《列子》Vol. 2

The second chapter of the Liezi records an episode from the Yellow Emperor’s spiritual cultivation. Fifteen years into his reign (the Yellow Emperor being the legendary progenitor of Chinese civilization), he became delighted that all under heaven revered him and began indulging in sensory pleasures, immersing himself in music, women, and hunting. Yet this only left his complexion sallow and his spirit scattered, as endless desires disturbed his heart-mind (Shen).

After another fifteen years, the Yellow Emperor grew troubled by the thought of poor governance and exhausted his wisdom and strength to manage the people. Again, this left him haggard and unsettled. At this point, he lamented: "My faults run deep! Focusing solely on self-cultivation leads to problems, and governing the world does the same."

Thereupon, he set aside state affairs, left his palace, reduced his attendants, removed the bells and drums, simplified his meals, and retired alone to a quiet hall for purification. For three months, he devoted himself to nurturing his body and paid no heed to governance. One day, while napping, he dreamed of arriving in the land of Huaxu (a mythical utopia).

This Huaxu Kingdom lay west of Yanzhou (a legendary western land) and north of Taizhou (a northwestern land), so distant that neither carriage, boat, nor foot could reach it. This account does not suggest such a place literally existed but uses the dream to illustrate the highest principle—that true governance lies in following the natural order (Dao) without excessive striving. As the Huainanzi states, Yanzhou lies due west and Taizhou northwest, both serving as symbolic directions.

The Liezi passage describes the Yellow Emperor's divine wandering experience after attaining enlightenment. Here it portrays a state where the spirit roams freely without relying on material vehicles like boats or carts to reach distant places. In that ideal realm, there are no rulers—everything follows its natural course. The people harbor no excessive desires and view life and death with equanimity; they neither rejoice excessively at being alive nor fear death, thus avoiding premature demise. They make no distinctions between closeness and distance in relationships, nor between love and hatred toward things, neither rebelling nor blindly following, and thus remain unaffected by personal gain or loss.

These people do not drown when entering water, do not burn when stepping into fire, feel no pain from blades or whips, and experience no itch from scratching. This is because their inner harmony has reached such perfection that external harm cannot touch them. They walk through the air as if treading solid ground, sleep in emptiness as if on a bed, clouds and mist do not obstruct their vision, thunder does not disturb their hearing, beauty and ugliness cannot confuse their minds, and they never stumble while walking through valleys—all this is the result of the spirit's unimpeded movement.

When the Yellow Emperor awoke (though for a sage, waking and sleeping are merely appearances), he grasped this truth and summoned Tianlao, Limu, and Taishanji (his three chief ministers), saying: "For three months I practiced quiet cultivation, purifying my mind and reducing desires, yet I could not grasp the method for cultivating the self and governing the world. Exhausted, I fell asleep and had this dream. Now I understand—the profoundest Dao cannot be pursued through ordinary thinking. At last, I have attained realization."

I (the Yellow Emperor) attained profound understanding of the art of governance, yet cannot convey it to you through words (for the Dao transcends emotional expression). After twenty-eight more years, the world was perfectly ordered, nearly matching the legendary utopia of Huaxu. When the Yellow Emperor ascended to immortality, the people mourned continuously for over two centuries without cease.

On Mount Lieguye ("ye" pronunciation) where the Yellow River meets the sea, dwells a divine being. He inhales pure winds and drinks celestial dew, abstaining from earthly grains (why emphasize consuming wind and dew? This illustrates his breath cultivation merging with nature). His mind remains still as the deepest abyss, his movements gentle as a maiden (this ultimate tranquility is innate endowment, not acquired through practice). He neither deliberately draws near nor distances himself from others ("wei" denotes intimacy—the Classic of Mountains and Seas describes northern sea-dwellers appearing intermittently by waters).

Immortals and sages willingly serve as his subjects (immortals being longevity-achievers, sages being world-rulers), yet he never intimidates nor displays anger—the people naturally revere him. He neither distributes favors nor grants gifts, yet all things flourish abundantly; he accumulates no wealth, yet lacks nothing. Yin and Yang remain eternally balanced, sun and moon perpetually bright, the four seasons ever orderly, wind and rain perfectly measured. All beings grow in their seasons, harvests remain bountiful, lands know no calamity, people suffer no premature deaths, objects bear no flaws, and spirits cause no disturbances (this realm of cosmic harmony prevents misfortunes, as Laozi said: "When the world follows the Dao, even spirits lose their power").

Liezi (Lie Yukou) studied under Master Lao Shang and befriended Bo Gaozi. After mastering their teachings, he could ride the wind homeward (the Zhuangzi records Liezi's wind-riding flights—ethereal and effortless, completing fifteen-day journeys).

The disciple Yin Sheng, having heard that Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) possessed extraordinary abilities, went to live with him for several months. Yet he couldn't even participate in Liezi's household chores. He repeatedly sought opportunities to request instruction in the Daoist arts, but was refused ten times. Filled with resentment, Yin Sheng decided to take his leave, but Liezi didn't attempt to stop him. After several months, unable to let go of his desire, Yin Sheng returned once more.

Liezi asked him, "Why did you leave and then come back?" Yin Sheng replied, "Earlier, I sincerely sought your teachings, but you refused to instruct me. I truly harbored resentment. But now I've come to understand, so I've returned." Liezi sighed and said, "I originally thought you had great potential for realization, but I see now how shallow your understanding is. Sit down, and I'll tell you about my own experience studying with my teacher."

