《列子》Vol. 7

This passage from the Liezi·Yang Zhu chapter presents the Warring States period philosopher Yang Zhu's views on fame, profit, and human nature. It begins by observing that life is merely a temporary gathering of primordial Qi (元气) and a fleeting state where form possesses spiritual awareness, ultimately destined to dissipate into nothingness. Humans are naturally inclined toward comfort and averse to hardship, with life's pleasures consisting mainly of fine food, elegant clothing, and sensory delights.

Yang Zhu (courtesy name Ziju, a Warring States thinker who advocated "valuing the self" [贵己]—a philosophy opposed to Mozi's doctrine of "universal love" [兼爱]), while residing with the Meng family in the state of Lu, engaged in a dialogue with Master Meng. Meng asked: "Why do people pursue fame while alive?" Yang Zhu replied: "Initially for wealth; when wealthy, they seek status; when eminent, they pursue posthumous renown; and even after death, they strategize for their descendants. Fame exhausts both body and mind (being an artificial construct that violates human nature when forcibly pursued), yet the famous bring glory to their clan and benefits to their community—how much more so for their descendants?"

The discussion then examines the costs of pursuing fame: those seeking renown must practice austerity and thus remain poor, or demonstrate humility and consequently occupy lowly positions. The text contrasts two Qi state chancellors: Guan Zhong, who mirrored his ruler's extravagance and ambition, achieving Qi's hegemony but leaving a family that declined after his death; versus the Tian clan, who countered their ruler's arrogance with humility and offset his greed with generosity, ultimately winning the people's allegiance.

Through this comparison, the passage demonstrates how consciously chasing fame violates human nature, while actions aligned with innate tendencies ultimately gain popular support. The Yang Zhu school viewed Confucian virtues of benevolence, righteousness, and ritual propriety as constraints on natural human disposition, forcing people to suppress genuine desires for the sake of empty reputation.

The descendants of Qi still enjoy the blessings of their ancestors today, which illustrates a profound truth: genuine reputation (Shi) may appear humble but endures, while false fame (Wei) may seem glorious but vanishes swiftly. Acts of virtue should not be performed for the sake of reputation—true renown arises naturally. Those who chase fame for profit deliberately deceive, yet the world often fails to see through such hypocrisy.

Reputation and substance rarely align—fame itself is illusory, while substance is real. Consider the ancient sage-kings: Yao and Shun ostensibly relinquished the empire to Xu You and Shan Juan (reclusive sages of antiquity), yet retained actual power, securing a century of prosperity. In contrast, Bo Yi and Shu Qi sincerely yielded the throne of Guzhu to others, only to lose their state and starve to death on Shouyang Mountain. The distinction between true and false reputation becomes clear here.

Yang Zhu (a Warring States philosopher) remarked: A hundred years is the limit of human life, yet scarcely one in a thousand reaches that age. Even those who live a century spend half their years in infancy and old age. Sleep and rest consume much of the remaining time, while illness, suffering, and anxiety claim the greater part of what’s left. Calculated this way, the days of true freedom and joy amount to little over a decade. What, then, does life truly seek? Nothing more than fine garments, rich food, music, and beauty. Yet even these pleasures eventually grow stale, constrained by laws and punishments, exhausted in the pursuit of empty fame—even posthumous reputation becomes a calculation. Living in constant fear, shackled by others’ opinions, suppressing one’s true nature—how is this any different from being a prisoner in chains?

The sages of antiquity understood: Life is fleeting as a white steed’s shadow across a crevice, while death is the eternal homecoming (the world claims "death is brief," yet in truth, life is the briefest of all).

This passage from the Liezi presents the Daoist philosopher Yang Zhu's (a Warring States period thinker) transcendent perspective on life and death, wisdom and folly, as well as nobility and baseness.

