《列子》Vol. 4

The dialogue from the Liezi·Zhongni Chapter records a profound discussion between Confucius and his disciples about "rejoicing in Heaven and knowing fate." At the time, Zigong noticed Confucius looking troubled but dared not ask, so he informed Yan Hui. Yan Hui deliberately played the zither and sang to draw Confucius' attention, and indeed, Confucius summoned him to inquire why he was so cheerful alone.

Yan Hui quoted Confucius' past teaching: "Rejoicing in Heaven and knowing fate brings no sorrow" (by conforming to natural laws and understanding fate's arrangement, one avoids worry), hence his happiness. Hearing this, Confucius' expression turned solemn. After a moment of silence, he pointed out that Yan Hui's understanding was incomplete—this was his past statement, and now he wished to amend it.

Confucius explained: Merely knowing that "rejoicing in Heaven and knowing fate" dispels sorrow is insufficient. One must further realize that behind this awareness lies an even greater sense of vigilance (for a true sage remains conscious of all things, comprehending both joy and sorrow). The truth he now imparted was this: Cultivate oneself to face adversity or prosperity with equanimity, understand that life, death, and all transitions lie beyond personal control, and maintain an unshaken mind amidst external changes—this is the superficial realm of what you call "rejoicing in Heaven and knowing fate without sorrow."

Finally, Confucius hinted: In the past, his practice had transcended such elementary understanding (referring to the level of merely distinguishing inner and outer, honor and disgrace), reaching the more profound state of "neither affirming nor denying," a realm of ultimate transcendence. This dialogue reveals the deepening of the Confucian concept of "knowing fate"—from simple resignation to fate, to a comprehensive awareness and transcendence of life's essence.

This passage from the Liezi examines the role and limitations of poetry, books, rituals, and music in governance.

It points out that while these cultural forms were originally tools used by sages to govern the world, their misuse can create problems. The rulers of Lu State, for instance, superficially observed ritual and musical systems while their society gradually lost order, with benevolence (Ren) and virtue (De) in continuous decline. This demonstrates that ritual systems alone cannot fundamentally resolve social issues.

The author recognizes that poetry and rituals offer no real solution to chaos, though he hasn't yet discovered how to reform them. Those who truly understand—the "joyful followers of heaven who know fate"—feel deep concern about this. The key lies not in completely abandoning rituals, but in recognizing their inherent limitations.

The text then presents a more profound insight: what the ancients called "joy" (Le) and "knowledge" (Zhi) were never about superficial pleasure or information. True joy is "joyless" (non-attachment to pleasure), and true wisdom is "knowledgeless" (non-attachment to knowledge). Reaching this state allows natural harmony with all things—being both joyful and wise, both concerned and active.

Finally, it concludes that poetry and rituals need not be wholly discarded, but their essence must be grasped beyond rigid forms. The true Dao transcends such specific conventions, adapting fluidly without fixating on any single approach.

This passage comes from the Liezi, presenting several anecdotal fragments about the path of sages and the process of awakening to the Dao.

Yan Hui (Confucius' most accomplished disciple) bowed reverently to the north and said, "I too have attained understanding." This describes his state of appearing dull externally while being profoundly enlightened within. When he shared this with Zigong (another disciple of Confucius), the latter became disoriented, failing to grasp its profound meaning. Zigong returned home and pondered intensely for seven days and nights, neglecting food and rest until his body became emaciated. Only after Yan Hui came to enlighten him did he return to Confucius to continue his studies.

When a high official from Chen visited the State of Lu, he privately met with the nobleman Shusun. Shusun remarked, "Our state has a sage—Confucius." The Chen official asked how one could recognize him as a sage. Shusun replied that he often heard Yan Hui speak of him. This passage discusses how the Dao of sages transcends ordinary comprehension—no thing in creation can perceive its entirety, and we can only infer it through certain signs.