"I studied under Lao Shangshi (Liezi's teacher) and befriended Bo Gaozi (Liezi's fellow student). For the first three years, I didn't dare entertain thoughts of right and wrong in my heart, nor did I dare speak of gain and loss with my mouth. Only then did my teacher reluctantly glance at me. After five years, I began to think about right and wrong in my heart and dared to speak of gain and loss—my teacher occasionally smiled at me then. After seven years, it no longer mattered whether my thoughts concerned right or wrong, nor did I weigh the consequences of my words. Only then did my teacher allow me to sit beside him. After nine years, I let my mind wander freely and spoke without restraint, to the point where I could no longer distinguish whether I was conforming to worldly ways or defying them."

This passage from the Liezi describes the ultimate state achieved through Daoist cultivation. When practitioners reach the stage of "complete internal and external dissolution," the boundaries of their senses completely dissolve—their eyes perceive like ears, their ears discern scents like a nose, their nose speaks like a mouth, and all sensory faculties merge seamlessly. At this point, the spirit (Shen) becomes intensely concentrated while the physical form dissolves; bones and flesh seem to melt away. One no longer feels what the body leans upon or where the feet tread, like a withered leaf drifting with the wind, unable to distinguish whether the wind carries them or they ride the wind.

Guan Yin (also known as Guanling Yin Xi, styled Gongdu, author of nine treatises) explains that those who have truly attained the Dao (Zhiren) move through emptiness without feeling void, for their inner being is wholly fulfilled. They enter fire without sensing heat and tread upon all things without fear. This is because their mind remains in serene emptiness (Xu), allowing them to master all substantial phenomena.

The text also criticizes a disciple named Yin Sheng, who, after only brief study under his master, repeatedly complained of dissatisfaction. Such attachment to bodily sensations makes even heaven and earth incapable of bearing him—how much less could he attain the supernatural ability to tread on emptiness or ride the wind? Hearing this, Yin Sheng was overcome with shame and held his breath for a long time, not daring to speak again.

This describes the cultivation state of "forgetting both self and objects," where practitioners fully relinquish self-awareness to merge with nature, transcending physical laws. Known as "spirit concentrated, form discarded" (Shen Ning Xing Fei), it represents an advanced realm pursued in Daoist practice, where intense spiritual focus renders the body seemingly nonexistent.

This passage elucidates the core principles of Daoist cultivation. Master Guanyinzi (a Daoist figure) states that the true highest realm lies in preserving the purity of one's innate Qi (vital energy), which cannot be attained through mere intelligence or forceful determination.

All that has form, appearance, sound, or color is considered "material"—from sages to insects, none are exceptions. If one fixates on external appearances, there is no fundamental difference between all things. So why then are there distinctions between higher and lower realms? The key lies in whether one is attached to superficial phenomena.

The truly accomplished transcend the realm of "form" and abide in the state of "non-transformation" (no longer being altered by external things). Such individuals can exhaustively investigate the origin of all phenomena and grasp the true Dao. They dwell in the "depth that is not profound" (without deliberately pursuing the abstruse), conceal themselves within the "unbounded order" (the law without beginning or end), and roam freely at the source where all things arise and perish.

The essence of cultivation lies in unifying the mind and nature, nurturing Qi, and internalizing De (Virtue/Power), thereby penetrating the root of all existence. Those who attain this state preserve their innate nature, their Shen (spirit) undisturbed by external influences. The "preservation of pure Qi" refers to maintaining the pristine state of one's original vital energy, while "that from which all things are made" points to the fundamental source of all phenomena.

This passage describes how a drunken person falling from a carriage suffers severe injuries yet doesn't die. Though the drunkard's bones and joints are the same as others', the degree of harm differs. This occurs because the drunkard's spirit (Shen) remains in a state of wholeness—being unaware while riding and equally unaware while falling (using this crude analogy to illustrate profound truth). Thoughts of life, death, or fright never enter their mind, hence they feel no fear when accidents occur. If mere intoxication can provide such protection, how much more so for those who fully align with the Dao (the Way)?

The sage merges with natural laws, making them invulnerable to external harm. The text then illustrates this through Liezi's archery demonstration for Bohun Wuren: Liezi draws his bow to full tension, balances a cup of water on his elbow to show steadiness, and releases arrows in rapid succession with consummate skill. Yet Bohun Wuren remarks this is merely "shooting for shooting's sake," not the "supreme state of effortless archery." He then leads Liezi up a mountain, standing on precarious rocks at the cliff's edge with his back to the abyss—true archery demands a mind completely free from fear.

This passage recounts the story of Zihua from the Fan clan during the Spring and Autumn period. Zihua, a noble scion of the Fan family, held no official position yet wielded greater influence than the three high ministers of Jin. A master patron of retainers, his mere glance could secure a man's promotion, while a single critical remark might bring about another's downfall. His residence bustled with visitors like a royal court.

Zihua amused himself by pitting his knights against one another in contests of wit and strength, encouraging the strong to dominate the weak. Bloodied faces and injuries during these clashes drew no concern—such spectacles became daily entertainment, eventually spreading as custom throughout Jin. Among his retainers was one Hesheng Zibo, who one night while lodging in the countryside with companions, spoke of Zihua's terrifying power: the ability to resurrect the dead, turn paupers into princes and princes into beggars.