The opening establishes the text's core philosophy: the transformations between life and death are like shifts between form and Qi (vital energy), never truly severed. Thus, one should act in accordance with one’s innate nature without defying the natural order. There is no need to deliberately avoid present joys, nor to perform good deeds for the sake of reputation. Live in harmony with one’s true nature, without resisting the inherent tendencies of all things—posthumous fame is even less worth pursuing. Distinctions like wisdom and folly, nobility and baseness, or the length of one’s lifespan are ultimately inconsequential.

Yang Zhu argues that while all living things may differ in wisdom and folly, nobility and baseness, in death they all decay and vanish—this is the same for everyone. Yet neither wisdom nor folly, nobility nor baseness, are within human control—the same applies to life and death. Whether one was as virtuous as Yao and Shun or as tyrannical as Jie and Zhou, in death they all turn to rotting bones. Therefore, one should focus on the present life—why trouble oneself with concerns about what comes after? This serves as a critique of those who obsess over posthumous reputation.

The text then criticizes two extremes: Bo Yi (a recluse of the late Shang dynasty) was not without desires but starved himself in his excessive pursuit of purity; Zhan Ji (Liu Xiahui) was not without affection, yet his excessive restraint led to a dwindling family line. Such extremes of "purity and chastity" become errors in themselves.

Finally, the examples of Yuan Xian (a disciple of Confucius) living in poverty in Lu and Zi Gong engaging in commerce in Wei illustrate how poverty harms life, while commerce burdens the mind and body. Since neither is ideal, what then is the viable path? Here, the text subtly points toward the Daoist principle of the Middle Way.

This passage from the Liezi examines the proper approach to life and the cultivation of vitality. It presents two core principles: those who excel at enjoying life never fall into poverty (understanding how to satisfy their true needs), and those skilled at nurturing their bodies never exhaust themselves pursuing wealth.

Yang Zhu cites an ancient saying: "The living should cherish each other, while the dead require no further attention." This contains profound wisdom. Mutual cherishing isn't merely emotional—it manifests practically: through labor that brings others ease, feeding the hungry, warming the cold, and helping the distressed find solutions. "No further attention" after death doesn't mean no mourning, but rather avoiding extravagant practices like burying jade ornaments, dressing corpses in fine silks, arranging sacrificial offerings, or using ritual burial objects (mingqi).

When Yanzi (Yan Pingzhong) consulted Guan Zhong (Guan Yiwu) about cultivating life, Guan replied: "Simply follow what comes naturally—don't obstruct or suppress." Pressed for specifics, Guan explained: Let ears hear what they desire, eyes see what they wish, noses smell what pleases them, mouths speak their mind, bodies enjoy comfortable sensations, and the heart pursue its authentic inclinations.

He then defined "obstruction": Forbidding music when ears crave it obstructs hearing; prohibiting beautiful sights blocks vision; denying fragrant scents stifles smell; restricting speech about right and wrong hampers wisdom; preventing physical comfort impedes ease; and constraining the heart's desires thwarts freedom. Such obstructions constitute fundamental harms to vitality.

The passage concludes with the essence of cultivating life: Remove these vitality-damaging constraints and live joyfully until death—whether that comes in a day, month, year, or decade. This constitutes true life cultivation (yang sheng)—following one's nature and embracing authentic happiness. Conversely, enduring these constraints leads only to sorrow and suffering.

This passage is from Liezi, presenting a dialogue between Guan Zhong (Guan Yiwu) and Yan Ying (Yan Pingzhong), along with the story of Zichan and his brothers, to explore attitudes toward life, death, and nurturing life.

Guan Zhong mentions that he has already explained the principles of nurturing life and asks Yan Ying how to handle matters after death. Yan Ying responds with remarkable detachment: Once dead, how can one still control what happens? Burning is fine, sinking in water is fine, burial in earth is fine, abandonment in the wilderness is fine, wrapping in a straw mat and tossing into a ravine is fine, dressing in fine robes and placing in a stone coffin is fine—whatever happens to come one’s way is acceptable. Here, Yan Ying, as a Mohist scholar, advocates frugality in self-cultivation, but Liezi suggests he has not truly grasped the essence of life and death.

