《列子》Vol. 5

This dialogue records a philosophical discussion between King Tang of Shang and his minister Xia Ge concerning the fundamental nature of the cosmos.

King Tang asked Xia Ge: "Did all things exist in the most ancient beginnings?" Xia Ge replied: "If there were nothing at the very beginning, how could all things exist now? But if we were to say nothing exists now, how would future generations view our era?" He explained that the existence of all things follows cyclical patterns, without absolute beginnings or endings.

Pressing further, King Tang inquired: "Then do all things lack sequence or precedence?" Xia Ge responded: "The beginnings and endings of all things inherently lack boundaries. What we call an ending may be another beginning, and what we call a beginning may be another ending—we cannot determine any fixed principle governing this." Yet he frankly admitted that matters beyond the material world, or prior to the occurrence of events, were beyond his knowledge.

When King Tang asked whether the cosmos has boundaries, Xia Ge stated this couldn't be comprehended through ordinary reasoning. He elaborated: "To speak of 'non-being' suggests no limits, while to speak of 'being' implies finitude—yet both are ultimately beyond our true understanding." He then offered a profound insight: Beyond the limitless (wuji) there exists no other limitless, and within the boundless there is no other boundless. True infinity means neither an external limitlessness nor an internal boundlessness.

This exchange demonstrates Daoist contemplation on cosmic origins, viewing time, space and existence as cyclical and without absolute boundaries—transcending the ordinary dichotomy between the finite and infinite.

This passage records a dialogue between King Tang of Shang and his minister Ge, discussing the infinite nature of the cosmos.

King Tang said: "I understand that the cosmos has no boundaries or limits (chongming wuji fu wu/wuji wujin fu wu wujin ye), yet I wonder whether it might have boundaries and limits after all." Here it is mentioned that truly comprehending the state of "non-being" (wu) allows one to understand all things, while non-attachment to "being" (you) constitutes genuine knowledge (zhi qi wu ze wu suo bu zhi bu/zhi qi you ze nai shi zhen zhi ye).

King Tang further asked: "What lies beyond the Four Seas?" Ge replied: "The same as the Central Plains (Qizhou refers to the Central Plains)." He then quoted the Erya dictionary, explaining that the southern region is called Danxue and the northern region Kongtong, both named according to astronomical directions.

Ge provided experiential evidence: traveling east to Yingzhou (modern Liaoning region), he found people identical to those in the Central Plains; further east remained the same. Journeying west to Bin territory (modern Shaanxi) yielded identical observations. Thus he concluded that whether considering the Four Seas (distant border regions), Four Wastes (further remote areas), or Four Extremes (outermost reaches), all were fundamentally no different from the Central Plains.

The final conclusion states: All things in the cosmos mutually contain each other without exhaustion. The heaven and earth that contain all things are themselves contained within greater emptiness (taixu). The myriad beings flow through forms between heaven and earth (shu wu liu xing), therefore never exhausting; heaven and earth move within the taixu, therefore having no limits. The entire cosmos resembles a nested structure where greater and smaller things mutually encompass each other, making it fundamentally impossible to measure its boundaries (qi neng zhi qi yingxu ce qi tou shu zhe zai).

How can we know that beyond our Heaven and Earth, there might not exist an even greater Heaven and Earth? The boundless void is infinite, while the Heaven and Earth we perceive are finite. When the infinite encompasses the finite, what we call the "great Heaven and Earth" may merely be the form within our limited cognition. The grand theories proposed by Zou Yan (a Yin-Yang scholar of the Warring States period) were likely just the scope of his personal understanding.

The limitations of ordinary people's cognition lie in: always believing that the mind can comprehend everything, yet not realizing cognition itself has boundaries (this is called superficial understanding); only trusting what is seen with eyes and heard with ears, yet not recognizing the limitations of sensory perception (this is called worldly understanding). Those who are truly enlightened can break free from the constraints of the mind, comprehend profound truths beyond conventions, and see through the essence behind material appearances. Those who confine themselves to fixed thinking patterns and only operate within the visible world believe that the "Three Tomes and Five Canons" (legendary ancient texts) contain all truth, and that the Four Seas and Nine Provinces constitute the entire world. How could they understand the vastness of the infinite void? In reality, Heaven and Earth are but temporary dwellings, and all things are like floating dust. People are trapped by their limited knowledge, muddling through their lives in confusion.

Liezi (a Daoist master) expounded the philosophy of "the smallest having no interior" to break the shackles of the mind; he promoted the realm of "the greatest having no exterior" precisely to expand the boundaries of cognition. He enabled Dao-seekers to unknowingly let go of arrogance and allowed those bound by dogma to unconsciously break free from their chains. His critiques of Confucianism and Mohism (pointing out their limitations) were not meant to be unconventional but stemmed from compassion for people trapped in narrow cognition. Even Laozi and Zhuangzi were ridiculed by the world—how could we expect to be spared?