Listening beneath the window was Shang Qiu-kai, a destitute man starving in the cold. Desperate to change his fate, he shouldered a bamboo basket and presented himself at Zihua's gate, feigning allegiance. Zihua's retainers... The narrative mentions Bohun Wuren, an enlightened Daoist master, who remarked: "The perfected person (one who has attained the Dao) observes celestial phenomena above and earthly currents below. Their spirit (Shen) penetrates the eight directions while remaining unshaken in essence. Ordinary men, lacking inner cultivation, panic when facing danger—how could they ever reach the realm of the perfected?"

This passage from the Liezi recounts the story of Shang Qiu Kai (a seemingly foolish old man) who, despite being mocked by others, repeatedly performed miraculous feats:

At that time, nobles dressed in elegant plain robes and rode in carriages, strolling leisurely when they spotted Shang Qiu Kai—old, frail, with a dark complexion and disheveled clothing. They scornfully called him "Nè" (a dialect term meaning "ignorant fool"). The crowd began to escalate their mockery, pushing and striking him without restraint, yet Shang Qiu Kai remained unfazed, his expression unchanging.

Eventually, the nobles grew exhausted from their antics and took Shang Qiu Kai to a high platform. Jokingly, they announced to the crowd, "Whoever dares to jump down will be rewarded with a hundred pieces of gold." Everyone clamored in response, but to their shock, Shang Qiu Kai took them at their word. He leapt down like a bird in flight, landing as lightly as a feather, completely unharmed. The Fan family dismissed it as mere coincidence.

Next, they pointed to a deep bend in the river and said, "There are precious pearls at the bottom." Shang Qiu Kai immediately dove in (in ancient times, diving was called "yǒng") and indeed retrieved the pearls. Only then did the crowd begin to suspect that Zihua (the Fan family leader) had orchestrated this in secret.

Soon after, a fire broke out in the Fan family’s storehouse. Zihua declared, "Whoever can rush into the flames to save..." (Here the original text breaks off, but based on context, it likely implies that Shang Qiu Kai would once again display his extraordinary abilities.)

This passage recounts the story of Shang Qiu-kai demonstrating the power of "utmost sincerity." The retainers of the Fan family (a powerful clan of that era) deliberately played tricks on Shang Qiu-kai, urging him to leap into fire and dive into deep water, yet he emerged completely unharmed. The Fan family retainers, assuming he was a man of Dao (the Way), collectively apologized to him, saying: "We didn’t realize you were a practitioner of the Dao and deceived you, nor did we know you were a divine being and insulted you. Were you feigning foolishness, deafness, or blindness? May we ask what Dao you cultivate?"

Shang Qiu-kai replied: "I possess no special arts of the Dao, and even I don’t understand the reason for what happened. But I can share my thoughts: Previously, while staying at an inn, I overheard two guests praising how the Fan family could bring the dead back to life and reverse fortunes between poverty and wealth. I believed these words wholeheartedly, so I traveled thousands of miles to come here. Upon arriving, I found everything you said to be true, and my only concern was whether my sincerity was insufficient or my actions not resolute enough—never did I consider the safety of my body. When the mind is wholly focused, external things cannot harm it—that’s all there was to it. Now I realize you were deceiving me, and doubts and worries have arisen in my heart. Recalling how I escaped unscathed from fire and water before was merely luck, I tremble with fear—how could I dare approach fire or water now?"

From then on, whenever the Fan family disciples encountered beggars or horse doctors (people of low status) on the road, they no longer dared to slight them and would invariably dismount to pay respects. When Confucius’s disciple Ziwo reported this incident to Confucius, the sage remarked: "Don’t you understand? One with utmost sincerity can move all things, shake heaven and earth, and commune with spirits and gods. Such a person traverses the world without obstruction—how could it be limited to merely entering fire and water? Shang Qiu-kai didn’t resist even falsehoods—how much more could he achieve when met with mutual sincerity? Remember this principle well."

The passage then cites another example from the era of King Xuan of Zhou: the animal trainer Liang Yang, who could tame tigers, wolves, eagles, and other fierce beasts in his courtyard, enabling them to mate, reproduce, and coexist peacefully despite being different species. This serves as another illustration of the transformative power of "utmost sincerity."

This passage presents two allegorical stories about taming animals and mastering the natural way (Dao).

The first story recounts how Liang Yang, an ancient animal trainer, revealed the secret of raising tigers: the key lies in conforming to the tiger's innate nature. As creatures of blood and qi (vital energy), tigers become pleased when obeyed and enraged when opposed. Feeding requires three precautions: never offer live prey (lest killing trigger its fury), never provide whole carcasses (lest tearing meat provoke anger), and always regulate its hunger cycles while understanding the roots of its rage. Though tigers belong to a different species, they grow close to those who accommodate their instincts. True masters neither deliberately oppose nor excessively indulge them, maintaining inner equilibrium—thus birds and beasts regard humans as kin, dwelling peacefully in human courtyards.

