《列子》Vol. 3

During the reign of King Mu of Zhou, a shape-shifter (huaren) arrived from the farthest western lands. This extraordinary being could freely traverse fire and water, penetrate metal and stone; he could reverse mountains and rivers, move entire cities; walk through air without falling, and pass through solid objects unobstructed. His transformations knew no bounds or limitations.

This shape-shifter could not only alter the forms of objects but also influence human thought. King Mu revered him as a divine being, serving him as if he were a sovereign. He vacated the main palace for the huaren's residence, offered him sacrificial animals (oxen, sheep, and pigs), and selected the finest singers and dancers for his entertainment.

Yet the shape-shifter found the king's palace too crude to inhabit, the imperial kitchen's food too foul to eat, and the royal consorts' scents too unpleasant to approach. So King Mu commissioned a new palace for him, constructed with the utmost craftsmanship in wood and earthwork, lavishly painted in red and white pigments. The treasury was exhausted to complete this towering terrace.

Rising a thousand ren (approximately 1,800 meters today), the terrace stood atop Mount Zhongnan, hailed as the "Mid-Heaven Terrace." The king selected beautiful maidens from Zheng and Wei, anointed with fragrant oils, their eyebrows delicately painted, adorned with hairpins and earrings, clad in fine silks and trailing skirts of Qi's sheerest gauze. Their skin was like snow, their brows like ink, jade rings dangling from their robes. The palace was further filled with fragrant herbs like angelica and asarum.

Ancient court music—"Cloud Bearer," "Six Radiances," "Nine Shao," and "Morning Dew"—was performed to delight the shape-shifter.

King Mu of Zhou would daily offer the celestial visitor exquisite jade robes and delicately prepared meals, yet the immortal remained unsatisfied. Eventually, the transcendent being reluctantly agreed to take the king on a celestial journey. Clutching the immortal's sleeve, the sovereign soared skyward until they paused mid-air. They arrived at a palace constructed of gold and silver, adorned with luminous pearls and precious jades, suspended above the clouds—its magnificence appearing from below like towering cloud formations.

Within this celestial abode, every sensory experience—what the eyes beheld, the ears heard, the nose smelled, and the mouth tasted—transcended anything found in the mortal realm. King Mu believed he had reached the Pure Capital (Qingdu) and Purple Tenuity Palace (Ziweigong, the Daoist celestial emperor's residence), where the heavenly melodies of the "Universal Harmony Music" (Juntian Guangyue) filled the air. Looking down at his own palace, it now appeared as crude as earthen clods and firewood stacks.

The king dwelled in this realm for what felt like decades, completely forgetting his earthly kingdom. Later, the immortal guided him to even more distant realms where neither sun nor moon could be seen above, nor rivers or seas below. Blinding radiance dazzled his eyes, unearthly sounds overwhelmed his ears, causing his internal organs to tremble and his spirit (Shen) to become disoriented. Overcome with terror, King Mu begged to return.

With a gentle push, the immortal sent him plummeting downward—whereupon the king suddenly awoke as if from a great height. He found himself seated exactly where he had been, with his attendants still present. The wine before him remained unclouded, the dishes still warm. When questioned about his whereabouts, all courtiers insisted the king had never moved from his seat.

(This narrative of celestial travel vividly illustrates Daoist conceptions of the immortal realms while subtly conveying the transience of worldly splendor—where earthly riches appear as fleeting as floating clouds.)

King Mu of Zhou, after hearing the words of the illusionist (the Transformative Master), fell into a dazed trance that lasted three full months before he regained his normal state. Later, when he consulted the master again, the latter explained: "Your Majesty and I merely journeyed together in spirit—our physical forms never moved an inch. Moreover, was the dwelling I previously inhabited any different from your palace? Were the places we visited unlike your royal gardens? Your Majesty remains fixated on tangible realities, growing doubtful when phenomena temporarily vanish. The ultimate transformations between heaven and earth, the subtle shifts between swiftness and slowness—how could ordinary reasoning ever fathom them completely?"