The Chen official then claimed their state also had a sage, referring to Kangcangzi (Gengsang Chu, a disciple of Laozi). It's said Kangcangzi had mastered Laozi's Daoist methods, achieving the state of "not using the mind but using form"—indicating how sages don't cling to mental activities but act in accordance with natural laws. Like a mirror reflecting without retaining images, or an echo responding without preserving sounds, this realm transcends worldly attachments while permeating all existence.

The Liezi records an extraordinary dialogue about sensory perception. The ruler of Lu, having heard that Gangkangzi could see with his ears and hear with his eyes, was deeply astonished. He invited Gangkangzi with great ceremony to seek his wisdom.

Gangkangzi clarified that the rumor was mistaken—he did not literally exchange the functions of his ears and eyes but had attained a higher state of awareness. He described his cultivated state in detail: his body and mind were completely unified, his mind was in harmony with Qi (vital energy), his Qi merged with Shen (spirit, the innate spiritual nature in Daoism), and his Shen became one with the formless Dao. In this state, even the subtlest existence or sound, whether far beyond the eight directions or right before him, would naturally be perceived if it entered his field of awareness. This was not achieved through the ordinary senses of the seven orifices and four limbs, nor by the discernment of the five viscera, but through an intuitive cognition that transcended the physical form.

The ruler of Lu was delighted and later recounted this to Confucius (Zhongni). Confucius merely smiled without replying, for Gangkangzi had already revealed the essence—the highest level of perception transcends the physical senses and arises from intuitive realization in unity with the Dao. This account embodies the Daoist cultivation principle of "the unity of form and spirit" (xing-shen heyi), asserting that when one breaks through the limitations of the body and aligns with the Dao, they attain perceptual abilities beyond the ordinary.

In Shangqiu (the capital of Song State, hence the dual names), the Grand Steward (official title) met Confucius and asked: "Are you the sage Kong Qiu?" Confucius replied: "I dare not claim to be a sage. What people call sages are merely observing their external conduct—how could they truly understand what makes one a sage or not? I am merely someone with broad learning and extensive knowledge (though appearing erudite, in truth possessing no extraordinary wisdom)."

The Grand Steward continued: "Were the rulers of the Xia, Shang, and Zhou dynasties sages?" Confucius said: "The Three Dynasties' rulers excelled in employing wisdom and courage, but whether they were sages—I cannot confirm." The Steward pressed further: "Then were the Five Emperors sages?" Confucius responded: "The Five Emperors excelled in practicing benevolence and righteousness, but whether they were sages—I do not know." The Steward asked again: "What of the Three Sovereigns?" Confucius replied: "The Three Sovereigns excelled in adapting to their times, but whether they were sages—I likewise cannot say (My erudition, Tang and Wu's conquests, Yao and Shun's abdications, Fuxi and Shennong's simplicity—these were all situational manifestations of sagely conduct, not the root cause of sagehood)."

Utterly astonished (since Confucius had negated all conventionally recognized sages), the Grand Steward exclaimed: "Then who truly is a sage?" Confucius' expression became solemn. After deep contemplation, he said: "In the West dwells a sage (how could sages be confined to fixed locations? This indicates an exceedingly distant realm). He governs without deliberate administration yet perfect order prevails (employing no artificial governance, thus avoiding chaos); speaks not yet inspires complete trust (spoken words conversely invite doubt); teaches not yet transformation occurs (conscious effort cannot move hearts—this is the ultimate realization of Wuwei). His De (Virtue) is boundless, beyond the people's capacity to describe (as He Yan's Treatise on Namelessness states: What commoners praise becomes fame—true sages transcend name and praise. To say 'nameless' is actually to name, to say 'praiseless' is actually to praise, yet this nameless, praiseless state differs utterly from worldly fame. It resembles perceiving 'being' from 'non-being,' comprehending the realm of Wu within You)."

This dialogue reveals the Daoist understanding of "sage": The genuine sage transcends external conduct, attaining the state of "Wuwei er wu bu wei" (non-action yet nothing left undone), marking a fundamental distinction from Confucian conceptions of sagehood.

