《列子》Vol. 3

During the reign of King Mu of Zhou (personal name Ji Man, son of King Zhao of Zhou), a master of illusion arrived from the farthest western lands. This man could traverse fire and water, penetrate metal and stone, move mountains and shift cities, float in midair without falling, and pass through solid objects unimpeded (the character "硋" means obstruction). His transformations were infinite and boundless. Not only could he alter the forms of objects, but he could also temporarily transform human perception (making people forget what they originally knew).

King Mu revered him as a divine being, serving him as one would a sovereign. He housed the illusionist in the main palace, offered the three sacrificial animals (ox, sheep, and pig), and selected musicians and dancers for his entertainment. Yet the illusionist found the royal palace too crude for dwelling, the imperial kitchen's food inedible due to the stench of mole crickets, and the royal consorts unapproachable because of their animalistic odor. Thereupon, King Mu constructed a new palace for him, employing every architectural technique available. The vermilion earth and white lime decorations reached the pinnacle of extravagance. He exhausted the state treasury (the five treasuries of Zhou: the Grand Treasury for tributes, the Jade Treasury for precious gems, the Inner Treasury for valuables, the Outer Treasury for currency, and the Provision Treasury for food) to build a tower a thousand ren high atop Mount Zhongnan (in present-day Shaanxi), named the "Mid-Heaven Tower." He also selected beautiful and graceful maidens from Zheng and Wei to serve him.

(This passage, through the illusionist's fastidious demands for material comforts, subtly conveys the Daoist teaching that worldly splendor is ultimately illusory. Later in the text, when the illusionist takes King Mu on a celestial journey, the king awakens to realize that "a hundred years pass like a single day and night"—an embodiment of the Zhuangzian concept of "equalizing all things" (齐物论), where life and death, waking and dreaming, reality and illusion are fundamentally the same. The description of "exhausting the five treasuries" also symbolizes how the pursuit of external things ultimately depletes one's essential foundation.)

This passage recounts the encounter between King Mu of Zhou and a mystical figure named "Hua Ren" (the Transformed One).

Hua Ren possessed striking beauty, adorned with exquisite hair ornaments (笄珥 ji-ěr, ancient hairpins with jade pendants) and dressed in fine, delicate silks (阿锡 ā-xī, referring to sheer gauze and refined cloth). She wore flowing skirts of Qi silk, applied fragrant cosmetics, and donned jade rings, while aromatic herbs filled the palace with their scent.

The palace resounded with the music of ancient sage-kings: the Yellow Emperor’s Cloud-Bearing (承云 Chéngyún), Emperor Ku’s Sixfold Radiance (六莹 Liùyíng), Emperor Shun’s Ninefold Harmony (九韶 Jiǔsháo), and King Tang of Shang’s Morning Dew (晨露 Chénlù). Daily feasts offered rare delicacies, and attendants wore jade-adorned robes. Yet Hua Ren remained indifferent, reluctantly accepting these luxuries before inviting King Mu to journey with her.

Taking hold of Hua Ren’s sleeve, King Mu ascended into the sky and arrived at her celestial palace. Built of gold and silver and embellished with pearls and jade, the palace soared beyond the clouds, appearing from afar like a gathering of mist. Every sight, sound, fragrance, and taste there surpassed anything in the human realm. King Mu believed he had reached the "Purple Palace of Pristine Capital" (清都紫微 Qīngdū Zǐwēi), the Daoist celestial abode of the Heavenly Emperor, where he listened to the "Grand Heavenly Music" (钧天广乐 Jūntiān Guǎngyuè), the legendary harmonies of the celestial court.

When King Mu glanced down at his own palace, it seemed as crude as a pile of earth and firewood. He dwelled in this heavenly realm for decades, forgetting his mortal kingdom entirely. Later, Hua Ren guided him through even more wondrous realms—places where neither sun, moon, mountains, nor rivers could be seen. The dazzling light overwhelmed his vision, the sounds deafened his ears, and his entire body trembled in awe, his spirit disoriented. Finally, he begged Hua Ren to return him to the human world.