These words struck King Mu with sudden enlightenment. From then on, he no longer concerned himself with state affairs nor lingered among his consorts, devoting his mind solely to distant travels. He commanded the preparation of a chariot drawn by eight legendary steeds: at the center were Hualiu (a crimson charger) and Lü'er (a horse with emerald ears), flanked on either side by Chiji (a scarlet steed) and Baiyi (a snow-white horse). The royal chariot was driven by Zaofu (the legendary charioteer), with Qihe (the captain of guards) serving as right-hand protector.

The accompanying secondary chariot was equally splendid: its central pair comprised Quhuang (a golden-yellow steed) and Yulun (a leaping courser), accompanied by Daoli (a jet-black stallion) and Shanzi (a mountain-bred horse). This chariot was overseen by Bai Yao, steered by Can Bai, and guarded by Ben Rong.

The company raced a thousand li westward until they reached the land of the Jusou tribespeople. The Jusou offered King Mu the blood of white cranes to drink and bathed his feet in the milk of cows and mares, extending the same honors to his retinue. After feasting, they pressed onward, camping that night at the foot of Mount Kunlun, on the northern bank of the Red River. The next day, they ascended Kunlun's summit to visit the ruins of the Yellow Emperor's palace. There King Mu performed the fengshan sacrifices, engraving his experiences on stone tablets for posterity.

King Mu of Zhou (the fifth ruler of the Western Zhou Dynasty) paid a visit to the Queen Mother of the West (Xiwangmu, the foremost female immortal in Daoism) as her guest, feasting and drinking by the Jade Pond. The Queen Mother sang ballads for King Mu, who responded in kind with songs filled with melancholy. Gazing westward where the sun sets, they traversed ten thousand miles in a single day. King Mu sighed deeply: "Alas! Though lacking in De (Virtue), I indulge in pleasures—future generations will surely censure my failings!"

King Mu nearly attained the realm of divine beings. He could fully enjoy worldly pleasures, living a hundred years before passing away, and people believed he had achieved immortality through the Dao.

Lao Chengzi studied the art of magical transformation with Master Yin Wen for three years without receiving instruction. When Lao Chengzi inquired about his shortcomings and requested to leave, Master Yin Wen bowed and invited him into an inner chamber. Dismissing the attendants, he said: "When Laozi journeyed westward, he once turned back to tell me: 'All living breath and physical forms are illusory. What the cosmic creation first produced through the transformations of Yin-Yang we call birth—and also death.'"

"Those who comprehend the principles of things and penetrate the Dao of transformation, changing along with physical forms—this we call transformation, or magical illusion. The craftsmanship of the Creator is exquisitely subtle, its workings profound and ultimately unfathomable. Yet the techniques dependent on physical transformation are obvious, their workings shallow—thus they appear and vanish with circumstance. Only by understanding that magical transformation is no different from life and death can one learn this art. In truth, both you and I are illusory existences—why strain to learn this deliberately?"

(Note: This passage uses the legend of King Mu and the Queen Mother of the West, along with Master Yin Wen's discourse on "magical transformation," to expound Daoist philosophical reflections on life/death and change—asserting that all phenomena are illusory transformations.)

Lao Chengzi (a practitioner), upon returning, contemplated deeply for three months according to Master Yinwen's (a Daoist scholar) teachings. Eventually, he mastered the ability to make things appear and vanish at will, even altering the cycles of the seasons—summoning thunder in winter or creating ice and snow in summer. He could also interchange the traits of birds and beasts: making flying creatures run and running creatures fly. Yet he never recorded these arts in his lifetime, and thus, these skills were lost.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) said: "Those truly skilled in the Dao of transformation practice methods that appear ordinary, yet their effects align with the natural order. The virtue (De) of the ancient Five Emperors (such as the Yellow Emperor) and the achievements of the Three Kings (founders of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties) were not necessarily attained solely through wisdom or force—perhaps they relied on this subtle, transformative power of 'nurturing change.' Who can fully fathom its mysteries?"

