《列子》Vol. 7

Yang Zhu (a Daoist thinker of the Warring States period) traveled to the state of Lu and stayed with the Meng family. A member of the Meng household asked him: "If people should simply live their lives fully while alive, why pursue fame?" Yang Zhu replied: "Fame can bring wealth." Meng pressed further: "But once wealthy, why remain unsatisfied?" Yang Zhu answered: "One then seeks high status." Meng continued: "Having attained status, why not stop?" Yang Zhu responded: "One must still consider matters after death."

Meng questioned: "What could the dead possibly desire?" Yang Zhu explained: "Planning for descendants." Meng remained puzzled: "How does fame benefit descendants?" Yang Zhu said: "Pursuing fame indeed exhausts body and mind. Yet established reputation brings blessings to the entire clan, benefits extending throughout the community—how much more for one's descendants?"

At this point, an interjector remarked: "Those who seek fame must be incorruptible, and incorruptibility leads to poverty. Fame-seekers must be humble, and humility leads to low status." Yang Zhu countered with examples: "When Guan Zhong served Qi, if the ruler indulged, he indulged; if the ruler was extravagant, he was extravagant. Sharing the ruler's temperament, his governance succeeded, making Qi a hegemon. Yet after his death, the Guan clan declined. When the Tian clan served Qi, if the ruler was arrogant, they were modest; if the ruler hoarded, they distributed. The people flocked to them, until the Tian clan eventually replaced Qi's ruling house, their descendants enjoying wealth and status unbroken to this day."

Yang Zhu concluded: "Genuine fame-seekers become poor, while fake fame-seekers grow rich. In truth, authentic people need no fame, and fame doesn't signify authenticity. What we call fame is ultimately illusory. Consider antiquity—when Yao and Shun pretended to cede the empire to Xu You and Shan Juan (legendary hermits), they actually never relinquished power, yet ruled securely for a hundred years."

Bo Yi and Shu Qi indeed yielded to each other over the throne of the state of Guzhu, a small state during the Shang dynasty. In the end, their country fell, and they starved to death on Mount Shouyang. The distinction between what is genuine and what is false is this simple and clear.

Yang Zhu, a Daoist thinker of the Warring States period, said: “A human life lasts at most a hundred years, and among a thousand people, scarcely one lives to that age. Imagine such a long-lived person: the time from infancy to the confusion of old age takes up almost half of life. Nighttime sleep and daytime daze take up nearly the other half. Add the time spent in illness and sorrow, worry and fear, and these consume much of what remains. By this reckoning, across several decades of life, the time truly spent carefree and at ease does not amount to even a moment. What, then, do people live for? What joy can there be in life?”

People live merely for fine food and splendid clothes, for music and beautiful women. Yet these pleasures cannot bring lasting satisfaction, and enjoyment of sound and sight cannot endure forever. People are also constrained by punishments and rewards, restricted by reputation and laws. They anxiously compete for empty fame and scheme for posthumous glory; they carefully cater to others’ opinions and weigh whether their own words and actions are right or wrong. They waste the happiness of the present, unable to live freely even for a moment. How is this any different from being a prisoner bound in heavy chains?

People in antiquity understood that life is brief and death inevitable. So they acted as their hearts led them, without violating their natural disposition. They did not deliberately give up present pleasures, and so were not enticed by empty fame. They lived in accord with their nature, without resisting the natural course of things. They did not seek a reputation after death, and so were not ensnared by punishment. The order of precedence in reputation...

Yang Zhu (a Daoist thinker of the Warring States period) said: The difference between all things lies in their state while alive, while their sameness is found in their inevitable death. In life, there are distinctions between wisdom and foolishness, nobility and baseness—these are differences; in death, all things decay and vanish—this is commonality. Yet neither the distinctions of wisdom/foolishness and nobility/baseness, nor the processes of decay and disappearance, are matters that humans can fully control.