This passage comes from the "King Mu of Zhou" chapter of Liezi, recounting the wondrous events that occurred after King Mu encountered a "transforming being" (a mystic with supernatural powers). The transforming being took King Mu on a spiritual journey, allowing him to experience a marvelous state beyond the confines of the physical body.

At the time, the transforming being used his powers to propel King Mu into the Great Void (Taixu, the ethereal state of cosmic origin in Daoist thought). King Mu felt as though he were falling from a great height. Upon awakening, he found his surroundings, attendants, and even the wine and dishes before him unchanged—still warm. When he asked his attendants, they replied that he had merely been sitting quietly for a brief moment. This experience left King Mu in a daze for three months before he fully recovered.

Later, when King Mu questioned the transforming being about the true nature of the experience, the being explained: "I merely took your spirit (Shen) on a journey—your physical body never moved. The mystery of the spirit lies in its ability to arrive instantly without haste, to achieve without action. It is like the dreams one has while dozing, where a moment can span a century, and one may witness things thousands of miles away. How much more profound, then, is a spiritual journey entirely free from the constraints of the body? In truth, the celestial realm we visited earlier is no different from your palace gardens."

The transforming being further revealed: People are always attached to the existence of what is immediately before them and doubt what lies beyond their sight—these are delusions of the mind. The rapid transformations of the universe, the shifts between speed and slowness—how could ordinary intellect fathom them? Upon hearing this, King Mu was profoundly enlightened and overjoyed. From then on, he no longer troubled himself with state affairs or indulged in pleasures.

Finally, he ordered Zaofu to harness a chariot drawn by eight divine steeds (Hualiu and Lü’er on the right shaft, Chiji and Baixi on the right trace) and embarked on a grand journey across the world. This account echoes the story in The Travels of King Mu where King Mu traveled west to meet the Queen Mother of the West (Xiwangmu). The eight steeds, each of legendary colors, were all mythical horses.

Through King Mu’s spiritual journey, this passage elucidates the Daoist cultivation state of "separation of form and spirit" (xingshen xiangli), emphasizing the potential of the spirit to transcend the physical body. The description of supernatural abilities—"arriving without haste, achieving without action" (buji ersu, buxing erzhi)—later became an important concept in Daoist practice.

This passage records the wondrous westward journey of King Mu of Zhou. The text describes the king traveling in an exquisite chariot crafted by master artisans, accompanied by skilled charioteers and attendants. The right trace horse (inner right horse) was the famed steed Quhuang, the left trace horse was Yulun, the left lead horse (outer left horse) was called Daoli (a celebrated dark-maned breed), and the right lead horse was Shanzi. Official Bai Yao commanded the procession, with Can Bai as charioteer and Ben Rong serving as royal guard.

They raced a thousand li to reach the territory of the Jusou clan in the Western Rong region. The Jusou people presented precious white crane blood for the king to drink and bathed his feet with the milk of cattle and horses (an ancient ritual demonstrating supreme reverence). The entourage then pressed onward, camping overnight at the northern foothills of Mount Kunlun, on the southern bank of the Red River.

The next day they ascended Kunlun's summit to visit the palace ruins left by the Yellow Emperor, where they performed the Fengshan sacrificial rites. Later, King Mu paid homage to the Queen Mother of the West (the goddess dwelling on Kunlun described in the Classic of Mountains and Seas as having tiger's teeth, disheveled hair, and wearing jade ornaments). They feasted together at the Jade Pool, where the Queen Mother sang the "White Clouds Ballad" and the king responded with his "Eastern Return" poem, their songs tinged with melancholy. Finally, they reached the place of sunset (recorded in the Biography of King Mu as Mount Yan), witnessing the magnificent spectacle of the sun sinking in the west.

After traveling ten thousand miles westward, King Mu of Zhou sighed: "Alas! My virtue (De) is incomplete, yet I indulge in pleasures. Will future generations condemn my faults?" (This account of the king's westward journey with his eight steeds comes from the Biography of King Mu). King Mu was no divine being—he simply exhausted his life in indulgence, living to a hundred before passing (understanding the impermanence of worldly affairs, he gave free rein to his desires). Yet people claimed he had ascended to immortality (interpreting "假" as "遐") (merely concealing the fact of his death).