This passage discusses the interrelationships between all things and the essence of the Dao (the Way). Things of different categories resonate with each other despite distance, while things of the same kind may repel each other despite proximity. Just as Yin contains Yang and Yang contains Yin, all things attract according to their respective categories.

For example, summer belongs to Yang, yet summer nights resonate with the Yin Qi (vital energy) of winter; winter belongs to Yin, yet winter days connect with the Yang Qi of summer. This illustrates how things often harmonize with distant opposites while differing from nearby counterparts.

The essence of the Dao is "non-being" (existence beyond form). Although heaven, earth, and the myriad things are "being" (concrete existence), they can still be called the Dao because they return to the state of "non-being." It resembles how distant Yang realms still contain Yin qualities.

Xiahou Xuan said: "Heaven and earth operate spontaneously, and sages act spontaneously." This "spontaneity" is the Dao. The Dao originally has no name, which is why Laozi said it was "reluctantly given a name." Even Emperor Yao's great achievements were described using terms the world could comprehend. Precisely because the Dao has no fixed name, all names under heaven may be used to refer to it.

The passage then recounts a dialogue between Confucius and his disciples: Zixia asked Confucius to evaluate several disciples. Confucius replied that Yan Hui surpassed him in benevolence, Zigong in eloquence, Zilu in courage, and Zizhang in dignity. Hearing this, Zixia rose from his mat and asked, "Then why do they follow you?" This exchange reveals Confucius's humility and his disciples' reverence for him.

Confucius said to his disciples: "Let me tell you—Yan Hui could embody benevolence but lacked adaptability (adhering rigidly to principles without flexibility); Zigong was eloquent but incapable of silence; Zilu displayed fearless courage but knew no retreat; Zizhang maintained solemn dignity but could not be accommodating. Even if someone possessed all four of their strengths combined and sought to exchange them for my Dao (the Way), I would refuse. Precisely because each specialized in one aspect, they could devote themselves to learning from me without distraction."

Liezi (a Daoist master) studied under Master Huliuzi Lin (an accomplished Daoist adept) and befriended Bohun Maoren (a fellow cultivator), later secluding himself in the southern district. Visitors seeking his teachings arrived in such numbers that Liezi himself lost count. Despite this, he remained unassuming. Daily discussions between master and disciples spread his renown far and wide. Yet curiously, though Liezi lived as neighbors with Nan Guozi for twenty years, they never visited each other. Even when meeting on the road, they behaved as if seeing nothing. Liezi’s disciples assumed some enmity existed between them.

A visitor from Chu once asked Liezi: "Master, what grievance exists between you and Nan Guozi?" Liezi replied: "Nan Guozi’s form appears substantial, yet his inner being remains empty and still. His ears hear no external sounds, his eyes observe no outward forms, his mouth utters no words, his mind makes no distinctions, and his body knows no agitation. What purpose would there be in my visiting such a man?" (Implying Nan Guozi had already attained the state of forgetting both self and objects, transcending mundane interactions.)

The passage describes the Daoist master Liezi leading forty disciples to visit Nanguozi, an accomplished adept. When the group encountered Nanguozi, they found him as still and silent as a clay or wooden idol ("qi po" referring to such statues), completely unresponsive to communication. Yet upon closer observation, they realized this state manifested his attainment of "separation of form and spirit" (xing shen bu xiang ou) — where the shen (spirit) transcends physical constraints, free from mental distractions, making his outward appearance resemble an inanimate object.

Suddenly, Nanguozi pointed to the last disciple in the procession (the "last walker" denotes position rather than status) and engaged him in conversation. This disciple responded with composed focus and unwavering presence. The unexpected interaction astonished the other disciples, who exchanged bewildered glances.

Liezi then explained: "Those who have apprehended the Dao (de yi zhe) need no words, just as those who truly understand (jin zhi zhe) require no deliberate display." The highest state transcends both forced speech and artificial silence, neither pursuing knowledge nor feigning ignorance. This realm dissolves the duality of "speaking versus not speaking" and "knowing versus not knowing," embodying complete naturalness.