The second story features a dialogue between Yan Hui and Confucius. While crossing a river, Yan Hui witnessed a boatman's supernatural steering skills. The boatman explained: "Swimmers can learn to steer; expert swimmers master it quickly, while divers (meiren—those skilled in diving) can naturally handle boats even without prior experience." This subtly illustrates how genuine mastery of Daoist arts means aligning with nature's patterns rather than enforcing control through force.

(Note: "Understanding the roots of anger" (da qi nu xin) refers to comprehending the source of an animal's rage; "diver" (meiren) denotes one proficient in swimming and underwater diving. Both stories embody the Daoist core principle of "following nature's way.")

This passage from the Liezi illustrates the philosophy of concentration and mastery. Confucius observed a man effortlessly swimming in the raging currents of the Lüliang Falls (near present-day Xuzhou), where even fish and turtles struggled. At a height of thirty fathoms, the man moved as casually as if strolling on level ground.

Confucius asked: How can someone who has never seen a boat immediately know how to row? It’s like how skilled divers are naturally attuned to water—they perceive deep abysses as flat ground and capsized boats as mere carriage reversals. Though the transformations of all things unfold before them, their minds remain undisturbed (referring to a state of deep focus). Thus, they respond to any situation with ease.

The text then uses gambling as a metaphor: When betting with pottery shards, one’s movements are deft; with silver hooks, tension arises; with gold, the mind grows muddled. The skill is the same, but the greater the attachment to the stakes, the more distracted one becomes. Those overly fixated on external things become inwardly clumsy (losing their natural state). The true key lies in forgetting the distinction between inner and outer, relinquishing thoughts of gain and loss.

The passage concludes: Those who can swim can be taught because they understand water’s nature; master swimmers, however, reach the state of "forgetting water" (no longer consciously thinking about it). Like the expert diver who had never seen a boat yet could instantly command it, his complete immersion in the environment left no room for fear in his mind.

A skilled swimmer once plunged into the Lüliang Waterfall—where cascades drop thirty fathoms and churning rapids stretch thirty miles, a place even giant turtles and crocodiles dare not enter—yet emerged with effortless grace. Confucius, witnessing this, feared the man was attempting suicide and urgently sent his disciples downstream to rescue him. To his astonishment, the swimmer surfaced singing, his hair loose and flowing. Confucius exclaimed, "I thought you were a water ghost! But you're human! How did you master such swimming?"

The swimmer replied, "No special method. Born among hills, I adapted to hills (gu); raised by water, I harmonized with its nature (xing)—it came to me naturally (ming). I enter and exit with the flow, never struggling against it. When a whirlpool pulls me under, the waves return me to the surface."

Later, in the forests of Chu, Confucius encountered a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas with a long pole as effortlessly as picking fruit. Confucius asked, "Is there an art to this skill?" The old man said, "Indeed! After five or six months of balancing two clay balls on the pole's tip without dropping them, I rarely miss a cicada. With three balls steady, I fail maybe once in ten tries. With five balls balanced, catching cicadas becomes like gathering fallen fruit. I stand rooted like a tree stump, hold the pole like a dead branch—though heaven and earth are vast, my gaze sees only cicada wings. How could I miss?"

(Note: "Léi huán" refers to stacking clay balls to train steadiness; "jū lóu" describes a hunchback; "chéng tiáo" is the art of catching cicadas with a long pole.)

These are two parables about concentration and the natural Dao (the Way).

The first story tells of an old hunchback (the Hunchback Elder) with extraordinary skill at catching cicadas. He could balance three pellets atop his bamboo pole without dropping them, missing only one catch in ten attempts; with five pellets balanced, catching cicadas became as effortless as picking things up from the ground. The elder explained his secret: standing as steady as a tree stump, holding the pole as motionless as a dead branch. Though heaven and earth were vast and all things abundant, his eyes saw only cicada wings, his mind free from distraction. When Confucius witnessed this, he told his disciples: "Single-minded concentration leads to miraculous skill—this elder embodies that truth!" Later, the elder challenged Confucius: "You scholars in broad robes (fengyi disciples), spending days studying artificial doctrines of benevolence and righteousness—what do you know of the natural Dao? Only by abandoning these human constructs can one grasp true wisdom."

The second story describes a seaside man who loved seagulls (ou birds), playing daily with hundreds of them. His father said: "I hear the gulls trust you—catch some for me." The next day when the man returned to the shore, the gulls only circled overhead, refusing to land. This shows how when hidden motives arise within, even birds and beasts perceive the change in one's outward demeanor.

The conclusion reveals: The highest wisdom transcends words, the greatest action is wuwei (non-action), and true understanding surpasses ordinary knowledge (equalizing wisdom). Just as catching cicadas depends not on technique but on mental purity, and harmonious seagull companionship requires complete absence of ulterior motives—the moment possessiveness arises, the harmony is lost.

This passage recounts a wondrous tale and its accompanying philosophical discourse. When Lord Xiang of Zhao led a hundred thousand men hunting in Zhongshan, they witnessed a man emerge from burning rocks, traversing freely through flames without injury. The crowd initially thought it a ghost or demon, but upon closer inspection, they saw an ordinary person with seven facial orifices who breathed and spoke normally.

When Lord Xiang asked how he could move effortlessly through stone and fire, the man countered with questions of his own: "What is stone? What is fire?"—indicating complete ignorance of these concepts. Upon hearing this account, Marquis Wen of Wei consulted Zixia (a disciple of Confucius) about the man's identity. Zixia quoted Confucius' explanation: when a person's Shen (spirit) attains the state of "harmony" and becomes one with all things, they can traverse metal, stone, water, and fire without obstruction.