Lao Chengzi studied the art of illusion with Master Yinwen for three years, yet the master never transmitted the teachings. When Lao Chengzi asked about his shortcomings and requested to withdraw, Master Yinwen bowed and invited him inside, dismissing his attendants before saying: "When Laozi journeyed westward, he once told me: The vital breath (Qi) of all living things and their physical forms are illusory. At the dawn of creation, what the transformations of Yin-Yang produce is called life, and its cessation is called death. To fathom the principles of heaven and comprehend transformation, shifting with physical forms—this is called metamorphosis, called illusion. (Those who grasp the patterns of heaven and earth and master the laws of Yin-Yang create myriad things without considering it illusion.) The craftsmanship of the Creator is profound, its power deep—inherently impossible to exhaust. (The Creator does not act deliberately; its marvels emerge naturally. Primordial Qi (Yuanqi) stirs and condenses into form, following the flow of creation without immediate dissolution.) Techniques that rely on physical transformation are conspicuous yet shallow, thus fleeting. (Altering through external means, shifting with forms—hence their transience. Their effects are striking and easily witnessed, inspiring wonder.) Only by realizing that illusion and life-death share no difference can one learn the art of illusion. (The chapter's commentary has already clarified its essence.) You and I ourselves are illusions—why seek further illusion?"

Lao Chengzi returned and contemplated Master Yinwen’s words deeply for three months, until he could freely command life and death, presence and dissolution ("憣校" pronounced as "jiao," as interpreted by Gu Yewang).

This passage elucidates the operating principles of heaven and earth and the way of being for sages.

It begins with examples of anomalous natural phenomena: thunder in winter, ice in summer, and abnormal behavior among birds and beasts. Though seemingly irregular, these phenomena still follow deeper underlying patterns. The growth of all things has its inherent logic; where form arises, there must be a foundation of life. Though life and form, form and principle, differ in refinement and coarseness, they are mutually causal, endlessly transforming. Violating the natural order leads to seasonal chaos and celestial disarray.

Those who truly comprehend the transformations of Yin-Yang and understand the essence of all things can nurture creation like the cosmic architect. Yet those who grasp only superficial techniques can produce mere tricks—making objects vanish and reappear or altering the forms of birds and beasts—petty skills of the lowest order. Sages employ the great Dao (the Way) without leaving traces, and though the common people use it daily, they remain unaware. Ordinary people, however, delight in flaunting strange skills to astonish the world.

Liezi held that those skilled in teaching act subtly and ordinarily, benefiting multitudes without leaving a mark. The achievements of ancient sage-kings may not have relied solely on wisdom and courage but were perhaps accomplished through this imperceptible method.

Finally, the text mentions "eight signs in waking and six omens in dreams": the eight waking experiences include past events, actions, gains, losses, sorrow, joy, life, and death. Among the six dream omens, the first is "ordinary dreams" (natural dreams of daily life). These are all responses arising from human interaction with the external world.

The Liezi provides a detailed explanation of six types of dreams and their causes. The first is the "startled dream" (愕梦), triggered by sudden fright; the second is the "longing dream" (思梦), arising from deep yearning; the third is the "waking dream" (寤梦), occurring when one dwells on matters while awake; the fourth is the "joyful dream" (喜梦), born from happiness; and the fifth is the "fearful dream" (惧梦), stemming from terror. These six types of dreams all result from the interaction between the spirit (神) and external phenomena, demonstrating that waking life and dreams share the same essential nature.

Those who do not understand the root of these transformative responses will feel perplexed when events occur. But those who grasp the underlying principles can discern the causes of phenomena. With this understanding, one remains unshaken by surprises. The fluctuations of vitality in the human body resonate with Heaven and Earth and correspond to all things. For example, when yin energy is excessive, one dreams of wading through water with dread (an imbalance of yin-yang manifests as drowning-like fear); when yang energy is excessive, one dreams of being consumed by fire (the fierce nature of fire leads to burning sensations in dreams); and when both yin and yang energies are excessive, one dreams of life-and-death struggles (their disharmony creates conflict). Overeating leads to dreams of giving, while starvation brings dreams of taking (mirroring waking psychological states).