Thus, life is not something one can determine how to live, nor is death something one can decide how to die; wisdom cannot be attained through deliberate pursuit, nor is foolishness something one intentionally feigns—the same applies to nobility and baseness. In the end, all things are born the same, die the same, and share the same fate in wisdom and foolishness, nobility and baseness.

Those who live ten years will die, and those who live a hundred years will also die. Benevolent sages die, and wicked fools die as well. In life, one may be a sage-king like Yao or Shun, but in death, they are merely dry bones; in life, one may be a tyrant like Jie or Zhou, but in death, they too turn into dry bones. Since all become indistinguishable rotting bones in the end, who can discern the differences they held in life? It is better to live well in the present—why worry about what comes after death?

Yang Zhu further illustrated his point with examples: Bo Yi (a recluse of the late Shang dynasty) was not without desires, but his excessive pursuit of purity led him to starve to death on Shouyang Mountain; Zhan Ji (Liu Xiahui, famous for his moral restraint) was not without emotions, but his extreme insistence on chastity resulted in few descendants. Excessive pursuit of purity and chastity, in the end, only harms oneself.

He also compared Yuan Xian (a disciple of Confucius who embraced poverty) living in destitution in Lu to Zigong (a disciple skilled in commerce) amassing great wealth in Wei. Yuan Xian’s poverty damaged his life, while Zigong’s wealth burdened his body and mind. If neither poverty nor wealth is ideal, what then should one do? Yang Zhu believed the key lies in enjoying life and nurturing physical and mental ease. Those who truly understand how to live well do not subject themselves to hardship, and those skilled in self-cultivation are not weighed down by material wealth.

Yang Zhu, a thinker of the Warring States period, said:

An old saying goes, “While alive, people cherish one another; after death, they leave one another behind.” It captures the matter perfectly.

Cherishing one another in life means more than showing affection. It also means offering practical help: easing someone’s hardships, feeding them when they are hungry, keeping them warm when they are cold, and helping them through difficulty.

Leaving one another behind after death does not mean failing to mourn. It means not placing pearls and jade in the deceased person’s mouth, dressing them in splendid brocade, offering sacrificial animals, or displaying burial figurines and objects.

Yan Pingzhong, a senior official of the state of Qi during the Spring and Autumn period, asked Guan Yiwu—also known as Guan Zhong, a senior official of Qi—about the art of caring for life. Guan Yiwu replied, “Let life unfold naturally. Do not obstruct or repress it.”

Yan Pingzhong asked, “What should one do in practice?”

Guan Yiwu said, “Let the ears listen freely to what they want to hear, the eyes look freely at what they want to see, the nose smell freely what it wants to smell, and the mouth say freely what it wants to say. Let the body rest in comfort, and let the mind act freely.

“What the ears want to hear is music, but preventing them from hearing it is called obstructing hearing. What the eyes want to see is beautiful scenery, but preventing them from seeing it is called obstructing sight. What the nose wants to smell is the fragrance of Sichuan pepper and orchids, but preventing it from doing so is called obstructing smell. What the mouth wants to speak of is right and wrong and the principles behind them, but preventing it from speaking is called obstructing wisdom.

“The body wants comfort and abundance, but preventing it from having them is called repressing well-being. The mind wants to unfold freely, but preventing it from acting is called repressing one’s nature.

“All these forms of repression are sources of harm and suffering. Remove these sources that damage and constrain life…”

This passage from the Liezi vividly conveys the Daoist perspective on life and death through several conversations and examples.

When Guan Zhong (Guan Yiwu) and Yan Ying (Yan Pingzhong) discuss the art of nurturing life, they observe that spending all one’s time rushing about while waiting to die—whether one lives a day, a month, a year, or ten years—is not true cultivation of life. Yet being overly attached to extending one’s life, living for a hundred, a thousand, or ten thousand years, is no closer to its true meaning. This reflects the central Daoist idea of following the natural course of things.

When Guan Zhong asks how one should arrange for what happens after death, Yan Ying replies with complete ease: once a person dies, the matter is out of their hands. They may be cremated, buried in water or earth, left exposed, wrapped in a straw mat and thrown into a ditch, or dressed in fine robes and placed in a stone coffin. One should simply accept whatever comes to pass. This complete indifference to posthumous arrangements expresses the Daoist philosophical ideal of viewing life and death as equal.