Ultimately, Heaven and Earth are but one among the myriad things. Since all things have flaws, in ancient times, Nüwa (a wind-surnamed creator goddess in legend) forged five-colored stones to mend the heavens—here, "heaven's flaw" does not refer to physical damage but to the imbalance of Yin-Yang and the disorder in the movements of the sun, moon, and stars. As a divine being, Nüwa used the five-colored essence to harmonize the order of Yin-Yang, not literally repairing it with material. She also severed the legs of a giant turtle (Ao) to prop up the four poles of Heaven and Earth. Later, Gonggong (a tribal leader of antiquity) contended with Zhuanxu for the throne and, in a rage, knocked down Mount Buzhou (the legendary pillar of heaven), once again causing imbalance between Heaven and Earth.

This passage recounts a mythical geographical wonder. Beyond the Eastern Sea, countless millions of miles away, lies an unfathomable abyss called the "Guixu" (literally "Returning Abyss," meaning the chasm where all things return). Legend says the waters from all eight directions of heaven and earth, along with the celestial river's flow, converge here, yet the water level never increases or decreases.

Within the Guixu stand five sacred mountains: Daiyu, Yuanjiao, Fanghu (also known as Fangzhang), Yingzhou, and Penglai (the Records of the Grand Historian mentions the latter three as immortal mountains in the Bohai Sea). Each mountain spans 30,000 li in circumference, with plateaus at their summits stretching 9,000 li wide. The five peaks are separated from one another by 70,000 li. Their structures are built of gold and jade, their beasts are pure white as snow, and their trees bear pearls and gemstones as fruit—eating them grants immortality. These mountains are inhabited solely by divine immortals and sages, who can fly between the peaks in a single day, their numbers beyond calculation.

The text also references the ancient Emperor Zhuanxu (grandson of the Yellow Emperor), who, during his struggle for the throne, struck and shattered the celestial pillar of Mount Buzhou in the northwest. This caused the heavens to tilt northwestward (hence why the sun, moon, and stars move in that direction) and the earth to sink in the southeast (explaining why rivers flow southeast). This mythological event provides the background for the natural phenomena described as "the heavens leaning northwest, the earth collapsing southeast."

This passage recounts a mythological tale about sacred mountains and giant turtles. Legend speaks of five sacred mountains that originally floated upon the sea, rising and falling with the tides without any stable foundation. The immortals and sages found this highly inconvenient and complained to the Celestial Emperor (Tian Di). Enraged, the emperor commanded Yu Qiang (also known as Xuanming), the god of the Northern Sea, to dispatch fifteen giant turtles (or giant Ao) to take turns supporting the mountains with their heads, rotating every sixty thousand years. Only then did the five sacred mountains become stable.

Later, a giant from the land of Longbo—whose immense height allowed him to stride across the distance of all five mountains in a single step—caught six of the giant turtles in one fishing trip. As a result, two of the sacred mountains, Daiyu and Yuanjiao, drifted to the North Pole and sank into the sea, displacing countless immortals and sages. The Celestial Emperor, furious, punished the land of Longbo by shrinking its territory and reducing the stature of its people. This punishment lasted until the eras of Fuxi and Shennong.

The text mentions Yu Qiang, the water god of the north, depicted with a human face and bird's body; the giant Ao, massive sea turtles capable of supporting the sacred mountains; and Longbo, a mythical land of giants. This story reflects ancient cosmological imagination and the religious concept of "divine punishment" (Tian Fa).

The Liezi describes many marvelous lands and creatures, revealing the diversity of the world as imagined by ancient people.

Beyond the Eastern Sea lies the Land of Giants, where people stand dozens of zhang tall (Shanhai Jing records that in the distant lands beyond the Eastern Sea, there exists a Land of Giants; Hetu Yuban states that 90,000 li north of Mount Kunlun lies the Kingdom of Longbo, whose inhabitants are 40 zhang tall and live for 18,000 years before passing away). Forty thousand li east of the Central Plains is the Land of the Dwarfs (the character "僬" is pronounced like "樵," and "侥" refers to a kingdom of short people; Records of the Grand Historian notes that the Jiaoyao people are only three chi tall, making them the shortest race; Wei Zhao's commentary identifies them as another name for the southwestern ethnic groups, while Kuodizhi places them north of the Roman Empire), where the people are merely one and a half chi tall (Shi Han Shenwu contains related records).

In the far northeastern lands dwell a people called the "Disputers" (Shanhai Jing mentions that beyond the Eastern Sea, there are small people known as Disputers), who stand nine chi tall (Shanhai Jing and Shi Han Shenwu both describe these people in the northeastern extremes, emphasizing their height to contrast with the smaller races). South of Mount Jing grows a tree called the "Dark Spirit" (found in the Jiangnan region, it considers the sprouting of new leaves as spring and their shedding as autumn), treating five hundred years as a single spring and five hundred years as a single autumn. In ancient times, there was a great chun tree (also called "橓"), which considered eight thousand years as one spring and eight thousand years as one autumn.

On decaying soil, mushroom-like plants sprout (Cui Zhuan's commentary explains that these are zhi grasses growing on dung, born at dawn and dead by dusk; Emperor Jianwen describes them as suddenly appearing zhi grasses), living only from morning to evening. During spring and summer, tiny gnats and midges emerge (meng and rui, referring to minute flying insects), born with the rain and dying under the sun.