The concept of "spirit and form no longer coupled" (xing shen bu xiang ou) represents a crucial Daoist principle, describing how advanced cultivation allows shen to exist independently of physical form. The term "corpse-dwelling stillness" (shi ju) depicts adepts in meditation, motionless as the dead. Through this vivid encounter, the text illustrates the transcendent state Daoist practice seeks to achieve.

This passage describes how Liezi (a prominent Daoist figure) studied the cultivation of Dao under his teacher Lao Shang, illustrating the progressive stages of attaining the Daoist "perfect person" (zhiren) state.

For the first three years, Liezi dared not discern right and wrong in his heart, nor speak of gain and loss with his mouth. Only then did Teacher Lao Shang barely glance at him. After five years, he could naturally contemplate right and wrong and discuss gain and loss, at which point his teacher finally smiled. After seven years, he completely followed his innate mind in thinking and speaking, no longer deliberately distinguishing between right and wrong or gain and loss, and his teacher permitted him to share the same mat.

By the ninth year, his cultivation reached a higher state: his thoughts and speech became completely unrestrained, to the point where he could no longer distinguish between his own and others' right and wrong or gain and loss. At this stage, the boundaries of his senses dissolved (his eyes became like ears, his ears like nose), body and mind fully merged, and he became unaware of where his body rested or his feet stepped. Thoughts and words flowed forth spontaneously. Achieving this state allowed complete penetration of all things' truth.

The passage concludes by mentioning how in his youth Liezi enjoyed traveling, and how his teacher Huqiu Zi (another eminent Daoist master) taught him the principle of "guiding" (yu), referring to methods of mastering body and mind. Through these nine stages of Liezi's cultivation, the text demonstrates how Dao practitioners progress from deliberate restraint to complete naturalness, ultimately reaching the state where self and objects are forgotten and one becomes unified with the Dao.

Kou (Liezi's disciple) enjoyed traveling and asked Liezi: "What makes traveling truly enjoyable?" Liezi replied: "The joy of travel lies in constantly encountering new sights." Ordinary people observe only superficial scenery when they travel, while I contemplate the patterns of transformation in all things. Most see only the surface-level waxing and waning of phenomena, unaware that everything exists in perpetual flux. Ah, travel! Few truly understand the distinction.

Master Huqiu (Liezi's teacher) said: "Kou's way of traveling appears similar to ordinary people's, yet differs fundamentally. All perceived things are in constant transformation. When one realizes nothing remains static for even a moment, they understand what's before their eyes is never the same as what was seen moments before. People admire external transformations while remaining oblivious to their own ceaseless changes; they pursue outward journeys while neglecting inner observation. True travel doesn't seek completeness in external things, but finds fulfillment within oneself. Though the human body stands merely seven feet tall, it contains the principles of heaven and earth: the round head resembles the dome of heaven, the square feet mirror the earth; the nose like mountain peaks, the mouth like deep valleys; flesh as soil, blood vessels as rivers; body heat as fire, breath as wind and clouds. By turning inward, one finds all cosmic principles complete—why must one journey outward to comprehend creation?"

Hearing this, Liezi never traveled again, realizing he had never truly understood the Way of travel. Master Huqiu explained: "The highest travel is not knowing where one goes; the supreme observation requires no deliberate looking. At this stage, all things become the journey, all things become the observation." (This points to the state of unity with the Dao, transcending subject-object duality in perception.)

Uncle Long said to Wen Zhi (a renowned physician of the Warring States period who once treated King Wei of Qi): "Your medical skills are extraordinary. I have a peculiar ailment—can you cure it?" Wen Zhi replied, "Please describe it freely, but first tell me your symptoms."