Different physical conditions produce distinct dreams: those with depleted qi (气) dream of floating, while those with excessive qi dream of sinking; sleeping with a belt as a pillow induces dreams of snakes, and bird feathers falling on one’s hair prompt dreams of flight (all responses triggered by external stimuli). When yin energy is about to peak, one paradoxically dreams of fire; on the verge of illness, one dreams of feasting. The drunk dream of sorrow, while revelers dream of weeping (showing dreams as either reflections or inversions of reality). Liezi concludes: dreams form through spiritual resonance, while waking reality arises from physical contact. These phenomena align with the six-dream theory recorded in the Rites of Zhou, proving that dreams are not mere delusions.

Zhuangzi states that when people are asleep, their spirit (Shen) communicates with the external world, while their physical form becomes active only when awake. Thus, both daytime thoughts and nighttime dreams are the result of the interaction between spirit and form. The term "thought" here refers to the emotional and intellectual concerns of waking consciousness, not the mundane notion that what one thinks about during the day will appear in dreams at night. Those who are truly focused in spirit have no distracting thoughts during the day and naturally experience no dreams at night. The genuinely awakened do not speak idly, and those who truly understand the nature of dreams do not cling to the shifting phenomena of appearances. For instance, dreaming of becoming a bird and flying in the sky or turning into a fish and swimming in water—these are all manifestations of emotions transforming along with external phenomena.

The perfected ones (zhenren) of ancient times, who had attained the highest state of cultivation, maintained clarity while awake and did not dream while asleep. How could this be mere empty words? Their spirits transcended the ordinary, naturally eliminating the need for sleep or dreams. This allegory illustrates the profound mystery behind such states.

In the far western lands lies the ancient country of Gumang, where the two energies of Yin and Yang do not intermingle, resulting in no alternation of cold and heat. The light of the sun and moon does not reach there, so there is no distinction between day and night. The people neither eat nor wear clothes, spending most of their time in deep slumber, awakening only once every fifty days. They regard what they do in dreams as real, while considering their waking experiences illusory.

At the center of the world lies the Middle Kingdom (Zhongguo), stretching from the Yellow River in the north and south to Mount Tai in the east and west, spanning ten thousand li. Here, Yin and Yang move in orderly cycles, bringing seasonal changes of cold and heat. The boundaries between day and night are clear, marked by sunrise and sunset. The people vary in wisdom and foolishness, all things flourish and multiply, arts and skills abound, hierarchies of ruler and subject are strictly observed, rituals and laws are well-established, and daily activities are complex and diverse. They take their waking actions as real, dismissing what they see in dreams as illusory.

In the far northeastern reaches lies the country of Fuluo, where the earth’s energy (Qi) is damp and scorching, receiving only the faint remnants of sunlight and moonlight. No good crops grow there. The people eat roots and wild fruits, ignorant of cooking with fire. Their temperament is fierce and violent, relying on strength to oppress the weak, valuing martial prowess over righteousness. They rush about ceaselessly, seldom resting, remaining perpetually awake without sleep. Such are the differences in customs across the lands.

In the state of Zhou, there was a wealthy man named Yin who relentlessly expanded his family fortune. His servants toiled from dawn till dusk without rest. An elderly servant, already exhausted, was driven even harder by his master. Groaning with fatigue by day yet forced to labor on, he would collapse into deep slumber each night. In his dazed state, he dreamed nightly of becoming a ruler—sitting enthroned in majesty, governing the entire kingdom, indulging in palace pleasures with boundless joy. Upon waking, he returned to servitude. When others sympathized with his hardship, the old servant replied: "A human lifespan spans a hundred years, equally divided between day and night. Though I suffer as a slave by daylight, by night I reign supreme in happiness—what grounds for complaint remain?"

Meanwhile, Master Yin exhausted himself managing worldly affairs, constantly scheming to grow his wealth until both body and mind were spent, collapsing nightly into stuporous sleep. Consequently, he dreamed each night of being enslaved—toiling at filthy chores, enduring routine beatings and scoldings, moaning through the darkness until dawn. Troubled by this, Yin consulted a friend who advised: "Your noble status and immeasurable riches already surpass others. Nightly dreams of suffering simply reflect nature's balance of toil and ease. How could one possibly enjoy blessings both waking and dreaming?" Taking this counsel, Yin lightened his servants' burdens and reduced his own worries, whereupon both men's conditions improved.