In the farthest north (Zhuangzi calls it the "Bald Land") lies the Dark Sea (Shizhou Ji describes it as a black sea), the Heavenly Pool. There dwells a fish called the kun (which is the whale), spanning thousands of li in width, its length matching its breadth. There is also a bird called the peng, whose wings stretch like clouds hanging from the sky, its body proportionate to its wings (Zhuangzi says the kun transforms into the peng). How could ordinary people know of such wonders? (People are accustomed to the familiar; even if told of these marvels, they would likely not believe them.) When Yu the Great journeyed through these lands, he saw them; Bo Yi named them (where "名" also means to record), and Yi Jian heard of them and wrote them down.

This passage recounts ancient accounts of extraordinary perceptual abilities. Figures like Yu the Great and Boyi (the virtuous minister who assisted Yu in flood control) were not fabricating bizarre tales to frighten people—they truly witnessed phenomena beyond ordinary comprehension.

By the riverside existed minuscule insects called "burning midges" that swarmed upon the eyelashes of flood dragons, flitting about unnoticed. Even Li Zhu (renowned for his keen vision during the Yellow Emperor's reign) couldn't spot them by daylight despite rubbing his eyes, nor could Shi Kuang (the celebrated musician of the Spring and Autumn period with exceptional hearing) detect their movements at night. This demonstrates how ordinary senses often fail to perceive the extremely subtle.

When the Yellow Emperor and Rongchengzi (a legendary immortal) practiced cultivation on Mount Kongtong, they attained heightened perception through special methods: after three months of purification rituals (zhai), they entered a state of "the heart dying and form becoming inert" (where the mind becomes still as dead ashes and the body motionless as withered wood). In this state, their "spirit vision" (shenshi—perception independent of physical eyes) could render minute objects as vast as Mount Song, while their "Qi hearing" (qiting—natural, effortless auditory perception) made faint sounds resonate like thunder.

The text concludes with mention of the "yu" trees in Wu-Chu region that bear sour red fruit in winter. Through contrasting ordinary perception with that of adepts, this account illustrates how Daoist cultivation transcends normal sensory limitations to apprehend the universe's subtler truths.

This passage discusses how different geographical environments influence the characteristics of living beings. Orange trees south of the Huai River produce sweet oranges, but when transplanted north of the Huai, they turn into trifoliate orange (a similar yet bitter and sour plant). The myna bird cannot fly across the Ji River, while the raccoon dog dies if it crosses the Wen River. These phenomena all arise from natural variations in local climate, water, and soil conditions.

The text specifically clarifies a common historical confusion between the Min River (the mighty upper reaches of the Yangtze) and the small Wen River in the State of Lu. The latter was merely a narrow stream dozens of paces wide—hardly capable of causing a raccoon dog's death simply by crossing it. The true reason lies in the innate nature of hill-dwelling creatures like raccoon dogs, which cannot adapt to crossing vast rivers.

Through these examples, the author illustrates a fundamental principle: All things manifest distinct forms and habits, yet each perfectly suits its environment. Just as Mount Taihang and Mount Wangwu (two famous peaks) each possess unique contours, every being's nature is complete and self-sufficient. Why then should we insist on comparing their sizes, measuring their lengths, or cataloging their differences? What truly matters is allowing all things to flourish according to their proper places while preserving their natural essence.

In the Hedong region stands Mount Wangwu (located in present-day Jiyuan, Henan), spanning seven hundred li in circumference and towering into the clouds. This mountain originally lay south of Jizhou and north of Heyang. On its northern slopes lived an old man known as "Foolish Old Man" (whom the world deemed foolish, though his wisdom may have been profound), nearing ninety years of age, dwelling right before the great mountain.

The old man suffered from the mountain's obstruction to the north, forcing lengthy detours for travel. Gathering his family, he proposed: "Let us join our strength to level these steep peaks, opening a direct path to southern Yu, reaching the southern banks of the Han River—what say you?" His household agreed in unison. Yet his wife raised doubts: "With your strength, you couldn’t even move a small mound like Kuifu (a minor hill in Chenliu, Henan), let alone towering peaks like Taihang and Wangwu. And where would we put all the earth and stones?" The family suggested dumping them by the Bohai Sea shores or north of Yintu (a legendary northeastern land).

Thus, the Foolish Old Man set out with three generations of descendants strong enough to carry loads, chiseling rocks and digging earth, hauling the debris in baskets to the Bohai coast. Their neighbor, the widow of Jingcheng, had a son just losing his baby teeth (around seven years old), who eagerly skipped over to help. Through winters and summers, they made but one round trip per season.

An elder from Hequ, known as "Wise Old Man" (whom the world deemed wise, though his folly may have been true), laughed and admonished: "How unwise you are! With the little strength left to you, you couldn’t even destroy a single blade of grass or tree on the mountain—what hope have you with earth and stone?"

The Foolish Old Man sighed deeply: "Your mind is too rigid, less open than even a widow or child. Though I may die, my sons will remain; my sons will bear grandsons, grandsons will bear great-grandsons—generations without end. Yet the mountain grows no taller—why fear we won’t level it?" The Wise Old Man had no reply.