In waking life, humans experience eight states of perception: first, recalling the past; second, deliberate action; third, gaining rewards; fourth, suffering losses; fifth, sorrow; sixth, joy; seventh, birth; and eighth, death. These eight states all arise from the interaction between the body and external phenomena.

Dreams, meanwhile, manifest in six types: first, natural dreams (without specific cause); second, nightmares; third, dreams born of daytime thoughts; fourth, half-awake dreams; fifth, pleasant dreams; and sixth, fearful dreams. These six dream states result from the interplay between the spirit (Shen) and the external world.

If one does not understand the root of emotional fluctuations, encountering events will lead to confusion. But if one comprehends the principles behind these emotions, facing change becomes clear. Knowing this truth, one will no longer be startled or bewildered.

The transformations of the human body (its cycles of fullness and emptiness, growth and decline) resonate with Heaven and Earth, interacting in mutual response with all things. When yin qi becomes excessive within the body, one dreams of crossing great waters and feels terror; when yang qi predominates, one dreams of being consumed by great fires; when both yin and yang energies are overly abundant, one dreams of life-and-death struggles. Overeating leads to dreams of giving alms, while extreme hunger brings dreams of taking.

Those with floating, insubstantial constitutions often dream of soaring through the air, while those with heavy, dense bodies frequently dream of drowning. Sleeping with a belt tied around one's waist induces dreams of snakes, and if a bird catches one's hair in flight, one dreams of flying. When yin qi approaches its zenith, one dreams of fire; when illness looms, one dreams of eating. The inebriated experience sorrow in their dreams, while singers and dancers weep in theirs.

Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) states: "Spiritual resonance (shen) gives form to dreams, while physical contact shapes waking reality." Thus daytime thoughts transform into nighttime dreams—this is the mutual interaction of spirit and form. Those whose shen remains focused naturally dream less. True awakening requires no words, and genuine dreams defy description—such is the natural pattern of transformation. The perfected persons (zhenren) of highest antiquity, awake in self-forgetfulness and asleep without dreams—could this be mere empty words?

To the extreme west and south lies the ancient land of Gumang (a fictional realm), where yin and yang energies never intersect—thus they distinguish no cold or heat; where sunlight and moonlight never reach—thus they discern no day or night. The people neither eat nor wear clothes, yet sleep constantly, awakening only once every fifty days. They consider their dream experiences as reality, while regarding waking visions as illusion.

The Liezi describes a Central Kingdom centered on the Central Plains region, spanning the Yellow River from north to south and Mount Tai from east to west, covering over ten thousand li. Here, the transformations of Yin-Yang (the complementary yet opposing forces of nature) are distinct, giving rise to the alternation of cold and heat; the division between day and night is clear, hence the rhythm of working by day and resting by night. Among the people, some are wise while others are foolish; all things flourish and multiply, and humans master various arts and skills. Society follows a hierarchical system of rulers and subjects, maintained through rituals and laws. The daily words and actions of the people are too numerous to count. Everyone considers their waking deeds real and their dreams illusory.

Far to the northeast lies a land called the Kingdom of Fuluo, where the climate is perpetually scorching, illuminated only by the faint light of the sun and moon. The land yields no good crops, and the people survive on wild roots and fruits, unaware of cooking with fire. They are fierce and violent by nature, with the strong oppressing the weak, valuing victory over righteousness. These people are constantly on the move, rarely resting, and remain awake almost all year, scarcely sleeping.

During the Zhou dynasty, a wealthy man named Yin managed vast enterprises, driving his servants to labor from dawn till dusk without respite. Among them was an old servant, utterly exhausted yet forced to work even harder. By day, he groaned through his toil, and by night, he collapsed into deep slumber. With his spirit scattered, this old servant dreamed nightly that he had become a ruler, reigning supreme over the kingdom, feasting and reveling in palaces and towers.

Here are several intriguing stories exploring the relationship between dreams and reality.

A laborer once remarked, "A human lifespan spans a hundred years, divided equally between day and night. During the day, I toil as a servant—indeed, it is hard work. But at night, in my dreams, I reign as a king, experiencing boundless joy. What more could I complain about?" This reveals the Daoist principle of life's inherent balance between suffering and happiness.