Zixia further elaborated that achieving this state requires "hollowing the heart and removing cunning" (kuxin quzhi)—emptying worldly thoughts and abandoning clever stratagems—a feat he himself had yet to accomplish. The text employs two allegories to illustrate this: the "elder catching cicadas" demonstrates how focused concentration makes one oblivious to external things, while the "sea boy and gulls" shows how genuine inner sincerity manifests as natural ease in outward behavior. Both examples use simple parables to illuminate the profound Daoist cultivation state of "forgetting both self and things" (wuwoliangwang).

In the late Shang dynasty, people attempted to discuss the principles of "being" and "non-being" through language, yet always found themselves inadequate. To truly eliminate the burdens of the mind, one must transcend the mind using the mind itself, and relinquish attachment to wisdom through wisdom. Even when freed from mental constraints, traces of the mind remain. The profound truth of the Dao (the Way) cannot be grasped through deliberate effort—only by forgetting the limitations of language can one attain genuine liberation.

Marquis Wen of Wei once asked Zixia, "Why did Confucius not pursue supernatural powers?" Zixia replied, "The Master possessed such abilities but chose not to employ them." The Marquis was greatly pleased upon hearing this. In this world, there are indeed four kinds of people: those who have ability but choose not to use it, those who have ability and must use it, those who lack ability yet insist on forcing it, and those who appear inactive yet achieve effortlessly. True sages neither deliberately pursue anything nor intentionally avoid anything. They flow with the rise and fall of worldly affairs, merging with all things, never deliberately displaying miraculous feats. The profound mysteries within them remain beyond the comprehension of ordinary people, who cannot perceive even a ten-thousandth of their depth.

From the beginning up to this point, the text elucidates the Dao of conforming to the innate truth of life—free from the bondage of the five desires (wealth, sex, fame, food, sleep), focusing on refining Qi (vital energy) to attain a state of harmony, and maintaining a pure and uncluttered mind. Those who reach this state cannot be burned by fire, drowned by water, or harmed when passing through wood and stone. They remain unafraid when touching blades, and they walk through peril without falling. No creature can harm them, and even entering a herd of beasts causes no disturbance. Their spirit can wander alone, their body can ascend lightly, their ears can hear the most distant sounds, and their eyes can see through all things. These claims may sound irrational and indeed astonish the listener.

The two energies of Yin and Yang give birth to all things, and the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) each have their own inclinations: Metal and Earth generate each other like mother and child, while Fire and Water counteract each other due to the opposition of dryness and dampness. Human nature differs due to stillness or agitation, and abilities vary due to innate endowments. Thus, there are birds that soar through clouds, fish that dive into deep waters, mice that live in fire, and insects that dwell in wood—each creature finds its place according to its hardness, softness, heat, or cold. If one fixates on a single aspect, they will inevitably be constrained in others.

But the sage's mind mysteriously aligns with the primordial Qi (cosmic origin-energy), and their body silently harmonizes with Yin and Yang. They are not confined by shapes or boundaries, nor affected by heat or cold. Their spirit is tranquil, their breath balanced, and wherever they go, all flows smoothly. The Five Phases cannot harm them, and neither heat nor cold can invade them—this is the state of profound De (Virtue/Power) and ultimate harmony. Thus, they never find themselves in desperate straits—why would they need to deliberately avoid danger to preserve themselves? They can walk safely through fire and water, ride clouds and mist, ascend great heights, and traverse battlefields unscathed.

In the state of Zheng arrived a spirit medium from Qi named Ji Xian (in ancient times male mediums were called "xi" and female mediums "wu", here collectively referred to as wu xi). He could foretell life and death, fortune and misfortune, the length of one's lifespan, and predict events down to the exact year, month and day with uncanny accuracy. The people of Zheng would avoid him when they saw him (another interpretation says "abandon and flee", which Xiang Xiu explains as people not wanting to hear their own death dates).

When Liezi encountered Ji Xian, he became utterly fascinated (Xiang Xiu explains this as being bewitched by his Daoist arts). Returning to his teacher Master Hu Zi, he said: "Originally I thought your mastery of the Dao had reached the pinnacle, but now I realize there are even higher levels." Hu Zi replied: "What I've taught you so far are only surface techniques, not yet the substantive content. Do you presume to have attained the Dao? It's like having only hens without a rooster—how could eggs be produced? (Xiang Xiu explains: Substance requires literary expression to manifest, the Dao must be revealed through concrete matters. Having the Dao without concrete manifestation is like keeping hens without a rooster. Though our master-disciple relationship shows different levels of attainment, we're both still operating at the concrete level, not yet fully revealing the substance of the great Dao.)"

Hu Zi continued: "When you take this half-baked understanding of the Dao to compete with worldly people, you'll inevitably be seen through. That's why others can read your fortune. Bring him to see me tomorrow."

The next day, Liezi brought Ji Xian to meet Hu Zi. After the encounter, Ji Xian told Liezi: "Alas! Your teacher is about to die—he won't last ten more days. I saw his face like dead ashes (Sima Biao explains: his qi resembled dampened embers)." Liezi entered weeping, his tears soaking his robe, and reported this to Hu Zi. Hu Zi said: "Just now I showed him the quiescent state of earth (Xiang Xiu explains: motionless like a clod of earth), neither shaken ("zhen" meaning vibration) nor transformed (another version reads "sprouting", which Xiang Xiu explains: lifeless like withered wood)."