(Later,) the mountain god who wielded a great serpent (as recorded in the Classic of Mountains and Seas, where mountain and sea gods hold snakes) heard of this and feared they might truly flatten the mountain... (Here the original text breaks off; the likely continuation describes divine beings moved to relocate the peaks.)

This passage recounts two famous Daoist parables.

The first is the story of the Foolish Old Man who moved mountains: The Foolish Old Man tirelessly dug away at the mountains. People understand the principle that small efforts accumulate into great achievements, yet they fail to grasp the wisdom that even the vast can be diminished by persistence. Just as a nine-story tower rises from piled earth, towering peaks will eventually become deep valleys. As long as one persists without haste, even the smallest actions can accumulate, and even the grandest things can be worn away. Like a whetstone grinding against a blade, both will eventually be exhausted. Moved by the Foolish Old Man’s sincerity, the Heavenly Emperor sent the two sons of Kua’e (a legendary giant) to carry away the two mountains—one was placed east of Shuò, the other south of Yong. From then on, south of Jizhou and north of the Han River, there were no more mountains blocking the way.

The second is the tale of Kuafu chasing the sun: Kuafu, overestimating his strength, sought to catch up with the sun, pursuing it all the way to the Valley of Yu (where the sun sets). Overcome with thirst, he drank from the Yellow River and the Wei River, draining them dry, yet still not quenching his thirst. He then sought to drink from the Great Marsh in the north but perished from thirst along the way. The staff he discarded, soaked with the oils of his corpse, grew into the vast Deng Forest (a peach grove), stretching for thousands of miles.

Finally, the words of the Great Yu are cited: Between heaven and earth, within the Four Seas, the sun and moon shine, the stars move in their courses, the seasons cycle, and the Grand Year (an ancient astronomical construct) governs the flow of time.

This passage comes from the Liezi, recounting a story about the natural Dao and a wondrous realm.

All living things follow their inherent patterns of growth—some short-lived, others long-lived—yet only sages can comprehend the principles behind this. The sage aligns with the laws of Heaven and Earth, allowing all beings to develop according to their nature, ensuring each finds its proper place, with lifespans fulfilled naturally. Xia Ge (a legendary figure) continues: There exist beings that come into being without divine intervention, take form without relying on Yin-Yang, and shine without the need for sun or moon. Their demise is not caused by violence, nor is their longevity sustained through nourishment. They neither consume the Five Grains nor wear silk, yet they are clothed; they move without carts or boats, wholly attuned to the natural Dao. These phenomena lie beyond even the sage's understanding, manifestations of nature's mysteries.

Later, the text describes how Yu the Great, while taming the floods, lost his way and stumbled upon a strange land called "Ultimate North." This kingdom lies in the far northern reaches, countless thousands of miles from the Central Plains. There, no wind, rain, frost, or dew exists, nor are there birds, beasts, or plants. The land is entirely flat, with a single Jar Peak Mountain at its center, shaped like an earthenware pot. At its summit is a ring-shaped opening called the "Nourishing Cavern," from which gushes a spring known as the "Divine Fountain." Its waters are sweeter than fine wine and more fragrant than orchids, splitting into four streams that flow down the mountain, nourishing the entire realm.

(Note: The term "瀵" refers to the mountain spring, while "埒" denotes the channels carrying water down the slopes. These descriptions reflect the Daoist imagination of nature's marvels and embody the principle of "the Dao follows what is natural.")

The text depicts an idealized ancient kingdom where the way of life stands in stark contrast to conventional society.

There, no harsh climatic disasters or plagues exist, and the people are gentle and easygoing—neither competitive nor envious. Their hearts are mild, their bones supple, and they harbor no arrogance. The young and old interact as equals, with no distinctions between ruler and subject. Men and women freely associate without the need for matchmakers or betrothal gifts. They dwell along the waters, neither farming nor laboring, yet never lack for food or clothing. The climate is perpetually warm and pleasant, so they neither weave cloth nor wear garments. They live to a hundred years and pass away naturally, with no premature deaths or illnesses.

The population thrives, filled with joy and devoid of the sorrows of aging. Their customs revolve around music, and they spend their days singing in continuous harmony. When hungry, they drink from the Sacred Springs (神瀵 shenfen—legendary waters with miraculous properties), which invigorate their vitality (Qi) and calm their minds. Drinking too much induces a pleasant intoxication that lasts ten days before they awaken. Bathing in these springs leaves their skin smooth and fragrant, with the scent lingering for over a week.

King Mu of Zhou once visited this land during his northern expedition and, upon returning, was consumed with longing. For months, he found no pleasure in food and neglected court affairs. Guan Zhong once urged Duke Huan of Qi to journey there with him, but just as they were about to depart, Xi Peng dissuaded them, saying: "The state of Qi is vast and abundant, its rites and music flourishing, its court brimming with talent. At your command, a million warriors stand ready—why envy some remote barbarian land and abandon the legacy of your ancestors?" The Duke thus abandoned the plan.

When Guan Zhong learned of this, he remarked: "Xi Peng's vision is confined to Qi alone—he cannot grasp the greatness of that kingdom. I fear its realm is beyond our comprehension, so why cling to Qi's wealth and status?" (The text also mentions the southern custom of "cutting hair short" (duanfa), an ancient practice among the Yue people, who trimmed their locks and tattooed their bodies to ward off flood dragons.)