A wealthy man named Yin constantly fretted over his family’s affairs, exhausting himself both physically and mentally. At night, he would dream of being a servant, ordered around and beaten, groaning in distress until dawn. A friend advised him, "By day, you enjoy wealth and luxury, and by night, you dream of suffering—this is nature’s equilibrium. How could one possibly enjoy blessings both day and night?" Hearing this, Yin reduced his workers’ burdens and eased his own worries, and soon his illness was cured.

There was also a man from Zheng who, while gathering firewood, encountered a deer. He killed it and hid it away, overjoyed at his fortune. Yet in the blink of an eye, he forgot where he had hidden it and began to wonder if it had all been just a dream. These stories all convey the same truth: life is like a dream, where suffering and joy, gain and loss, are all relative. There is no need to cling too tightly to them.

A woodcutter once spotted a deer while gathering firewood. Thinking it must be a dream, he absentmindedly sang about the encounter. A passerby heard him and actually found the deer based on his description. Returning home, the man told his wife: "That woodcutter dreamed of catching a deer but couldn't find it—yet here I've obtained it. Turns out he was the one truly dreaming!"

His wife countered: "Are you sure you didn't dream about the woodcutter getting the deer? Does that woodcutter even exist? Now that we have this actual deer, who's really dreaming—you or him?" The husband shrugged: "The deer's in my hands now—why fuss over who dreamed what?"

Meanwhile, the woodcutter couldn't forget his lost deer. That night, he first dreamed of the hiding spot, then of the man who took it. At dawn, he tracked down the man based on his dreams. Their heated dispute reached the local magistrate.

The magistrate ruled: "You initially got the deer but called it a dream; the woodcutter dreamed of the deer yet you insist it's real. Now he claims it, while you both contradict yourselves. Even your wife suggested you might've confused people and deer in a dream, with neither truly obtaining it. Since the deer's here now, simply split it in half."

When the ruler of Zheng State heard this, he laughed: "Ha! Was that magistrate also dreaming while dividing the deer?" Consulting his chancellor, he was told: "Distinguishing dreams from reality troubles more than just magistrates. Even sages like the Yellow Emperor and Confucius struggled with this—how much more an ordinary judge? Best uphold his verdict."

(This parable of "doubting the deer-dream" illustrates the Liezi's philosophical exploration of boundaries between reality and dreams. The "magistrate" refers to ancient judicial officers, while "Zheng's ruler" denotes the Zheng State monarch. Daoist texts often use dreams as metaphors for humanity's limited perception of reality—a theme resonating with Zhuangzi's famous "butterfly dream" allegory.)

Here are several intriguing stories from the Daoist tradition:

The first tale tells us that distinguishing between wakefulness and dreams was a feat only achievable by the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) and Confucius. Now that these two sages have departed from this world, who remains capable of such discernment? Perhaps we should tentatively trust the words of those possessing wisdom.

Next comes the story of Hua Zi from Yangli in the state of Song, who developed severe amnesia in middle age. He would forget by evening what he had taken in the morning, and by dawn would have no memory of what was given the night before. Walking on the road, he'd forget his destination; sitting indoors, he'd forget his purpose. Neither past events nor present circumstances remained in his memory. His entire household suffered greatly from his condition.

They summoned diviners to perform scapulimancy, but no answers emerged. They invited shamans to conduct prayers, yet his condition showed no improvement. Physicians were called for treatment, but their remedies proved ineffective.

Then a Confucian scholar from the state of Lu volunteered his services, claiming he could cure the illness. Hua Zi's wife offered half their family fortune for the treatment. The scholar explained: "This condition cannot be resolved through divination, cured through prayers, or treated with medicine. I shall attempt to transform his consciousness and redirect his thoughts—this may bring about healing."

The scholar proceeded to expose Hua Zi to cold, whereupon he naturally sought clothing; subjected him to hunger, and he instinctively asked for food; confined him in darkness, and he spontaneously sought light. Pleased, the scholar told Hua Zi's son: "The cure is possible. But my method contains secret knowledge that cannot be shared. Dismiss all others, and let me work with him alone for seven days." The family complied.