The passage also mentions that Zichan, prime minister of Zheng, governed successfully, while his brothers Gongsun Chao and Gongsun Mu indulged in drink and sensual pleasures. Gongsun Chao’s house was piled high with wine, with heaps of yeast stacked like mountains; the smell of wine could be detected a hundred paces away. When drunk, he paid no heed to worldly dangers, the warmth or coldness of human relationships, the fate of his household, or ties among relatives. This example contrasts with the earlier discussion, suggesting that excessive attachment to pleasure, like excessive attachment to longevity, goes against the natural Dao.

Taken as a whole, the passage uses the words and actions of different figures to vividly explain the Daoist principles that life and death are one and that we should follow nature. It opposes both the deliberate pursuit of immortality and unrestrained indulgence, advocating instead a detached attitude toward the course of life.

Even when weapons, floods, and fires pressed in around him, he remained entirely unaware. Duke Mu’s inner palace had dozens of adjoining rooms, all filled with young, beautiful women he had chosen. When he gave himself over to their charms, he avoided his relatives and friends, cut off all social contact, and hid in the inner palace all day. He indulged in sensual pleasures day and night, emerging only once every three months, yet still felt unsatisfied.

Whenever a village had a beautiful young woman, he would offer money to secure her, sending people to make the proposal and entice her. He would not give up until he had her. Zichan, the chief minister of Zheng, worried about this day and night. He secretly visited Deng Xi, a thinker of the School of Names, to consult him. “I have heard that one must cultivate oneself before bringing order to one’s family, and bring order to one’s family before governing the state. This is the principle of proceeding from near to far. My government is reasonably well ordered, yet my two younger brothers behave so recklessly. Could the principle be reversed? What can be done to save them? Please advise me.”

Deng Xi replied, “I have long found this strange, but did not dare speak first. Why not counsel them while they are clearheaded? Guide them by explaining that life is precious, and persuade them by showing the dignity of ritual and righteousness.” Zichan took his advice and found an opportunity to speak to his two brothers. “What makes people nobler than birds and beasts is their reason. Ritual and righteousness are what reason follows. If you practice them, honor and status will come of their own accord. But if you give free rein to desire and lose yourselves in indulgence, your lives will be in danger. If you heed my advice, repent in the morning, and by evening you can obtain office and rank.”

Zhaomu replied, “I have known these principles for a long time. I chose this way of life only after thinking it through carefully.” (This implies that they knew they were doing wrong but had no wish to give up their indulgent way of life.)

Must one wait to hear it from others before understanding this truth? Human life is hard to attain, yet death may come at any moment. To use this rarely obtained life in waiting for death that comes so easily—what could possibly be worth clinging to?

Some wish to glorify themselves through ritual propriety and moral virtue, suppressing their true nature to seek fame. I say such people might as well be dead. In this human existence, one ought to fully enjoy present joys and pursue worldly pleasures. One should only fear having a stomach too full to drink freely, or lacking the strength to indulge in sensual delights—how could there be leisure to worry about reputation's rise and fall, or life's safety and peril?

If you flaunt your talent for governing states to impress me, attempting to confuse my mind with clever words and delight me with rank and wealth—is this not utterly shallow and pitiable? I shall part ways with you here.

Those skilled at managing external affairs may not truly govern things well, yet exhaust their body and mind in the attempt; those adept at inner cultivation may find external things don't necessarily fall into disorder, while their innate nature grows ever more tranquil.

Your method of external governance might work temporarily in one state, but it contradicts human hearts and innate nature. My art of inner cultivation could extend throughout the world, making even the distinctions between ruler and minister disappear. I originally intended to enlighten you with this principle—yet you would instruct me with that approach instead?