This passage records peculiar customs from different ancient regions and the famous story of Confucius encountering two children debating the sun's distance.

The northern tribes (the Mohe people) traditionally wrapped their heads in cloth and wore fur garments, while the Central Plains people wore ceremonial caps and long robes. Different regions produced different goods, and people adapted their lifestyles accordingly - just as one wears fur coats in winter and hemp cloth in summer, or travels by boat on water and carriage on land. These all represent naturally developed wisdom for survival.

The text then describes three unusual regional customs: In the Zhemu Kingdom east of Yue, the firstborn son was eaten after birth, believing this would protect younger brothers; when elders died, grandmothers were carried away and abandoned, as people refused to live with "ghost wives." Among the Yan people south of Chu, family members would cut away decomposing flesh from corpses before burying the bones, considering this true filial piety. The Yiqu Kingdom west of Qin practiced cremation, believing the rising smoke carried the deceased to celestial ascension (dengxia), which they regarded as the ultimate filial act. The author suggests these simply reflect different regional traditions and governance systems, nothing particularly strange.

The passage concludes with the renowned "Two Children Debate the Sun" anecdote: While traveling east, Confucius saw two children arguing about the sun's distance. One claimed the morning sun was nearer because it appeared as large as a carriage canopy but shrank by noon; the other argued the cool morning sun must be distant, while the hot noon sun proved its proximity. This classic story demonstrates ancient people's observational thinking about natural phenomena.

This passage comes from the Liezi, presenting a philosophical story about the principle of balance.

The text begins by recounting Confucius encountering two children debating the distance of the sun (from the Liezi·Tang Wen chapter). One child asks: "In the morning, the sun appears as large as a chariot canopy yet feels cool, while at noon it looks as small as a plate yet burns like boiling water—doesn't this mean the closer it is, the hotter, and the farther, the cooler?" Confucius cannot decide who is right. The children laugh and say, "Who said you were so knowledgeable?" The author comments that this illustrates how sages maintain an attitude of withholding judgment on matters beyond the known world.

The passage then elaborates that "balance" (jun) is the highest principle governing all things. When equilibrium is maintained, the natural order flows smoothly. Even in concrete matters—such as suspending a heavy weight by a single hair—if the distribution of force is perfectly balanced, even the most fragile hair will not break; but if the balance is disrupted, the hair snaps. Yet ordinary people fail to grasp this truth—only those with true understanding perceive it. The philosopher Mozi also proposed similar ideas.

Next, the story recounts the tale of Zhan He, a master angler from the state of Chu: Using a single strand of silk as his fishing line, a fine needle as his hook, a slender willow branch as his rod, and crushed rice as bait, he could haul in massive fish from hundred-fathom depths—enough to fill an entire cart—without breaking the line, bending the hook, or warping the rod. The astonished King of Chu asked his secret. Zhan He explained that he had studied the method of the ancient archer Pu Ju Zi (who used a weak bow and thin cord to shoot tethered arrows): By harnessing the wind's force, focusing his spirit (shen), and maintaining perfectly even movements, he could strike birds in high flight. Zhan He spent five years mastering this principle of balance before applying it to fishing.

Through these everyday examples, the story illustrates how understanding the law of "balance" (jun)—harmonious coordination—allows one to achieve great effects with minimal means, demonstrating the Daoist wisdom of "following nature's flow."

This passage recounts two parables used by Liezi to illustrate principles of governing a state and cultivating the self.

The fishing parable tells of an expert angler who explains his secret to the King of Chu: when standing by the river with his rod, his mind is free of distractions, focused solely on the fish. As he casts his hook, his hand applies just the right amount of force, undisturbed by external influences. To the fish, his bait appears as naturally drifting foam or dust in the water, so they swallow it without suspicion. This is how the weak can overcome the strong, and the light can subdue the heavy. Liezi uses this as a metaphor for governance—if a ruler can maintain such single-minded focus and act in harmony with nature, the world will be effortlessly within his grasp.

The heart-swapping story is even more extraordinary: Gonghu of Lu and Qiying of Zhao both sought treatment from the legendary physician Bian Que. Though their physical ailments had been cured, Bian Que recognized that their inherent character flaws remained—Gonghu was highly intelligent but indecisive (strong in mind but weak in temperament), while Qiying lacked strategic thinking but was stubborn and impulsive (weak in mind but strong in temperament). Bian Que proposed swapping their hearts. After they agreed, he gave them a narcotic wine that rendered them unconscious for three days, performed the heart transplant, and revived them with a divine elixir. The result? Gonghu returned to Qiying’s home, claiming his wife and children, while Qiying went to Gonghu’s household, doing the same. Neither family recognized their "loved ones" after the swap, leading to a legal dispute. Only after Bian Que explained the situation was the conflict resolved.

Through these stories, Liezi conveys that governing requires alignment with nature, while self-cultivation demands balancing the mind and temperament. Much like modern psychology’s emphasis on personality equilibrium, ancient physicians understood the interplay between intellect and disposition. Though the heart-swapping tale may seem fantastical, the author notably mentions the renowned physician Hua Tuo of the Three Kingdoms era, who was said to possess similarly extraordinary medical skills, hinting that such accounts may not be entirely fictional.