The text then recounts the story of Zichan (Gongsun Qiao), a high-ranking official of the state of Zheng. After three years of governance, the virtuous submitted to his teachings, while the wicked feared his prohibitions, bringing great order to Zheng—so much so that neighboring states grew wary. Yet he had two unusual brothers: the elder, Gongsun Zhao, was addicted to wine, while the younger, Gongsun Mu, was obsessed with women.

Gongsun Zhao’s home was piled with thousands of jars of wine, the fermenting yeast forming small hills, its aroma detectable from a hundred paces away. When lost in drunkenness, he cared nothing for the world’s safety or peril, the warmth or coldness of human relations, the rise or fall of family fortunes—not even the life or death of relatives or the threat of war could rouse him. Gongsun Mu, meanwhile, built dozens of chambers in his rear courtyard, filling them exclusively with young, beautiful women. Lost in sensual pleasures, he cut off all contact with relatives and friends, hiding in the courtyard day and night, emerging only once every three months—yet still unsatisfied, his desires flaring anew at the sight of any lovely village maiden.

Through these contrasts, the passage presents three approaches to life: Yan Ying’s philosophical detachment toward life and death, Zichan’s governance and moral discipline, and the extreme hedonism of his brothers. Liezi uses this to probe what truly constitutes the Dao of nurturing life.

This passage comes from the Liezi, recounting how Zichan (also named Qiao), a high official of Zheng State, sought advice from Deng Xi on managing his two unruly younger brothers.

Tormented day and night by this matter, Zichan privately consulted Deng Xi: "I've heard that self-cultivation enables family harmony, and family harmony enables state governance. This means starting from what's near to reach what's far. If I can govern a state yet fail to manage my own household, is my method flawed? How can I save these two brothers?"

Deng Xi replied: "I've long found this puzzling but dared not speak first. Why not seize an opportune moment to admonish them with the principles of life's preciousness and ritual-propriety's dignity?" Following this advice, Zichan told his brothers: "Humans surpass beasts through wisdom, which manifests in observing ritual-propriety. Following these brings fame and position. Indulging desires endangers life. Heed my counsel, and you'll soon reform and gain official posts."

But younger brother Zhaomu retorted: "We've long known these platitudes. Life is hard-won yet death comes easily—what's the point in spending this rare gift awaiting inevitable death? Flaunting ritual-propriety to violate our true nature for reputation—I'd rather die than live thus. We seek only life's fullest enjoyment, worrying merely that full bellies hinder drinking and spent strength curbs pleasures. What care we for reputation or safety? You flaunt your governing skills, tempting us with officialdom—isn't this vulgar and pitiable?"

Through this fraternal dialogue, two contrasting life philosophies emerge: Zichan advocates ritual-propriety and achievement, while Zhaomu and his brother pursue carpe diem indulgence. Here, "xingming" (性-命) denotes natural life, while "ritual-propriety" (礼-义) represents Confucian social norms. This ideological clash reflects Warring States period debates about life's value among different schools of thought.

[Note: I've rendered 礼义 as "ritual-propriety" following Roger Ames' philosophical translation convention for Confucian contexts, while maintaining "xingming" in pinyin as it's a Daoist technical term. The translation preserves the rhetorical cadence of the original debate while clarifying the conceptual oppositions.]

Those who excel at governing external affairs may not truly achieve good governance, yet exhaust themselves in the process; those skilled in cultivating inner nature may find the external world undisturbed while their own essence remains at ease. The methods of external governance might yield temporary results in specific situations, but they do not align with the true nature of the human heart. My approach of inner cultivation, however, can be extended to the entire world—even hierarchical structures like ruler and subject would naturally dissolve. I intended to enlighten you with this principle—why then should I adopt your methods instead? Zichan (a statesman of Zheng) was left speechless, unable to respond.

Later, Zichan recounted the incident to Deng Xi (a logician of the School of Names), who remarked, "You live alongside a realized Daoist master yet fail to recognize him—who would still call you wise? If Zheng is well-governed, it is merely by chance, not due to your merit." (Without understanding the Dao of the true person, one cannot genuinely govern a state; any success in governance is merely coincidental. Though the language here is blunt and unsparing, unlike the refined speech of a gentleman, its intent is to transcend worldly constraints, hence some statements appear exceptionally unconventional.)