Zichan (renowned minister of Zheng) heard this and was left speechless in bewilderment. Later he recounted it to Deng Xi (logician of the School of Names), who remarked: "You've kept company with one who has attained the Dao yet didn't recognize him—who would still call you wise? That Zheng was well-governed was mere coincidence, not your achievement."

In Wei there was a man named Duanmu Shu, descendant of Zigong (disciple of Confucius). Inheriting his ancestors' accumulated wealth, he possessed ten thousand gold pieces. He ignored worldly affairs, living exactly as his heart desired. Whatever activities common people wished to pursue, he experienced them all to the fullest.

Among those who desire pleasure, there is nothing they will not do and nothing they will not try. They build high walls and spacious compounds, pavilions and towers; lay out gardens and ponds; enjoy fine food and splendid clothes; and watch music and dance performances on a scale rivaling the rulers of Qi and Chu.

Whatever they truly desire—what their ears want to hear, their eyes want to see, or their mouths want to taste—even rare treasures from distant minor states, things not produced in the Central States, they are sure to obtain. They acquire them as easily as picking fruit from their own gardens.

When they go traveling for pleasure, no matter how high the mountains, dangerous the waters, or long the journey, they are sure to go, as easily as ordinary people take a few steps. Hundreds of guests pass through their homes every day. The kitchen fires never go out, and music and dancing fill the halls day and night.

Beyond what he keeps for his own enjoyment, he first distributes his wealth among his clan and relatives. Whatever remains after that he gives to his neighbors; whatever is left after helping them, he shares with the people throughout the realm. At sixty, feeling his strength begin to wane, he abandons his household affairs and gives away all the treasures in his storehouses, his carriages and horses, fine clothes, concubines, and servants. He disperses his entire fortune within a year, leaving not the slightest inheritance for his descendants.

When he falls ill, his family has no money even to buy medicine. When he dies, they cannot afford his burial. But people throughout the realm who had benefited from his generosity pool their money to bury him, and return to his descendants the wealth he had once given away.

When Qin Guli, a scholar of the Warring States period, heard of this, he remarked, “Duanmu Shu was a madman who brought shame upon his ancestors.” Duan Ganmu, a worthy man of the same era, said instead, “Duanmu Shu was a man of understanding, whose virtue surpassed that of his ancestors. What he did…”

This dialogue records a discussion of life between Yang Zhu, a Daoist thinker of the Warring States period, and Meng Sunyang. In essence, it goes like this:

Meng Sunyang asked Yang Zhu, “If someone cherishes life and cares for their body above all else, hoping to attain immortality, can they succeed?” Yang Zhu replied, “In principle, there is no way to avoid death.” Meng Sunyang asked again, “Then surely one can at least seek a long life?” Yang Zhu said, “There is no way to live forever, either. Life does not grow longer because you cherish it, and the body does not remain healthy forever because you care for it.”

Yang Zhu went on to explain: What is the point of living a long time? Human emotions—joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure—are much the same in every age. The body’s experiences of safety and danger have not changed over time; the world’s pains and pleasures are the same; and the shifts between social order and disorder repeat themselves from one era to another. Since people experience much the same things, even a hundred years can seem too long. How much more so would a longer life bring still more suffering?

Meng Sunyang objected, “By that reasoning, dying young is better than living a long time. Why not go straight to a mountain of blades or into a sea of fire to seek death?” Yang Zhu immediately corrected him: “That is not what I mean. Since you are alive, live naturally, satisfy the desires that are proper to you, and continue until death comes. When facing death, accept it calmly and let your life come to its natural end. Do not deliberately resist life, and do not deliberately seek death. Why rush to choose between life and death?”

The passage ends by contrasting two historical figures. Bocheng Zigao, an ancient recluse, would not sacrifice even a single hair for anything outside himself; he gave up the throne and withdrew to farm. Yu the Great, the legendary sage who controlled the floods, disregarded his personal safety and devoted himself so fully to the work that his body was injured. These radically different choices in life both express the core Daoist idea of following nature.