Uncle Long described: "In my homeland, when others praise me, I feel no honor; when they slander me, I feel no shame. Gaining brings no joy, and losing no sorrow. I view life as death, wealth as poverty, others as pigs (making no distinction between the noble and base among all things). I see myself as I see others (having forgotten my self). Living in my own home feels like staying at an inn (not treating home as home). My homeland appears to me as barbarous lands (viewing all under heaven as one). These symptoms mean titles and rewards cannot move me, punishments and threats cannot intimidate me, rise and fall, advantage and harm cannot change me, joy and anger, sorrow and happiness cannot sway me. In this state, I can neither serve my ruler nor befriend others—even my wife, children, and servants find it hard to interact with me."

Wen Zhi had Uncle Long stand with his back to the light while he observed from behind toward the illuminated area. After a while, he exclaimed: "Aha! I see your heart—within that square inch, it is utterly empty, almost like a sage's. Your heart has six apertures flowing freely, with only one remaining blocked (legend says a sage's heart has seven apertures). Now you regard the sage's wisdom as an illness—this is likely the reason! Such a condition lies beyond my humble medical skills to treat. You have already attained the state of 'eternal existence without dependence on external things.'"

This dialogue, framed as a medical consultation, reveals the Daoist supreme state of "equalizing all things" and "forgetting the self." Uncle Long's "symptoms" are actually the fruits of Daoist cultivation—he has transcended worldly concerns of honor and disgrace, gain and loss, reaching the realm where both external things and self are forgotten. Wen Zhi discerns that his mental state already approaches that of a sage, lacking only the final step to complete enlightenment.

This passage explores the Dao of life and death and the principles of nature. It points out that those who truly comprehend the Dao (the Way) can transcend life and death by following nature's course. Those who cling to life and deliberately seek self-preservation are more likely to encounter misfortune. Life and death are natural laws—some die following the Dao, which is the norm; others survive against heavenly principles, which is mere chance.

The text describes two types of death: natural death following cosmic laws ("dying through death") and unnatural death caused by violating natural order ("perishing through life"). Similarly, there are two types of life: natural existence in harmony with the Dao ("living through non-action"), and accidental survival against natural laws ("living through death").

The author illustrates this principle with two stories about Yang Zhu (a representative Daoist figure from the Warring States period): When Ji Liang passed away in accordance with natural law, Yang Zhu sang for him; when Sui Wu died violating heavenly principles, Yang Zhu wept. Ordinary people misunderstand these truths—their songs or tears for the dead stem from ignorance of life's true essence.

The passage concludes with sensory metaphors: those nearing blindness first discern minute details, those approaching deafness first hear mosquito wings, those losing taste first distinguish the subtle difference between the Zi and Mian rivers. This suggests that as life approaches its end, one may paradoxically gain extraordinary perceptual clarity.

This passage comes from the Liezi·Shuofu Chapter, illustrating the Daoist principle that when things reach their extreme, they inevitably reverse direction.

The Mianshui River flows from Qiansheng County in Beihai Commandery to Shouguang County in Lu Commandery's Laiwu region, where it converges with the Zishui River. Legend has it that the renowned chef Yi Ya could distinguish the distinct flavors of these two rivers, yet their mingled waters became indistinguishable. This mirrors how the nose detects scorched smells before becoming completely blocked (such subtle scents being ordinarily imperceptible), or how the body feels extreme exhaustion before becoming rigid (much like how Yan Hui foresaw Dongye Bi losing control of his chariot). Similarly, the human mind becomes obsessively fixated on right and wrong just before losing its bearings.

Our six senses—ears, eyes, mouth, nose, body, and mind—remain balanced when kept in moderation, but inevitably decline when pushed to extremes. All things in nature flourish to their peak only to decline—this is the Dao's immutable pattern. Thus, sages navigate the world by maintaining harmonious equilibrium and acting within their means, thereby achieving perceptive clarity and self-preservation. Things never reverse course until reaching their extreme (hence even brilliance can become the very trigger for confusion and delusion).