When the ancient master harpist Hu Ba played his qin, birds and beasts would dance to its melodies, and fish would leap in rhythm. Upon hearing of this, Shi Wen, a musician from Zheng, left home to study under Master Xiang, another renowned qin virtuoso. Yet for three full years, he couldn't even master the basic finger techniques and scales.

Master Xiang said disappointedly, "You should return home." Putting down his qin with a sigh, Shi Wen replied: "It's not that I can't press the strings correctly or produce melodies. What I seek lies beyond finger techniques, and what I yearn for transcends mere sound. Until my inner understanding resonates, my fingers cannot truly commune with the instrument. That's why I dare not pluck the strings carelessly. Please grant me more time for contemplation."

After some time, Shi Wen returned. "Have you made progress?" Master Xiang inquired. "I've grasped the essence," Shi Wen answered. "Allow me to demonstrate." Then:

In spring, he plucked the Shang string (autumn's metal note), evoking the Nanlü pitch (eighth-month tone). Instantly, cool winds arose, and plants bore fruit. In autumn, he touched the Jue string (spring's wood note), awakening the Jiazhong pitch (second-month tone). Warm breezes swirled, and withered trees blossomed. In summer, he played the Yu string (winter's water note), harmonizing with Huangzhong pitch (eleventh-month tone). Frost and snow swirled, and ponds froze over. In winter, he struck the Zhi string (summer's fire note), summoning the Ruibin pitch (fifth-month tone). The sun blazed forth, and solid ice melted away.

Finally, when he plucked all four strings simultaneously, auspicious winds spiraled, rainbow clouds gathered, sweet dew fell from heaven, and sweet springs bubbled from the earth. Overwhelmed, Master Xiang beat his chest in admiration: "Sublime! You've transcended mere sound to weave the very qi of heaven and earth through your strings!"

[This passage illustrates the cultivation principle of "resonance between mind and phenomena": when one's inner being aligns with the Dao, artistry can evoke natural responses. The ancients integrated musical notes, seasons, and directions into a unified system, believing true masters could harmonize nature's rhythms through music.]

This passage recounts several stories demonstrating the transformative power of music.

The first story describes the legendary musician Shi Kuang (famous during the Spring and Autumn period) performing the "Qingjiao" melody for Duke Ping of Jin. During the first performance, white clouds rose from the northwest; the second summoned fierce winds and torrential rain; the third shattered ritual vessels, tore curtains, and sent roof tiles flying, scattering the terrified audience. The terrified duke suffered shock that allegedly caused a three-year drought in Jin. This illustrates how music can influence both human emotions and natural phenomena.

Next is the tale of Zou Yan (a Yin-Yang scholar of the Warring States period) playing pitch pipes. When a fertile but frigid northern land failed to yield crops, Zou Yan's music warmed the climate, allowing grains to flourish—demonstrating music's power to alter environmental conditions.

The third anecdote tells of Xue Tan studying singing with Qin Qing. When Xue Tan prematurely declared mastery and prepared to leave, Qin Qing improvised a farewell song so powerful it shook the trees and halted passing clouds. Humbled, Xue Tan abandoned all thought of departure, remaining a lifelong student.

Finally, three classic musical parables appear: Han E (a singer from Han) whose performances at Yongmen left "lingering notes encircling the beams for three days"; her ability to make whole streets weep or dance with emotion; and the legendary friendship between Bo Ya and Zhong Ziqi through the "High Mountains Flowing Water" melody. These exemplify how transcendent music creates timeless resonance—transforming human hearts while harmonizing with nature itself.

When Zhong Ziqi heard Bo Ya playing the qin, he exclaimed: "Magnificent! Towering and majestic like Mount Tai." When Bo Ya thought of flowing water, Zhong Ziqi said again: "Splendid! Vast and boundless like the Yangtze and Yellow Rivers." Whatever Bo Ya envisioned in his mind, Zhong Ziqi could precisely grasp it.

Once while traveling north of Mount Tai, Bo Ya encountered sudden heavy rain and took shelter beneath a cliff. Feeling melancholic, he took out his qin and began to play. First, he performed a piece depicting continuous rain, then composed another evoking the collapse of mountains and splitting of earth. Each time he played, Zhong Ziqi completely understood the profound meaning behind the music. Putting down his qin, Bo Ya sighed: "How remarkable! The imagery in your mind as you listen perfectly mirrors what I intended. What musical expression could I possibly conceal from you?"

When King Mu of Zhou toured westward, he crossed the Kunlun Mountains but turned back before reaching Mount Yan (where the sun sets). Along the way, someone presented a craftsman named Yanshi to him. The king summoned Yanshi and asked: "What skills do you possess?" Yanshi replied: "Your Majesty may test me as you wish. However, I've already completed one creation—please examine it first." The king said: "Bring it another day, and I'll view it then."

The next day when Yanshi came for an audience, the king asked: "Who is this accompanying you?" Yanshi answered: "This is an artificial performer I've crafted." The astonished king observed the figure walking, bending, and lifting its head—indistinguishable from a real person. When the craftsman pressed its chin, it sang with perfect pitch; when he raised its hands, it danced in flawless rhythm. It could perform countless variations according to one's wishes. Believing it to be human, the king had it perform alongside his favorite concubine Sheng Ji.