In the state of Wei, there was a man named Duanmu Shu, a descendant of Zigong (a disciple of Confucius). Inheriting vast wealth from his ancestors, he disregarded worldly affairs and lived entirely as he pleased. Whatever people desired to do or enjoy, he indulged in without exception. His mansions, towers, gardens, ponds, food, carriages, music, and concubines rivaled those of the rulers of Qi and Chu. Whatever his heart desired, his ears wished to hear, his eyes longed to see, or his mouth craved to taste—even rare treasures from distant lands beyond the Central Plains—he acquired as effortlessly as plucking fruit from his own courtyard. When he traveled, no matter how treacherous the mountains and rivers or how distant the journey, he pursued it as casually as an ordinary man taking a few steps.

His household hosted hundreds of guests daily, with kitchen fires never extinguished and halls echoing with music day and night. Beyond his personal expenses, he first distributed wealth to his clan, then to his neighbors when the clan’s needs were met, and finally to the entire populace when even the neighbors had surplus. At sixty, sensing his vitality waning, he abandoned his estate, giving away all his treasures, carriages, fine garments, and concubines within a year—leaving nothing for his descendants. When he fell ill, his family lacked even the means to buy medicine; at his death, no funds remained for his burial. (Those who comprehend the Dao understand the impermanence of all things—wealth is but a fleeting accumulation, and hoarding it is no lasting strategy.)

The Liezi passage presents distinctive Daoist perspectives on life, death, and wealth through several dialogic scenarios.

Duanmu Shu (descendant of Confucius' disciple Zigong) exhausted his family fortune to aid his countrymen, who recorded the gifts in ledgers to repay his descendants. Qin Guli (a Mohist disciple) condemned him for disgracing his ancestors, while Duan Gansheng (a Daoist scholar) praised him for surpassing his forebears in virtue (De). The Confucian gentlemen of Wei, bound by ritual propriety, fundamentally couldn't comprehend this transcendent worldview.

The dialogue between Mengsun Yang and Yang Zhu (a prominent Daoist figure) explores mortality. When someone sought longevity through bodily preservation, Yang Zhu observed: Logically speaking, no one escapes death, nor do people truly desire extreme longevity. Human desires, physical sensations, and worldly vicissitudes remain constant across ages—protracted life only accumulates more suffering.

Mengsun Yang pressed further: Would swift death then be preferable to long life? Such as deliberately leaping into fire? Yang Zhu replied: While alive, follow nature's course (Wuwei), satisfying desires until death comes; when facing death, accept it serenely. Neither life nor death should be forcibly pursued. Bo Chengzi Gao (an ancient sage) neither harmed his life for external things nor sacrificed himself for empty fame—this attitude embodies true spiritual liberation.

This dialogue comes from the "Yang Zhu" chapter of the Liezi, discussing the relationship between individual and collective interests. The Yang Zhu school advocated the philosophy of "valuing the self," arguing that everyone should prioritize self-preservation rather than sacrifice themselves for external causes.

The conversation begins with Qin Huaixi (also known as Master Qin) challenging Yang Zhu: "If plucking a single hair from your body could save the world, would you do it?" Yang Zhu replies bluntly: "The world cannot be saved by a single hair." When Qin presses further, asking hypothetically whether he would if it could, Yang Zhu remains silent.

Later, Meng Sunyang (a disciple of Yang Zhu) explains to Qin: "If someone offered you ten thousand pieces of gold in exchange for harming your skin, would you agree?" Qin says he would. Meng then asks: "What if they offered you an entire kingdom in exchange for severing one of your limbs?" Qin falls silent. Meng Sunyang thus illustrates that just as skin is composed of countless hairs, and limbs are composed of skin, even the seemingly insignificant "single hair" is an essential part of the body and should not be disregarded.

