Today, in the east, there is a country called the Jie clan’s land, perhaps a fictional realm…

In that kingdom, there existed individuals who could frequently understand the language of the six domestic animals (horses, cattle, sheep, chickens, dogs, and pigs), which was considered a special cognitive ability. The sages of ancient times possessed complete knowledge of the nature and conditions of all things, enabling them to comprehend the sounds of all creatures. They gathered these animals, trained and domesticated them, fostering harmony between them and humans.

These sages first communicated with spirits, ghosts, and supernatural beings, then educated the people of all regions, and finally tamed birds, beasts, and insects. This demonstrates that among all living beings with blood and Qi (vital energy), the differences in intelligence were not actually vast. The sages understood this principle, so when they instructed all things, they never neglected any category.

In the state of Song, there was a monkey trainer who adored monkeys and kept a large group of them. He could discern their thoughts, and the monkeys, in turn, understood his intentions. He would rather reduce his family’s food supply than fail to meet the monkeys’ needs. Later, when the household’s provisions ran short, he planned to limit the monkeys’ rations.

Fearing the monkeys would not obey, he first deceived them, saying, "From now on, I’ll give you three acorns in the morning and four in the evening—is that enough?" The monkeys all grew angry and jumped up in protest. The trainer quickly changed his approach and said, "Then how about four in the morning and three in the evening—is that enough?" The monkeys immediately calmed down and submitted happily.

All methods of controlling others in the world follow this same principle. The sages guided the ignorant masses with wisdom, just as the monkey trainer managed his monkeys with strategy. In truth, the essence remained unchanged—only the phrasing was altered, yet it determined whether the subjects would react with joy or anger.

Ji Xingzi was training fighting cocks for King Xuan of Zhou. After ten days, the king asked, “Can the cock fight yet?” Ji Xingzi replied, “Not yet. It is still putting on a show of force, relying on the courage of its vital energy.” Ten days later, the king asked again. Ji Xingzi said, “Not yet. It still reacts to the sight or sound of other cocks.” Ten more days passed, and the king asked once again. Ji Xingzi said, “Not yet. Its gaze is still sharp, and its manner still intimidating.”

Another ten days passed, and the king asked again. This time Ji Xingzi said, “It is nearly ready. Now, even when other cocks crow, it is unmoved. It looks just like a wooden cock, its spirit completely inward and still. Its De is now complete. The other cocks dare not challenge it; when they see it, they turn and flee.”

In another story, Hui Ang went to see King Kang of Song. The king stamped his foot, coughed, and said sharply, “I like people who are brave and strong. I don’t like people who talk about benevolence and righteousness. What do you have to teach me?” Hui Ang replied, “I have a way to make it so that, though someone is brave, he cannot stab you, and though he is strong, he cannot strike you. Would Your Majesty like to hear it?” The king of Song said, “Good! That is exactly what I want to hear.” Hui Ang continued, “But merely being impossible to stab or strike is not yet a mark of real skill.”

This dialogue recounts the story of Hui Ang (a Warring States period philosopher) advising King Kang of Song. Hui Ang said: Even if a man is exceptionally brave, I have a way to make him dare not stab; even if a man is extraordinarily strong, I have a way to make him dare not attack. This "daring not" does not stem from their lack of intention, but rather from my mastery of a certain method that fundamentally eliminates their desire to harm others.

Hui Ang further explained: When a person no longer harbors any intention to harm others, they naturally cease to entertain thoughts of seeking personal gain. The Daoist art (referring to moral cultivation) I possess can inspire all men and women under heaven to willingly love and benefit one another from the depths of their hearts. This is far superior to mere physical strength or courage—it represents a higher level of attainment. Would Your Majesty not desire such power?

King Kang of Song admitted this was precisely what he sought. Hui Ang then cited examples: Confucius and Mozi were such men. Though they held no fiefdoms, they were revered like sovereigns; though they held no official positions, they were cherished like leaders. Men and women across the land craned their necks and stood on tiptoes, praying for their well-being. Now, as the ruler of a mighty state with ten thousand chariots, if Your Majesty truly embraces such aspirations, the entire kingdom will benefit. The merit of this far surpasses that of Confucius and Mozi.

King Kang was left speechless. After Hui Ang swiftly withdrew, the king sighed to his attendants: "This guest's eloquence is truly remarkable—he has thoroughly convinced me with reason!" Through contrasting the differing effects of martial intimidation and moral transformation, this dialogue emphasizes the paramount importance of ruling through Virtue (De).