Near the performance's conclusion, the automaton actually winked flirtatiously at the king's attendants. Enraged, King Mu prepared to execute Yanshi. Terrified, the craftsman immediately disassembled the figure—revealing it was constructed entirely from leather, wood, lacquer, and pigments. Upon close inspection, the king saw internal organs (liver, gallbladder, heart, lungs, spleen, kidneys, intestines) and external components (bones, joints, skin, teeth, hair)—all artificial.

This passage recounts several stories about craftsmanship and the workings of creation. It begins by describing a marvelous mechanical art: when the core components of a mechanism are removed (such as the "heart" corresponding to loss of speech, the "liver" to blindness, or the "kidneys" to inability to walk), it mirrors how dysfunction in the human body's five viscera affects external capabilities. King Mu of Zhou marveled at this, exclaiming that human ingenuity could rival the Creator's own craftsmanship.

The text then contrasts two ancient master craftsmen: Lu Ban (also known as Ban Shu) crafted cloud ladders capable of scaling city walls, while Mozi (Mo Di) built wooden birds that could fly for three days without landing. Yet when they heard of the mechanical art of Yan Shi, both felt ashamed of their own skills and ceased boasting about their abilities, devoting themselves instead to quietly mastering the fundamentals.

Next comes the tale of the divine archer Gan Ying, whose mere drawing of the bow would make wild beasts crouch in fear and birds fall from the sky. His disciple Fei Wei surpassed him, and when Fei Wei's own disciple Ji Chang sought to learn archery, his teacher first instructed him to master the art of not blinking—Ji Chang lay beneath a loom for two years, staring at the treadle until even a needle pricking the corner of his eye wouldn’t make him flinch. Yet Fei Wei declared this insufficient, demanding he achieve the state of "seeing the small as large." So Ji Chang tied a louse to a strand of ox hair and hung it by the window, observing it day and night until, after three years, it appeared as large as a chariot wheel. Only then could he shoot with unerring accuracy.

These stories illustrate a shared principle: the pinnacle of true skill requires prolonged, concentrated cultivation, ultimately reaching a state in harmony with the natural order of creation. Yet the author also emphasizes that human ingenuity, no matter how refined, has its limits—one must not thereby deny the existence of a deeper, more profound "Divine Ruler" behind all things.

This passage recounts the legendary tale of two ancient master archers, Ji Chang and Fei Wei. To learn supreme archery skills, Ji Chang first studied "vision training" (a technique for cultivating visual acuity) under Fei Wei's tutelage. Fei Wei instructed him to practice seeing small objects as clearly as large ones, and perceiving minute details as distinctly as obvious features.

Ji Chang tied a louse with yak hair and hung it by the southern window, gazing at it daily. After ten days, the louse gradually appeared larger in his sight; after three years, it seemed as big as a chariot wheel, while other objects loomed like mountains. At this stage, using a stiff bow made of Yan-state ox horn and sharp arrows fashioned from northern reeds, he shot through the louse's heart without breaking the yak hair. When Fei Wei heard of this, he patted his chest in admiration: "You've grasped the essence!"

Later, believing only Fei Wei could surpass him, Ji Chang attempted to ambush his teacher in the wilderness. During their archery duel, their arrowheads collided midair and fell without even stirring dust. When Fei Wei exhausted his arrows and Ji Chang had one remaining, Fei Wei deftly intercepted it with a thorn tip. Realizing their folly, they cast aside their bows, knelt, and pledged a father-son bond, cutting their arms to seal the oath with blood (an ancient ritual similar to the Yue people's custom of marking arms to seal covenants) — vowing never to disclose their archery secrets.

The narrative continues with the parable of Zao Fu (renowned charioteer during King Mu of Zhou's reign) learning charioteering. His teacher Tai Dou taught no real skills for three years, yet Zao Fu grew increasingly reverent. Quoting ancient poetry, Tai Dou said: "The master bowyer's son must first learn basket-weaving; the master smith's son must first learn leather-sewing" (illustrating that mastery begins with fundamentals). He made Zao Fu observe his walking technique until perfectly replicated, only then permitting him to handle six-horse war chariots.

These stories collectively demonstrate that supreme skill requires gradual cultivation, starting with solid foundations while honoring the teacher-disciple tradition. The "seeing greatness in smallness" vision training and transmission protocols embody the Daoist cultivation principle of "focusing on root while pursuing branches." The "small-to-large" perceptual mastery and blood-oath rituals particularly reflect how early Daoist thought absorbed elements from southern Yue culture's shamanic practices.

Taidou (an ancient master charioteer) set up wooden stakes to create a practice path, spaced just wide enough for a single footstep. He walked back and forth across these stakes without ever missing his footing or stumbling. Zaofu (the legendary charioteer of King Mu of Zhou) studied under him and mastered the entire technique in just three days. Taidou marveled, "You learn astonishingly fast! The principle of charioteering is exactly the same."