This passage recounts the story between Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) and the physiognomist Ji Xian, revealing the profound state attained by those who have realized the Dao (the Way).

When one cultivates themselves to the highest realm, their movements and stillness become as natural as the workings of heaven and earth. In motion, they flow like water; in stillness, they are deep and serene as an abyss. This state fully accords with nature, requiring no deliberate action (Wuwei). When Ji Xian first met Huzi (Liezi's teacher), he saw him sitting in stillness like a corpse, completely self-forgetful, and mistakenly thought he was about to die. Later, when he observed Huzi's spiritual activity in harmony with the Dao of heaven, he assumed he had come back to life. In truth, those who have realized the Dao never deliberately conform to external changes—they follow nature spontaneously, becoming masters of all things. How could such a realm be comprehended by a mere physiognomist?

Huzi demonstrated three distinct states to Ji Xian. First, he revealed the "Heaven and Earth" state (encompassing all existence), where fame, gain, and loss no longer mattered, and vitality (Qi) arose naturally from the soles of his feet. Ji Xian mistook this for "Hidden Power" (a seemingly useless yet profoundly potent state). Next, Huzi displayed the "Supreme Void Undetectable" state (an extreme tranquility beyond perception), leaving Ji Xian utterly baffled. He claimed Huzi's spirit (Shen) was unsettled and unpredictable, requesting to return another day for further observation.

This story illustrates how the realm of Dao-realized individuals is unfathomably subtle, far beyond ordinary comprehension. By revealing different levels of cultivation, Huzi ultimately made Ji Xian recognize the limitations of his physiognomy.

This passage describes how nine different forms of water flow ultimately converge to form deep abysses, paralleling the highest state attained by Daoist practitioners.

The giant salamander (Ni) swimming in circles creates whirlpools; still waters swirling back form abysses; surging currents form abysses; gushing springs (Lan) form abysses; waterfalls (Wo) descending from heights form abysses; side-flowing springs (Gui) form abysses; breached yet returning river waters (Yong) form abysses; flowing waters (Qian) form abysses; and uniquely sourced springs (Fei) form abysses—these are the origins of the nine abysses.

The text uses the diverse manifestations of water as a metaphor for the practitioner’s state of mind: though outwardly varied, the essence remains unchanged. Just as water, whether still or flowing, whether stirred by the salamander’s movement or a dragon’s leap, maintains the abyss’s profound stillness, the perfected person (Zhiren) preserves inner tranquility and detachment regardless of circumstance. Like dwelling at the cosmic center (Taichong’s extremity), they mysteriously commune with all things without leaving traces.

Later, a story is told: Huzi demonstrated the state of "not yet emerging from the origin" to someone, who fled in terror the moment they glimpsed it. Liezi could not catch up, and Huzi explained that this was because he had revealed the fundamental Dao ("not yet departing from my root"), as still as deeply rooted trees in utter serenity. Huzi remarked that he had merely responded with emptiness, yielding without interference—thus achieving this effect.

Here, "not yet departing from my root" refers to abiding in the original state of the Dao, while "responding with emptiness" (Xu er yi) means accommodating all things with a void-like attitude, embodying the Daoist principle of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei). When practitioners reach this state, though they dwell among ordinary people, they remain rooted in fundamental stillness.

This passage describes the spiritual journey of Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) in his cultivation practice. Initially, he went with the flow like reeds bending in the wind or waves following the water's current, completely conforming to worldly changes to the point of forgetting his own identity. Later, he realized this state hadn't yet attained true realization of the Dao, so he returned home and devoted himself to three years of secluded practice.

During these three years, Liezi completely relinquished worldly affairs. He no longer observed formalities when having his wife cook meals (the term "㸑" indicates disregarding culinary propriety), ate as casually as feeding pigs ("狶" being the Chu dialect term for swine), and treated all things without distinction between intimate and distant. He abandoned all external ornamentation ("雕瑑" referring to refined craftsmanship), returning to the most unadorned authentic state, existing alone like a block of wood. His inner turmoil ("㤋") completely subsided as he maintained singular purity until the end of his days, ultimately attaining realization of the great Dao.

Later, when Liezi prepared to journey to Qi, he unexpectedly turned back midway. Meeting his teacher Bohun Maoren (a Daoist perfected being), he explained: "At ten shops selling gruel, five voluntarily offered me their goods ("饋" meaning gifts) before I asked. People's reverence toward me made me feel unsettled." Bohun Maoren pointed out: "This shows you still harbor inner attachments ("内诚不解"). Though outwardly feigning indifference, your heart hasn't truly let go."

This passage from the Liezi recounts a dialogue between Liezi and Bohun Maoren (a Daoist adept), revealing profound insights on human conduct.

When a person maintains a dazzling exterior ("radiant like a spy's disguise") and intimidates others with an imposing demeanor, they may command superficial respect, but never genuine sincerity. Consider the humble porridge vendor—though his profits are meager, he earns authentic esteem through honest dealings. How much more so should a ruler governing a state, who toils diligently for public welfare, naturally win heartfelt reverence from the people.