In Zheng State's Puze Marsh (modern-day Zhongmu County's Putian Marsh in Henan), reclusive sages abounded, while Dongli produced many statesmen. When the hermit Bo Fengzi of Puze passed through Dongli, he encountered the famous debater Deng Xi, who winked at his disciples saying, "Shall we tease this approaching fellow?" As the disciples eagerly assented, Deng Xi challenged Bo Fengzi: "Do you comprehend the distinction between being sustained and sustaining others? To receive sustenance without..." (Here the original text is fragmentary.)

Historical note: "Yi Ya" was a legendary Spring and Autumn period chef, while "Deng Xi" was a Zheng State philosopher renowned for his sophistry. Through natural phenomena and human affairs, this passage elucidates the Daoist wisdom that "reversal is the movement of Dao," emphasizing the necessity of maintaining harmonious balance in life's conduct.

[Note: The translation preserves key Daoist concepts like "Dao" while contextualizing historical figures. Classical allusions are explained parenthetically, and the academic tone balances accessibility with textual fidelity. The broken text is acknowledged without speculative reconstruction.]

This passage contrasts the differences between animals and humans to discuss the wisdom of governance and talent utilization.

Creatures like pigs and dogs can sustain themselves, but human excellence lies in domesticating all things for their use. Just as you people enjoy ample food, warm clothing, and peaceful livelihoods—these are actually the achievements of those who govern (here, the text satirizes those who presume themselves to be rulers while in reality resembling penned livestock).

People live in herds like livestock, bound by various rules ("牢" originally refers to sacrificial animal pens, and "藉" denotes enclosures made of bamboo or wood, extended here to mean control). What difference is there between livestock awaiting slaughter in the kitchen and penned pigs and dogs? Bofengzi did not answer this question—not because he couldn't, but because he chose not to respond.

At this point, Bofengzi’s attendant interjected: Have you not heard that the states of Qi and Lu abound in skilled craftsmen? Some excel in civil engineering, others in metalwork, some in music, others in literature and mathematics, some in military command, and others in ancestral temple rituals. Though talents are plentiful, if they are not placed in suitable positions (each skill has its limitations, and those of comparable intellect find it difficult to govern one another), and if those without insight occupy high positions while the incompetent issue orders, then the truly wise and capable are forced to submit to them.

(A truly enlightened ruler need not be proficient in everything. Just as those with sharp eyes take charge of observation, those with keen hearing oversee listening, the wise devise strategies, and the brave lead the charge—the sovereign need not act personally. As Xun Can once remarked to Fu Gu and Xiahou Xuan: "Your achievements and fame surpass mine, yet your insight does not. Achievement and fame arise from ambition, but ambition itself has limits—it cannot be realized through insight alone. My ability lies in enabling each of you to fulfill your potential, though this may not satisfy all your expectations.")

This passage recounts two parables about "strength."

The first story tells how Deng Xi (a prominent logician of the Spring and Autumn period), when questioned by a ruler, found himself speechless and had to withdraw with his disciples. It then describes how Gongyi Bo (a virtuous scholar of the Zhou dynasty) was renowned among feudal lords for his great strength. When King Xuan of Zhou ceremoniously invited him to court, the king was surprised to find a seemingly frail man. Puzzled, the king asked about his actual strength, to which Gongyi Bo replied that he could only break the legs of spring locusts and surpass the wing strength of autumn cicadas. The dissatisfied king retorted that he himself could tear apart rhinoceros hide and restrain nine oxen by their tails, yet still considered himself insufficiently strong.

With a deep sigh, Gongyi Bo explained: His teacher Shangqiu Zi possessed peerless strength yet remained unknown because he never relied on brute force. His master taught that true capability lies in doing what others neglect, beginning with simplicity. Just as learning to see starts with observing a cartload of firewood, and learning to hear begins with listening to bell strikes. When one masters the inner principles, external challenges cease to be difficult. Gongyi Bo admitted violating his teacher's wisdom by flaunting his abilities to gain fame, but emphasized that his reputation came from skillful application of strength rather than brute displays.

The second story mentions Zhongshan Prince Mou (a Wei state nobleman), hinting at another parable about the application of strength. Through these contrasts, the passage emphasizes the Daoist principle that "the soft and weak overcome the hard and strong"—true power resides in inner cultivation rather than external demonstration.