In reflection, Qin remarks: "Using your Yang Zhu school's perspective to question Laozi (Lao Dan) and Guan Yinzi (who advocated valuing the body over material things) is indeed appropriate. But if I were to use my own view to question Yu the Great or Mozi (who championed selflessness for the greater good), my argument would also hold." This highlights the fundamental divergence between different schools of thought regarding the relationship between the individual and the collective.

The passage later mentions Emperor Shun, who, despite earning widespread acclaim, endured a life of hardship: toiling in the fields of Heyang, making pottery at Leize, never resting his limbs, never tasting fine food, unloved by his parents, estranged from his siblings, marrying only at thirty, and receiving Yao's abdication in old age—only for his son Shangjun to prove unworthy, forcing him to pass the throne to Yu the Great. His life was filled with sorrow. Through Shun's example, the text suggests that the sages revered by conventional standards did not live happily, subtly implying that the Yang Zhu school's philosophy of "preserving one's innate nature and authenticity" offers a more desirable way of life.

This passage contrasts the lives of sages and tyrants to reveal the disparity between reputation and reality. It first recounts the ordeals of four virtuous figures: Gun (father of Yu the Great), who was exiled to Mount Yu and died after failing to control floods; Yu the Great, who inherited the flood-control mission, passed his home three times without entering, developed calloused hands and feet, and ultimately died from exhaustion; the Duke of Zhou, who governed as regent after King Wu's death, quelled rebellions yet lived in constant anxiety amid suspicions; and Confucius, who endured hardships during his travels—starving between Chen and Cai, humiliated by Yang Hu—yet remained perpetually concerned. These sages knew no comfort in life but achieved eternal glory after death.

The text then depicts two notorious tyrants, Jie of Xia and Zhou of Shang: inheriting their ancestors' thrones, they indulged in excess—Jie constructed pools of wine and forests of meat, while Zhou reveled through the nights—only to meet ignominious ends. Though they enjoyed boundless luxury in life, they left behind only infamy.

The passage concludes by illuminating its core message: reputation is but an illusion. Whether praise or slander, such words mean nothing to the dead, just as speaking to wood or clay is meaningless. While sages and tyrants lived diametrically opposed lives, neither can perceive posthumous judgments—fame or disgrace alike hold no difference to them. Through stark contrast, the text demonstrates how clinging to empty postmortem renown is ultimately futile.

The passage from Liezi presents a profound philosophical dialogue between Yang Zhu and King Liang, exploring the deeper truths about human pursuits and the art of governance.

When Yang Zhu met King Liang, he claimed that ruling the world was as easy as handling objects in the palm of one’s hand. The king questioned him, pointing out that Yang Zhu couldn’t even manage his own household—how could he presume to govern the world? Yang Zhu responded with the analogy of herding sheep: A child can easily drive a hundred sheep, but even a sage like Yao or Shun would struggle to move a single sheep forward. Just as a giant fish capable of swallowing boats does not swim in shallow streams, and the majestic music of the Huangzhong and Dalu pitches cannot accompany chaotic dances, those truly capable of great deeds do not concern themselves with trivial matters.

Yang Zhu then shared his perspective on history: The distant past has long faded into oblivion, and the deeds of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors seem both real and illusory. Even events unfolding in the present are difficult to fully grasp. From the era of Fuxi to the present day, over three hundred thousand years have passed—regardless of wisdom or folly, beauty or ugliness, success or failure, all ultimately vanish with time. Yet people exhaust their minds and spirits for fleeting fame. Even if one’s name endures for a few centuries after death, what meaning does it hold for a pile of dry bones?

Finally, he observes: Humans are the most spiritually endowed beings between Heaven and Earth, yet their physical form is fragile—lacking sharp teeth or claws for defense, without fur to withstand heat or cold. They must rely on external things to survive, depending on wisdom rather than brute strength. Here, the "Five Constant Virtues" (wuchang zhi xing) refer to humanity’s innate qualities of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness, while Yin-Yang represents the two fundamental forces that constitute all things. The Yang Zhu school emphasizes following one’s natural disposition and warns against being burdened by empty reputation.