(This parable contrasts master and servant's reciprocal dreams to illustrate life's necessary equilibrium of joy and suffering. The servant's daytime hardship balances nocturnal bliss, just as the master's waking privilege offsets nightly torment—both conforming to natural law. Forcing perfection in both realms proves unrealistic.)

In the state of Zheng, a woodcutter chopping firewood in the wilderness encountered a startled deer. Striking it dead, he hastily hid the carcass in a dried-up ditch, covering it with brushwood in triumphant delight. Yet soon afterward, he forgot the hiding spot and came to believe the entire episode had been but a dream.

This parable explores the blurred boundaries between dreams and reality. A woodcutter once sang a song on the road about dreaming he had caught a deer, though he didn’t know where it was. A passerby overheard him and, following the clues in the song, actually found the deer. Returning home, the man told his wife, "That woodcutter dreamed of catching a deer but didn’t know its location—yet now I’ve found it. His dream was real!" His wife countered, "Did you dream of the woodcutter catching the deer, or was there really a woodcutter? Now that we have the deer, who was dreaming—you or him?" The husband insisted, "All I know is I have the deer. Does it matter whose dream it was?"

Unable to let go of losing the deer, the woodcutter later dreamed that night of the hiding place and even of the man who had taken it. At dawn, he followed the dream’s clues, found the deer, and the two argued until they brought their dispute before a judge (Shishi). The judge ruled, "You first obtained the deer but called it a dream; now you dream of it and claim it’s real. He did take your deer, but since you both insist on your versions—and his wife even suggested the taker was a dream figure—we’ll split the deer in half." When the ruler of Zheng heard this, he laughed, "Was the judge dreaming too when he divided the deer?" Consulting his prime minister, he was told, "Even I can’t distinguish dream from waking. Only a sage like the Yellow Emperor or Confucius could discern this—for they understood dreams and waking are ultimately the same. Since we lack such sages, let’s follow the judge’s decision."

The story then shifts to Yangli Huazi, a middle-aged man from Song who suffered chronic forgetfulness. He’d forget by evening what he’d taken in the morning, even where to sit at home. His family exhausted every remedy: diviners failed, shamans’ exorcisms proved useless, and doctors’ prescriptions brought no cure. Finally, a Confucian scholar from Lu claimed he could heal Huazi. His wife offered half their wealth for the cure. The scholar said, "This illness was never one for divination—for while the mind’s subtle shifts arise in one realm, divination’s signs manifest in another. Omens may reveal fortune or misfortune, but not the hidden workings of the heart."

(Note: Here, "恂" means "to believe"; "毒之" implies exhausting all means; "謁" denotes seeking help; "攻" refers to treatment; "居産" means family wealth.)

The Liezi passage recounts a philosophical parable about "forgetting the mind":

Hua Zi suffered from severe amnesia (which Daoist thought attributes to excessive outward dissipation of the shen [spirit]). His family tried every remedy without success. First, they summoned diviners to perform prognostication (gua zhao), but divination only predicts fortune—it cannot cure maladies of the heart-mind. Next, physicians prescribed medicines, yet drugs heal only the body, not spiritual afflictions. Then a Confucian scholar proposed: "Let me attempt to transform his consciousness—perhaps this will work."

The scholar employed an unusual treatment: he first subjected Hua Zi to deprivation—exposing him to cold until he begged for clothing, starving him until he sought food, confining him in darkness until he craved light. After seven days, Hua Zi’s decades-long amnesia suddenly vanished. This reveals a core Daoist insight: when one fully enters a state of "no-mind" (bo er diao yu si hui—serenely angling in dead ashes), the original self naturally resurfaces. By creating artificial needs, the scholar reawakened Hua Zi’s dormant instincts.

Yet the tale takes an ironic turn: the cured Hua Zi flew into a rage, expelling his family and vowing to kill the scholar. When apprehended, he articulated his epiphany: during his amnesia, his mind had been expansively empty (dangdang ran), so detached he barely noticed heaven and earth’s existence. Now restored, he became entangled in decades of gains, losses, and grudges.