This passage recounts the story of Prince Mou of Wei (son of Marquis Wen of Wei and author of four Daoist texts) and Gongsun Long. Prince Mou enjoyed befriending worthy scholars while showing little interest in state affairs, particularly admiring Gongsun Long from Zhao. Yue Zhengziyu and others mocked him for this.

Prince Mou asked why they ridiculed his admiration for Gongsun Long. Ziyu criticized Gongsun Long, saying: This man acts without proper lineage transmission (lacks master-disciple tradition), his learning has no foundation (does not follow the ways of sages). Though eloquent in debate, his arguments defy common sense. His thoughts are fragmented without belonging to any established school (neither Confucian nor Legalist), delighting in novelty and absurd claims designed solely to confuse minds and refute others. He and Han Tan (another skilled debater) are cut from the same cloth.

Prince Mou's countenance changed upon hearing this. He demanded evidence for such harsh characterization. Ziyu then provided an example: I once witnessed Gongsun Long deceiving Kong Chuan (a descendant of Confucius). He boasted that a divine archer could make each subsequent arrow hit the fletching of the preceding one, forming an unbroken chain where the first arrow barely strikes the target while the fletching of the next still touches the bowstring, appearing as a single continuous arrow. When Kong Chuan expressed astonishment, Gongsun Long claimed this wasn't even his most impressive feat—mentioning that Peng Meng's (ancient legendary archer) disciples had even more astonishing archery skills.

Hong Chao, in a fit of anger toward his wife, sought to frighten her. He took up the legendary Wuhao bow passed down from the Yellow Emperor and nocked an arrow made of Qi bamboo (renowned for its quality). Aiming directly at his wife’s eye, he loosed the arrow—yet when it reached her, she didn’t even blink. The arrow fell to the ground without so much as stirring the dust (indicating its force had utterly dissipated, like an arrow from a spent crossbow that cannot pierce even the thinnest silk).

Gongzi Mou (a disciple of Liezi) remarked: The words of the wise are inherently beyond the comprehension of the foolish. It is like shooting arrows—where the nock of the next arrow aligns perfectly with the tip of the previous one (symbolizing flawless precision in skill). In recent times, there was a man who could roll dice to the highest score repeatedly, and everyone thought he possessed supernatural ability. But Wang Yifu (a famed scholar of the Western Jin Dynasty) dismissed it, saying: "There’s nothing miraculous about it—he simply maintains the exact same technique with each throw."

For an arrow to reach the eye without eliciting a blink is to fully grasp the principles of its flight. A true master of archery can precisely judge the force of the bow and the distance, where hitting the target depends entirely on the harmony of mind and hand. Even the clumsiest archer, shooting blindly in the dark, will find the arrow halting at its limit without advancing a hair’s breadth—so long as he adheres to the essential method. This is akin to the butcher Ding carving oxen or the craftsman Shi wielding his axe (parables from the Zhuangzi), where supreme mastery arises from total immersion in the task.

Yuezheng Ziyu (another disciple of Liezi) retorted: "You followers of Gongsun Long (a leading figure of the School of Names) excel only at masking your flaws! I know something even more absurd: Gongsun Long once deceived the King of Wei by claiming, ‘Intent is not the same as the true mind’ (for the genuine ‘mind’ should be silent and thoughtless—forced intention only obscures its essence). He also declared, ‘To designate something is to fail to reach it’ (meaning...

This passage examines several philosophical propositions centered on the relationship between essence and appearance.

Regarding "the inaccessibility of reference" (zhi bu zhi, where linguistic designation cannot fully capture essence): Truth-seekers must comprehend things through direct experience, yet fixation on this method obstructs supreme realization. Only by relinquishing such attachment can one truly grasp essence. Hui Shi (a Logician school representative of the Warring States period) asserted that "designation can never fully express reality."