Some people in ancient times believed that even if sacrificing a single hair could benefit all under Heaven, they would not do it; and even if all under Heaven were offered to one person, that person would not accept it. If no one harmed a single hair of their own, and no one sought to benefit all under Heaven, then all under Heaven would naturally be at peace.

Qin Zi asked Yang Zhu, “If pulling out one hair from your body could save the whole world, would you do it?”

Yang Zhu replied, “The world cannot be saved by pulling out a single hair.”

Qin Zi asked again, “Suppose pulling out one hair really could save the world. Would you do it?”

Yang Zhu did not answer.

After Qin Zi left, he told Meng Sunyang what had happened. Meng Sunyang said, “You do not understand the Master’s meaning. Let me explain it. If someone could injure your skin and thereby gain ten thousand measures of gold, would you agree?”

Qin Zi said, “I would.”

Meng Sunyang continued, “If someone could cut off one of your limbs and thereby gain a whole state, would you agree?”

Qin Zi fell silent for a while.

Meng Sunyang said, “A hair is finer than the skin, and the skin is finer than a limb. That much is clear. But hairs accumulate to form the skin, and the skin accumulates to form a limb. A single hair is part of the whole body, one ten-thousandth of it. How can it be dismissed as insignificant?”

Qin Zi said, “I do not know how to answer you. But if you put your words to Lao Dan and Guan Yin, they would agree with you; if you put mine to Yu the Great and Mo Di, they would agree with me.”

Meng Sunyang then turned away and began talking with his disciples about something else.

Yang Zhu said, “All the good names under Heaven belong to Shun, Yu the Great, the Duke of Zhou, and Confucius; all the evil names belong to Jie and Zhou. Yet Shun once farmed in Heyang…”

This passage recounts the arduous life experiences of four ancient sages, revealing the stark contrast between fame and lived reality.

Shun toiled in the marshlands of Leize during his youth, enduring extreme hardship with no rest for his body and no delicacies to eat. His parents showed him no affection, nor did his siblings cherish him. At thirty, he took a wife without his parents' consent. When he later received Yao's abdication, he was already aged and mentally diminished. Because his son Shangjun proved unworthy, he ultimately passed the throne to Yu the Great, dying in sorrow and suffering. This exemplifies a life of utmost misery shaped by both heavenly will and human action.

Yu the Great inherited his father Gun's failed flood control mission after Gun was exiled and executed at Mount Yu. Devoting himself entirely to taming the waters, Yu neglected even his wife and newborn child, passing his own doorstep without entering. Prolonged labor left him half-paralyzed, with calloused hands and feet. Even after receiving Shun's abdication, he continued living in simple quarters, focusing only on ritual propriety and ceremonial dress, ultimately dying in distress. This represents a life of sorrow forged by both divine decree and human effort.

After King Wu of Zhou's death, the young King Cheng ascended the throne with the Duke of Zhou (Ji Dan) acting as regent. This provoked Duke Shao's resentment, while regional lords spread malicious rumors. The Duke of Zhou retreated to the eastern capital for three years, during which he was forced to execute his rebellious elder brother Guan Shu and exile his younger brother Cai Shu to barely preserve his own life, ultimately dying in anxiety and fear. This illustrates a life of peril created by both celestial mandate and mortal affairs.

Confucius, though thoroughly versed in the ways of sovereign rule, wandered between states answering feudal lords' summons only to face persecution—being driven away by felled trees in Song, expelled from Wei, reduced to poverty in the former Shang and Zhou territories, besieged between Chen and Cai, wronged by the Ji clan, and humiliated by Yang Hu—ultimately dying in restless agitation. This depicts the fate of heaven's chosen: a life of constant toil and movement.

These four sages knew not a single day of joy in life, yet their names shine through millennia after death. Such fame fundamentally bears no relation to actual lived experience. Though people praise them, they cannot know it; though they receive honor, they cannot feel it.

(Note: The term "qīqī rán" describes a state of sorrow and suffering. "The extreme misery/sorrow/peril/agitation wrought by both heaven and man" refers to dire circumstances created by the interplay of divine will and human action.)