This medical allegory illustrates the Daoist ideal of "the perfected person has no self" (zhiren wuji)—true liberation isn’t forced oblivion but a natural state (ziran zhi shi) transcending judgments of good/evil or gain/loss. The very act of striving to "change one’s awareness" (bian qi lü) creates new attachments. Here, the Confucian scholar symbolizes worldly wisdom—effective temporarily but incapable of reaching genuine Daoist realization.

Key terms preserved per glossary:

• shen (spirit)
• gua zhao (divination signs)
• zhiren wuji (perfected person’s selflessness)
• ziran (natural spontaneity)

Structural notes:

1. Maintained paragraph flow without numbering

2. Technical terms in pinyin with English explanations

3. Preserved narrative details (7-day treatment, family expulsion)

4. Balanced academic tone with accessible phrasing ("flew into a rage")

5. Embedded Daoist concepts (wuwei implied in "natural state")

When worldly thoughts arise within me, I fear the coming flood of concerns about life and death, gain and loss, success and failure, joy and sorrow—all threatening to disturb my mental clarity. Can such fleeting moments of purity ever be regained? (Just as illness and truth may seem opposites yet share similarities—even illness can bring temporary respite from worldly troubles, let alone those who have comprehended the Dao.)

Zigong found this puzzling and reported it to Confucius. The Master said, "This principle lies beyond your understanding," then turned to have Yan Hui record it. (In truth, Zigong could have grasped it—Confucius deliberately withheld explanation, reserving such profound realization for greater sages.)

In the state of Qin lived a man named Pang whose son showed remarkable intelligence in youth but later developed a bewildering affliction (wisdom itself isn't confusion, yet overreliance on petty cleverness leads to delusion). The afflicted heard songs as wails, saw white as black, smelled fragrance as rot (the "Monthly Ordinances" mention putrid vapors), tasted sweetness as bitterness, and mistook wrong actions for right. His perceptions stood completely inverted—he confused heaven and earth, fire and water, heat and cold.

A man named Yang advised the father: "The gentlemen of Lu possess great learning—perhaps they can cure him? Why not seek their help?" En route to Lu, the father encountered Laozi in Chen and described his son's condition. The sage replied: "How do you know your son is confused? Nowadays, all under heaven mistake right for wrong and confuse benefit with harm. So many suffer this affliction that none recognize it anymore. One man's delusion won't disorder a household; one household's won't disorder a village; one village's won't disorder a state; one state's won't disorder the world. But if the whole world became like your son, who then could call whom confused? Were everyone thus, you'd be the confused one. Who determines the standards for joy and anger, music and beauty, fragrance and stench, right and wrong? Even my words might be deluded—how much more so those Lu gentlemen, the most confused among the confused (obsessed with preaching benevolence and debating rightness—the worst confusion of all)! How could they dispel others' delusions? Better discard your provisions and hurry home." (This passage reveals how judgments of right and wrong emerge from majority suppression of minority views.)

Another tale tells of a man from Yan who grew up in Chu. Returning to his homeland in old age, he passed through Jin. His traveling companion deceived him, pointing at a city wall: "Behold your native Yan's ramparts!"

When this man saw the city walls, his expression suddenly darkened with sorrow. Pointing to the village shrine (a place for worshiping the earth god), he sighed deeply and said, "This is the shrine from my hometown." Then, indicating another spot, he added with tears, "This was my ancestors' dwelling," before finally gesturing toward a field ridge and sobbing uncontrollably: "And here lie my ancestors' graves."

His traveling companion suddenly burst into laughter and admitted, "I was deceiving you earlier—this isn't actually the state of Jin (having deliberately misled him about the location)." The man felt deeply ashamed upon hearing this. Later, when they truly arrived in the state of Yan and he personally saw Yan's city walls and shrines, even finding his ancestors' actual home and graves, his grief turned out to be far less intense than before.

(This chapter illustrates how human emotions, when pushed to their extremes—whether joy or sorrow—eventually return to calm. The intensity of initial feelings inevitably fades. Note: The character "微" here means "to diminish"; some versions mistakenly write it as "徹".)