Yet to this day, none know what method the scholar actually employed to heal Hua Zi.

Hua Zi suddenly recovered from an illness that had afflicted him for years. Yet upon regaining consciousness, he flew into a rage—not only punishing his wife and children, but even chasing after the Confucian scholars who had treated him with weapons in hand. The people of Song captured him and demanded an explanation.

Hua Zi explained: "When I lost my memory earlier, my mind was empty and clear, so much so that I couldn't even perceive the existence of heaven and earth. Now that my memories have suddenly returned, decades of partings and reunions, successes and failures, joys and sorrows, loves and hatreds all come flooding back. I fear these memories will continue disturbing my mental state—will I ever regain that brief period of carefree tranquility?"

When Confucius's disciple Zi Gong heard this story, he found it strange and reported it to Confucius. The master replied: "This is a state beyond your understanding!" He then instructed his disciple Yan Hui to record the incident.

In the state of Qin lived a man named Feng whose son had been exceptionally bright as a child, but developed a strange mental disorder upon reaching adulthood. The young man mistook singing for weeping, saw white as black, perceived fragrance as stench, tasted sweetness as bitterness, and regarded wrong as right—in his distorted cognition, even the cardinal directions and fundamental opposites like water/fire or cold/heat appeared completely inverted.

A man named Yang advised the father: "The state of Lu has many learned gentlemen—perhaps they can cure this illness? Why not consult them?" The father thus set out for Lu, but while passing through Chen, he encountered Lao Dan (the Daoist sage Laozi) and described his son's condition.

[Supplementary note: These two stories explore the relationship between perception and reality. Hua Zi's tale illustrates how memory and cognition can become burdens to the mind, while Feng's son demonstrates how distorted perception inverts one's world. The mention of "Lao Dan"—another name for Laozi, founder of Daoism—reflects Daoist philosophy regarding the limitations of human cognition.]

Laozi (Lao Dan, founder of Daoism) said:

"How do you know it is your son who is lost? Nowadays, all people under heaven are deluded by distinctions of right and wrong, blinded by considerations of gain and loss. When everyone shares the same affliction, naturally no one can perceive the problem.

One person's confusion cannot affect an entire family; a family's confusion cannot affect an entire village; a village's confusion cannot affect an entire state; a state's confusion cannot affect all under heaven. But if the whole world is lost, who then can set things right?

If all people's minds were like your son's, then it would be you who are lost. Joy and anger, sorrow and pleasure, sounds and colors, pleasures and desires, fragrances and foulness, likes and dislikes, rights and wrongs—who can truly distinguish them clearly? Even these words I speak now may well be a form of delusion, let alone those Confucian gentlemen of Lu—they are utterly lost themselves! How could they possibly unravel another's confusion? Rather than wasting your provisions [on seeking their advice], you'd do better to hurry home."

He then told a story about a man from Yan: A man born in the state of Yan grew up in Chu. In his old age, he wished to return to his homeland. Passing through the state of Jin, his companions deceived him, saying, "This city wall belongs to Yan." Hearing this, the man's expression immediately became sorrowful. They pointed to a village shrine: "This is your hometown's earth god temple." The man heaved a long sigh. Then they indicated a house: "This is where your ancestors lived." The man could not hold back his tears. Finally, they pointed to a mound: "These are your ancestors' graves."

The man couldn't control his wailing sobs. His traveling companion suddenly burst into laughter and said, "I was deceiving you earlier—this is actually the state of Jin (a vassal state during the Spring and Autumn period)!" Hearing this, the man felt deeply ashamed.

When they truly arrived in the state of Yan (one of the seven warring states) and personally saw its city walls, altars of soil and grain (symbolizing state architecture and sacrificial sites), and beheld the houses and graves of his ancestors, his inner sorrow instead diminished significantly.

(This passage uses comparative description to illustrate how human emotional reactions often become more restrained when facing genuine circumstances than when confronting fabricated situations. The parable-like expression reveals the subtle relationship between human emotion and cognition.)