This passage recounts the stories of two notorious tyrants: Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang. Though they inherited accumulated wealth and power through generations, sitting upon royal thrones with intellect sufficient to dominate their ministers and authority mighty enough to awe the realm, they indulged their desires and wallowed in pleasure until death. Jie pursued sensory gratification at will, while Zhou reveled in debauchery through the night within lavish palaces, utterly disregarding ritual propriety and virtue. Though they lived in extravagant luxury, they left behind only reputations of cruelty and folly after death.

Yet the author observes that posthumous reputation holds no meaning for the dead. Like blocks of wood or lumps of earth, they remain oblivious whether people praise or condemn them. The four sage-kings (Yao, Shun, etc.) gained glorious reputations but endured lifelong toil, while the two tyrants left infamous legacies yet enjoyed boundless pleasure—yet all ultimately faced the same inevitable death, their final outcomes fundamentally identical.

The text further relates the story of Yang Zhu meeting King Liang of Wei. Yang Zhu claimed governing the world would be "as easy as turning one's palm," to which the king retorted: "If you can't even manage your own household and vegetable garden, what qualifies you to govern the empire?" Yang Zhu responded with a shepherd's analogy: "Having a child whip-drive a hundred sheep is simple, but making sage-kings like Yao and Shun herd a single sheep would prove difficult." This illustrates that governing lies not in micromanagement, but in mastering fundamental methods.

This passage conveys two main ideas through vivid analogies and philosophical reasoning:

The first layer illustrates how those with grand aspirations don't dwell on trivial matters. Just as giant fish capable of swallowing boats don't swim in narrow streams, and soaring swans refuse to perch by muddy ponds—because their ambitions lie beyond. The solemn tones of Huangzhong and Dalu (the most refined ancient musical pitches) cannot accompany vulgar dances, as their harmonies are too dignified. Those destined for great achievements won't tangle with petty affairs, just as builders of monumental works don't calculate minor losses—this is the fundamental principle.

The second layer presents the philosophy of Yang Zhu (a Daoist thinker from the Warring States period). He argues that ancient history has become irrecoverable, the deeds of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors are indistinguishable from legend, and even contemporary events remain largely unknowable. Over the 300,000 years since Fuxi's era, whether wise or foolish, beautiful or ugly, successful or failed—all ultimately vanish with time, differing only in duration. To torment body and mind for fleeting fame, pursuing posthumous reputation lasting mere centuries—what meaning does such fame hold for dry bones? Where then lies life's joy?

Yang Zhu further elaborates: Though humans embody heaven-earth's form (referring to the body's correspondence with cosmic patterns) and possess the Five Constant Virtues (humanity, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness), making us nature's most spiritual beings, our physical form remains fragile—nails and teeth insufficient for defense, skin and muscles inadequate for protection, running speed unable to escape calamity, lacking feathers to withstand temperature extremes. Thus human survival fundamentally depends on external resources, requiring wise utilization of intellect rather than reliance on brute strength.

The most precious aspect of wisdom lies in recognizing that preserving oneself is true value; the most despicable use of strength is to harm external things. The human body does not truly belong to oneself, yet since we live, we must preserve it; external possessions are not truly ours either, yet since we have them, we cannot recklessly discard them. The body is the foundation of life, while external things serve as its nourishment.

Though we must safeguard life, we should not cling possessively to this body; though we do not abandon external things, we must not greedily hoard them. To obsessively claim ownership of both body and possessions is to forcibly seize what belongs to all under heaven. Only a sage could refrain from such forceful appropriation. To regard all bodies under heaven as communal and all things as shared—this is achievable only by those who have reached the pinnacle of Dao (the Way) and De (Virtue). Such a person is called the "ultimate ultimate one" (the highest embodiment of realization).

Yang Zhu (a Warring States philosopher) said: "The reason people find no peace is due to four pursuits: the first is the craving for longevity, the second the chase for fame, the third the lust for power, and the fourth the hoarding of wealth. Those bound by these four things live in fear—of spirits, of others, of authority, of punishment. Such people are called 'fleeing folk' (ignorant beings who evade reality)."