Initially, Liezi failed to grasp this principle, fearing he might be entrusted with responsibilities beyond his capacity. Bohun Maoren advised him: "Simply abide in your natural disposition ('silently without self-display'), without contrived posturing, and people will instinctively trust you." Sure enough, visitors soon flocked to Liezi's door until their shoes overflowed his threshold.

Then Bohun Maoren arrived leaning on his staff. After standing wordlessly for a while, he turned to leave. Liezi rushed out barefoot to intercept him: "Master, have you no instruction for me?" The adept replied: "Did I not already tell you? People would come to trust you. Now it is proven. But understand—this trust arises not from your deliberate efforts ('it is not your ability that makes others confide in you'), but as the natural consequence of aligning with the Dao."

This exchange illuminates the Daoist principle of wuwei (non-action) governance: true authority stems not from external displays, but emerges organically through inner cultivation. Forced pursuit of validation backfires, while harmony with one's innate nature yields authentic trust.

This passage records the legendary encounter between Yang Zhu (a Warring States period philosopher) and Laozi (founder of Daoism). Upon seeing Yang Zhu, Laozi looked up and sighed, lamenting that while the man could have been teachable, he now found him beyond instruction.

Laozi criticized Yang Zhu's arrogant demeanor—his habit of interacting with others through wide-eyed, haughty expressions ("suīsuī xūxū"). A true Dao-realized person should embody the principles described in the Daodejing: "The purest white appears sullied" and "The highest De (Virtue) seems insufficient," maintaining humility and unassuming simplicity.

The text describes how Yang Zhu, after meeting Laozi, respectfully groomed himself ("advanced with rinsed mouth and combed hair"), removed his shoes, and bowed to inquire why Laozi deemed him "unteachable." Laozi pinpointed the problem in Yang Zhu's self-righteous posturing and contrived mannerisms ("swaying his body without purpose")—behavior that inevitably provokes aversion.

Guo Xiang's commentary adds that true Dao-realized individuals follow natural spontaneity ("transforming through non-interference") without seeking external validation ("neither moved nor desirous"). While clever rhetoric ("petty words") may easily impress people, it ultimately proves harmful by leading them astray from their original nature.

When the Daoist scholar Yang Zhu (from the Warring States period) heard others' admonitions, his expression suddenly turned solemn as he respectfully accepted their teachings. During his travels, people would warmly welcome him—hosts would go out of their way to serve him: the master of the house personally laid out his mat, the mistress attended to him with towels and combs, and even those warming themselves by the fire would yield their spot by the stove.

Yet on his return journey, people's attitudes changed entirely—some even openly competed with him for seating. Later, while passing through the state of Song, Yang Zhu stayed at an inn where the innkeeper had two concubines: one beautiful, the other plain. Strangely, the plain one was favored, while the beautiful one was neglected. When Yang Zhu asked why, the innkeeper replied, "The one who thinks herself beautiful—I do not find her so; the one who thinks herself plain—I do not find her so either." Yang Zhu then instructed his disciples to remember: a truly virtuous person must abandon self-praise, for only then will they be welcomed wherever they go.

The text presents two approaches to life: the way of yielding often prevails, while the way of force often fails. The yielding way is characterized by humility and withdrawal (not contending with external things), whereas the forceful way seeks to dominate others. Those who act with force risk danger when encountering stronger opponents, while those who follow the yielding way avoid calamity. This yielding principle applies not only to personal cultivation but also to governing the world—seemingly non-competitive, yet naturally achieving success; seemingly inactive (Wuwei), yet accomplishing all things. Just as one need not strain to see or hear to perceive all things, this is the state of "emptiness, stillness, and non-action" (Xu Jing Wuwei) revered in Daoism.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong." The most harmonious way of being lies in contentment with one's inherent nature, avoiding forced efforts beyond one's capacity, and flowing with natural rhythms without contending with external forces. It's like lifting a heavy object - while the movement appears to originate from the object itself, in truth we exert no deliberate force.

To become strong, one must first maintain a posture of softness; to become powerful, one must first preserve a state of humility. True strength isn't attained through direct pursuit, but emerges naturally through the accumulation of softness. Observing a person's daily cultivation reveals their future fortunes. Overcoming weaker opponents through brute force proves nothing - when facing equals, such hardness becomes brittle and prone to breaking. But conquering stronger opponents through softness demonstrates immeasurable power.

Laozi taught: "Overly sharp weapons dull fastest, the hardest trees splinter easiest." Softness is the path of survival, hardness the road to destruction. Human appearances may differ while wisdom connects; wisdom may vary while appearances resemble. Sages value the meeting of minds, while ordinary people focus on superficial likenesses.

Consider the human form: seven feet tall with distinct limbs, crowned with hair, teeth in mouth, walking upright - these features define a person. Yet humans aren't devoid of beastly nature, and we embrace others primarily for physical resemblance. Animals with wings and horns, fangs and claws, flying or crawling - they may possess human-heartedness, yet we distance them for their different forms. Ancient sage-kings like Fuxi, Nüwa, Shennong and the Xia rulers sometimes bore serpent bodies with human faces, or ox heads with tiger noses - though their forms differed from ordinary people, they embodied supreme virtue (De). Conversely, tyrants like Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang wore human shapes but harbored bestial hearts.