This passage elucidates core Daoist perspectives on life, material possessions, and one's approach to worldly existence.

It first observes how people often mistakenly cling to their physical form and material possessions. In truth, our bodies do not truly belong to us—we are compelled to preserve them simply by virtue of being born. External objects aren't truly ours either, for what we acquire will ultimately be lost. While the body serves as life's foundation and material goods support our nourishment, sages understand these cannot be privately owned. Only those who attain the sagely state of "making the world public" can regard all people's bodies as their own and all things under heaven as their possessions.

The text then cites Yang Zhu's teaching that human restlessness stems from pursuing four worldly concerns: longevity, reputation, status, and wealth. Those enslaved by these pursuits live in fear—of spirits, others' opinions, authority, and punishment—becoming what Daoists call "fugitives from nature" (遁人). In contrast, those who follow nature's flow (无为, Wuwei), free from such cravings, become masters of their own destiny.

A striking contrast between farmer and monarch illustrates the final principle: Peasants accustomed to simple fare and hard labor may fall ill when suddenly indulging in luxury, just as kings would suffer discomfort adopting rustic living. This reveals a profound truth—human flourishing comes from living according to one's inherent nature (性). The proverb "a farmer can be killed by sitting idle" (田父可坐杀) vividly warns how forcibly altering natural dispositions brings harm. True wellbeing arises not from excess but from harmonious alignment with one's authentic way of being.

This passage illustrates the Daoist perspective on natural disposition and artificial pursuits through several vivid anecdotes.

In the state of Song, there was a peasant who could only wear coarse hemp garments for warmth in winter. When plowing his fields during spring, he basked in the sunshine and considered it the most delightful experience in the world—so much so that he contemplated presenting this "wonderful method of sunbathing" to the ruler for reward. A wealthy neighbor told him: "Long ago, someone who considered wild beans, cockleburs and water celery as delicacies recommended them to the local gentry, only to cause mouth pain and stomachaches that drew public ridicule. Your delight in sunshine is equally laughable."

Yang Zhu (a Daoist philosopher) commented: "When people possess the four comforts of fine mansions, elegant robes, gourmet food, and beautiful companions (jiaose), yet still crave more, they manifest insatiable greed. Such covetousness disrupts the Yin-Yang balance, not only harming oneself but corrupting the vital Qi (De). Excessive pursuit of loyalty and righteousness may paradoxically endanger life—true virtue should bring peace to both ruler and subject while benefiting all creation."

The text concludes with sayings from Yu Zi (a Zhou dynasty sage) and Laozi: "Attachment to reputation breeds sorrow, for fame is ultimately illusory. Yet worldly people chase after it relentlessly, believing honor brings nobility and joy while obscurity means misery. In truth, sorrow violates our true nature, whereas joy aligns with the natural order (Wuwei)."

(Note: Terms mentioned include "coarse hemp garments" (yunfen), "wild beans" (rongshu), "cockleburs" (xijing), "water celery" (qinping), "stinging pain" (zhe), "beautiful companions" (jiaose), and "moth of Yin-Yang" (yinyang zhi du)—a metaphor for what corrodes cosmic balance.)

This passage from the Liezi·Yang Zhu chapter discusses the relationship between reputation and essence. It points out that one's true nature is fundamental, while fame is something that should neither be actively pursued nor deliberately avoided. The real problem lies in the fact that excessive attachment to reputation can burden one's authentic nature.

Those who cling stubbornly to empty fame, allowing it to harm their true essence, cannot even save themselves from peril—how can they speak of experiencing joy or enduring suffering? It is like a person who focuses solely on maintaining an outward image while neglecting the fundamental needs of their inner life.

Here, "essence" (实) refers to the genuine state of a person, while "reputation" (名) denotes external acclaim. Through this contrast, Liezi emphasizes the Daoist principle of "valuing substance over reputation," arguing that an obsessive pursuit of empty fame causes one to lose grasp of life's true essence.