Taidou then explained: Earlier when you walked, your feet found their marks because your mind knew the way. Apply this principle to driving chariots, and you must make the horses move in perfect harmony. The key lies in coordinating the reins and bits: through subtle lip pressure conveying urgent or gentle commands, your mind gauges the measure while your hands control the rhythm. When inner understanding becomes complete, external movements naturally align with the horses' nature.

Having truly mastered this skill, the tension of the reins transmits to your hands, and the sensations in your hands resonate in your heart. At this stage, you need neither fix your eyes on the road nor use the whip—just maintain tranquil awareness and proper posture. Even when handling six sets of reins (as in the imperial chariot's configuration) and coordinating twenty-four hooves (six horses abreast), every movement achieves perfect precision. Turns and maneuvers follow exact standards, with wheel tracks harmonizing perfectly with the chime of phoenix bells.

Having reached this realm, the chariot requires no extra space beyond its wheel tracks, nor do the horses need reserved ground for their steps. Whether traversing perilous mountain passes or open plains, all terrain appears identical to the driver. This is the highest attainment of charioteering—you must engrave it in your heart.

(Editor's note: This passage uses charioteering as a metaphor illustrating how perfectly coordinated mind and body make complex operations seem effortless. Just as walking requires no conscious step calculation, true masters accomplish tasks with apparent ease.)

Qiu Bingzhang's son Lai Dan was determined to avenge his father. Though burning with righteous fury, Lai Dan was physically frail—so weak he could barely lift a weapon, subsisted on meager meals, and had to walk with the wind's assistance. Considering it shameful to rely on others for vengeance, he vowed to personally slay Hei Luan with a sword.

Hei Luan, however, was a man of monstrous strength, capable of fighting a hundred men single-handedly. His sinews, bones, and flesh were unnaturally tough—blades striking his neck would bend or shatter, arrows piercing his chest would fail to leave even a scratch. Arrogant in his might, Hei Luan regarded Lai Dan as nothing more than a hatchling still needing to be fed.

Lai Dan's friend Shen Ta, witnessing this, said: "Your hatred for Hei Luan runs deep, yet he dismisses you entirely. What do you intend to do?" Tears streaming down his face, Lai Dan replied, "I beg you to advise me." Shen Ta said, "I've heard that Kong Zhou of Wei possesses three swords passed down from his ancestors, who received them from the Shang dynasty rulers. Among them is the 'Youth's Blade,' said to make entire armies retreat in fear. Why not seek his aid?"

So Lai Dan journeyed to Wei and presented himself before Kong Zhou, serving him with the deference of a vassal. First, he offered his wife and children as collateral, then made his plea. Kong Zhou responded: "I have three swords for you to choose from—but none can kill. Let me describe them:

"The first is named 'Light-Devourer.' It cannot be seen, nor felt when swung. It passes through objects without resistance, leaving no trace upon them.

"The second is called 'Shadow-Carrier.' At dawn or dusk, if you gaze northward intently, you may glimpse its faint silhouette. When it touches an object, there is a whisper of sound—yet no wound appears.

"The third is known as 'Night-Tempered.' By day, only its shadow is visible; by night, only its glow—never its form. When it slices, a soft 'hiss' is heard, and the cut seals instantly. Though swift, no blood is drawn.

"These treasures have been handed down thirteen generations, never once drawing blood, always kept sheathed and unused."

(Note: This passage from Liezi·Tang Wen illustrates Daoist philosophy through the three mystical swords, embodying the principle of "the softest overcomes the hardest." "Light-Devourer," "Shadow-Carrier," and "Night-Tempered" represent ascending stages of Dao—implying that true power resides in apparent harmlessness.)

When Lai Dan went to Kong Zhou seeking a sword, Kong Zhou, though considering him unworthy, still gave him the most ordinary blade. Lai Dan returned home with his wife, observed purification rituals (zhaijiao) for seven days, and at dusk knelt to receive the sword.

Carrying the sword, Lai Dan sought vengeance against his enemy Hei Luan. Finding Hei Luan drunk and asleep beneath a window, Lai Dan struck three blows from neck to waist—yet his foe remained oblivious. Assuming Hei Luan dead, Lai Dan fled, only to encounter the man’s son at the door. Three thrusts later, the blade passed through air as if nothing were there. The son even laughed, saying, "Why do you point at me three times?" Realizing the sword could not kill, Lai Dan sighed and went home.

When Hei Luan sobered, he scolded his wife: "You left me uncovered while drunk—now my throat aches and my back stiffens." His son added, "Earlier, Lai Dan pointed at me thrice by the door, leaving my limbs numb." Neither grasped how close they’d come to death.

Later, the tale shifts to King Mu of Zhou’s western campaign, when the Xirong tribes offered two marvels: the Kunwu sword (forged on Kunwu Mountain in Yingzhou, said to slice jade like clay) and fire-washed cloth (woven from fire-mouse fur, cleansed by flame). A skeptical prince dismissed these until Xiao Shu retorted: "You judge too hastily—these wonders are real." Here, tangible marvels validate Lai Dan’s earlier surreal encounter.

(From Liezi·Tangwen, this parable uses an unkillable spirit-blade and miraculous artifacts to reveal realities beyond ordinary perception.)