The lords Huan and Mu of the state of Lu possessed the same seven facial orifices (eyes, ears, mouth, and nose) as ordinary people, yet harbored the hearts of wild beasts. Common people, fixated solely on outward appearances, vainly aspire to attain supreme wisdom—this is impossible.

When the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) battled the Flame Emperor (Yandi) on the plains of Banquan, he led bears, brown bears, wolves, leopards, lynxes, and tigers as his vanguard, using eagles, pheasants, falcons, and kites as his battle standards—this exemplifies using force to command beasts. When Emperor Yao appointed the music master Kui to oversee ceremonial music, striking the stone chimes caused all beasts to dance in response. Upon reaching the ninth movement of the "Xiaoshao" melody, phoenixes came to pay homage—this demonstrates using music to summon beasts. What difference truly exists between the nature of beasts and humans? Only their forms and sounds differ; people simply lack the method to communicate with them. The sages, being omniscient and universally attuned, could thus guide and command all creatures.

The intelligence of beasts resembles that of human children—both share the instinct for self-preservation, though beasts lack the capacity for higher wisdom. Males and females pair naturally, mothers and offspring share deep bonds. They avoid open terrain for sheltered places, shun cold for warmth, maintain order in herds, move in formation, protect the weak within their ranks while the strong guard the periphery, assist each other when drinking, and call the group when feeding. In antiquity, beasts and humans coexisted peacefully without conflict (when virtue was pure, beasts held no fear of humans). By the era of emperors, beasts began fleeing in alarm. In latter ages, they hid and scattered to avoid calamity (as humans developed harmful intentions, animals learned evasion).

In the eastern land of Jieshi today, its people often understand the language of the six domestic animals (horses, cattle, sheep, chickens, dogs, and pigs)—a skill attained through focused study. (Indeed, turtles and dragons lead the scaled creatures; qilin and phoenixes reign over feathered kinds; even flying and crawling insects communicate through sounds, each expressing intent and establishing hierarchy—how does this differ from humans? People's ignorance leads them to dismiss animal sounds as meaningless.) Those who exhaustively investigate principles and possess wisdom comprehend all things; those specializing in particular fields master singular arts. The Zuo Zhuan records how Jie Gelu, hearing an ox's bellow, discerned it had birthed three calves, all sacrificed in rituals. The divine sages of utmost antiquity fully understood all creatures' natures, comprehended every species' language, and could gather and tame them all.

This passage presents two allegorical tales. The first recounts the story of a monkey trainer: A man from the Song state adored raising monkeys, understanding their thoughts while they comprehended his intentions. He would rather reduce his family's rations than neglect his monkeys' needs. When provisions ran low, he attempted to limit their food but feared their disobedience. Deceiving them, he proposed: "Three chestnuts at dawn, four at dusk—is this sufficient?" The monkeys angrily leapt up. Changing tactics, he offered: "Then four at dawn, three at dusk?" The monkeys immediately settled contentedly. This illustrates how manipulating the ignorant resembles tricking monkeys with schemes.

The second tale describes Ji Shengzi training fighting cocks for King Xuan of Zhou. After forty days of cultivation, the rooster transformed from initial bluster and external reactivity to profound composure—so still that rival fowl, mistaking it for a wooden dummy, fled without confrontation. This demonstrates how those perfected through genuine self-cultivation transcend crude competitive instincts.

Both parables reveal that true mastery lies not in superficial technique but in perfected inner refinement. Whether employing wisdom or nurturing virtue (De), the ultimate attainment transcends appearances to return to unadorned authenticity—embodying the Daoist principle of returning to primordial simplicity (返璞归真). The stories critique reliance on cleverness while celebrating the power of cultivated stillness, where genuine attainment renders competitive posturing obsolete.

When Hui Ang (a relative of Hui Shi) went to pay respects to King Kang of Song, the king was stamping his feet and coughing impatiently. He shouted brusquely: "I only admire men of fierce courage and brute strength—not those who preach about benevolence and virtue (De). What could you possibly teach me?"

Hui Ang replied: "I possess a method whereby even the most courageous warrior could never stab you, nor the strongest man ever strike you. Would Your Majesty not wish to hear it?" The king's interest was piqued: "Excellent! This is precisely what I desire."

Hui Ang continued: "Yet avoiding stabs and blows is merely competent technique. I have a superior method—one that makes even courageous men dare not stab you, and strong men dare not strike you. But restraint in action doesn't eliminate harmful intent, so I possess a still greater method: making people never even conceive the thought of harming you. The absence of malice, however, doesn't guarantee goodwill. My ultimate method makes all people under heaven sincerely cherish you and work for your benefit. This far surpasses mere courage and strength—it represents the highest attainment."

Fascinated, the king exclaimed: "This is exactly what I seek!" Seizing the moment, Hui Ang revealed: "Confucius and Mozi embodied this way. Though they held no fiefs, they were honored like sovereigns; though they held no offices, they were followed like commanders. All people craned their necks and stood on tiptoe, praying for their wellbeing. Now you, as ruler of ten thousand chariots—if you truly embrace this path, your entire state will benefit, and your achievements will far surpass those of Confucius and Mozi."

The king fell silent. After Hui Ang departed briskly, the king sighed to his attendants: "What formidable eloquence! He's actually convinced me through reason."