(The true wise understand that) life and death can be faced with equanimity, for fate lies in the hands of external forces. If one does not resist destiny, why envy longevity? If one does not flaunt status, why chase empty fame? If one does not crave power, why fight for position? If one is not attached to wealth, why amass goods? Such a person is a "harmonious folk" (one who aligns with the Dao of heaven). When one reaches a state unrivaled in the world, they truly master their own fate.

Thus, the ancient saying holds true: If a person neither establishes a household nor seeks office, their desires diminish by half; if one has no need for clothing or food, the hierarchy between ruler and subject naturally dissolves.

A Zhou dynasty proverb states: "A farmer sitting idle may still lose his life." This illustrates the following truth: Peasants accustomed to rising with the sun and resting at dusk consider this rhythm divinely ordained; those used to eating bean leaves and wild herbs believe them the finest delicacies; their bodies grow sturdy and robust, their sinews taut with strength. Yet if made to recline on soft woolen carpets beneath silken canopies, dining on refined rice, fatty meats, and fragrant oranges, they would instead become agitated, developing internal heat and illness.

Were the rulers of Shang or Lu states forced to adopt a peasant's lifestyle, they too would quickly collapse from exhaustion. Thus what villagers consider comfortable living represents to them the pinnacle of earthly pleasure.

There was once a Song farmer who survived harsh winters clad in tattered hemp. Come spring ploughing, he basked in sunlight for warmth, wholly unaware of multi-storied heated chambers or fox-fur robes. Delighted, he told his wife: "This sunlight warmth is marvelous—others don't know about it! If we presented this method to our lord, we'd surely receive rich rewards." A wealthy villager hearing this remarked: "Long ago, someone considered wild beans, hemp stalks, water celery and duckweed exquisite fare, recommending them to the gentry. When tasted, these numbed mouths and wrung bellies with pain. All mocked him, leaving the man ashamed. You now resemble that very fellow."

Yang Zhu (Warring States philosopher) commented: "Spacious halls, fine garments, delicious food, beautiful women—with these four, what more need one seek? Those unsatisfied despite possessing these suffer from insatiable greed. Such bottomless craving acts like parasites, eroding one's yin-yang equilibrium."

[Supplementary note: This passage contrasts different social strata's lifestyles to demonstrate how habits and contentment remain relative. Peasants find sunlight blissful while rulers couldn't endure fieldwork; conversely, peasants suddenly living luxuriously fall ill. Yang Zhu critiques humanity's insatiable desires, arguing that once basic needs are met, excessive material pursuit becomes harmful.]

This passage from the Liezi discusses the dialectical relationship between reputation and substance. Excessive pursuit of empty fame can bring harm: chasing reputation to extremes endangers one's life, while flaunting benevolence and righteousness may actually harm living beings. Those in high positions don't attain stability through loyalty alone, yet the reputation of "loyalty" vanishes precisely because of this. Performing good deeds shouldn't be for showcasing virtue, yet the reputation of "righteousness" gets severed in the process. The ideal state is when both ruler and ministers dwell in peace, and all things benefit along with the self—this was the way of the ancient sages.

Master Yu (a Zhou dynasty worthy) said: "Only those who abandon empty fame can be free from worries." Laozi also pointed out: "Reputation is but the guest of substance." Yet people constantly chase after fame with restless urgency. Can reputation truly be completely discarded? Must it always remain secondary? In reality, those with renown receive respect while the unknown suffer contempt; respect brings ease and pleasure, while contempt leads to sorrow and suffering.

Sorrow and suffering violate our fundamental nature, whereas ease and pleasure align with heavenly disposition. These matters are intimately connected to actual life. Given this, how can reputation be entirely abandoned? How can it remain merely supplementary? The crux lies in not allowing stubborn attachment to empty fame to burden one's real existence. If one clings to reputation at the expense of substance, there may not even be time to avert peril—let alone oscillate between ease and sorrow.