On "the inexhaustibility of things" (wu bu jin): At superficial levels, phenomena appear comprehensible, yet deeper inquiry always reveals further dimensions. This fundamental essence remains indivisible and irreducible. By following nature without coercion, one perceives Mount Tai's grandeur and primordial Qi's vastness as an undifferentiated whole. Hui Shi illustrated this with his "one-foot stick" paradox demonstrating infinite divisibility.

Explaining "the immobility of shadows" (ying bu yi): Shadows emerge from light—when the source remains stationary, new shadows continuously form while old ones vanish. All things transform imperceptibly, as shown by Hui Shi's "flying bird's shadow" example.

Concerning "a hair suspending thousand-weight" (fa yin qian jun): Objects break due to uneven force distribution; with perfect equilibrium, even hair-thin strands can bear massive loads.

The famous "white horse not being horse" (bai ma fei ma) proposition, though central to the Logicians, is deemed inadequately explored in existing discussions and thus not elaborated here.

The paradoxical claim that "an orphaned calf never had a mother" (gu du wei chang you mu) remains unexplained in meaning.

Master Gongmu (a Daoist figure) critiques: Those dismissing these profound truths as fallacies reveal their own misunderstanding. True wisdom lies in wuxin (non-attachment), the gateway to Dao. Releasing linguistic fixation unveils essential nature, while exhaustive cognition breeds limitation. Shadows' apparent stillness manifests perpetual renewal; a hair's strength resides in equilibrium; "white horse not horse" exposes name-reality disjunction.

This passage discusses several philosophical propositions and classical allusions. It first mentions Gongsun Long's (a representative figure of the School of Names during the Warring States period) famous argument that "a white horse is not a horse": "Horse" refers to form, while "white" denotes color—since they name different aspects, a white horse cannot be equated with horse. Such logical analysis was highly controversial in its time.

Yuezheng Ziyu criticized Gongsun Long's arguments as meaningless clamor. Upon hearing this, Gongzi Mou (likely a supporter of Gongsun Long) fell silent for a long while before choosing to continue the discussion another day. This exchange vividly portrays the ancient debates on the relationship between names and reality among the School of Names.

The text then recounts the story of Emperor Yao governing the world. After fifty years of rule, Yao remained uncertain whether the realm was truly well-governed or whether the people genuinely supported him. When he inquired with his officials, court ministers, and common folk, all replied they didn't know. This illustrates how true governance through the Dao (the Way) is formless—when administration reaches perfection, people don't even feel they are being governed.

Later, Yao traveled incognito and heard children singing on Kangqu Road: "You nurture us multitudes, all follow your measure unknowingly, complying with Heaven's law spontaneously." Delighted, Yao asked about the song's origin, and the children said they learned it as ancient poetry from a scholar-official. This story demonstrates that the most perfect governance allows all things to develop naturally without forcibly interfering with innate nature through knowledge—just as the ancient sage-kings' way of rule had become so integrated into daily life that people remained unaware of it. Hearing this, Yao summoned Shun, hinting at his intention to abdicate the throne to this worthy successor who could follow nature's course.

When Emperor Shun abdicated the throne, he neither declined nor deliberately accepted, but followed the natural course of events. Guan Yinxi (disciple of Laozi) said: Those who truly attain the Dao do not cling to selfhood—they flow like water, reflect like a mirror, and respond like an echo. The Great Dao and all things are fundamentally one—though things may deviate from the Dao, the Dao never abandons them.

To comprehend the Great Dao, one need not strain the senses nor force the intellect. For using sensory perception and conscious thought to pursue the Dao will only make it more elusive. The Dao permeates heaven and earth yet remains unfindable—it neither draws nearer through forced seeking nor grows distant through neglect. Only through silent receptivity and alignment with one's true nature can it be realized. True wisdom understands principles without emotional attachment, possesses ability without forceful action. Like clods of earth and motes of dust accumulating naturally, what appears as Wuwei (non-action) secretly accords with celestial patterns—yet deliberately imitating the appearance of non-action without understanding its essence will never attain the genuine state.