《南華真經新傳》Vol. 12

This passage recounts the story of Gengsang Chu (also known as Gengsangzi), a disciple of Laozi, illustrating the essence of the Daoist philosophy of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei).

Gengsang Chu, who received the most authentic transmission from Laozi, retreated to live in Mount Weilei. When he first arrived, the local people found his behavior peculiar—he dismissed servants who acted cleverly and distanced himself from concubines who deliberately displayed artificial kindness, keeping only simple and genuine companions. Three years later, the region around Mount Weilei experienced a bountiful harvest. The people began to say, "At first, we thought Gengsangzi was strange, but now we see that while his ways seemed ineffective in the short term, they brought abundance in the long run. This must be the work of a sage!" They then sought to venerate him as a deity.

Hearing this, Gengsang Chu was deeply displeased. Here, the core Daoist teaching is revealed: those who truly embody the Dao (zhiren) comprehend the profound mystery of "true emptiness and wondrous being." "True emptiness" refers to the ultimate truth beyond form, while "wondrous being" denotes the natural functioning that arises from it. Those who attain this state remain tranquil and non-active, yet harmonize with the rhythms of heaven and earth. Without deliberate effort, they naturally influence all things. The abundant harvest at Mount Weilei was not the result of Gengsang Chu's intentional striving but a manifestation of the Dao's natural order.

When his disciples expressed confusion, Gengsang Chu used the analogy of seasonal changes: spring's growth and autumn's fruition follow the Dao's natural patterns, not human intervention. True sages dwell humbly in simple huts, yet the people flourish in their natural state. This embodies the Daoist political ideal of "governing through non-action"—when rulers refrain from forceful interference, the people naturally find their proper place. Gengsang Chu refused to accept worship precisely because he understood the wisdom of "achieving merit without claiming it." He recognized that the harvest was the result of heaven's Dao in motion, not his personal accomplishment.

This dialogue presents a debate between Gengsangzi (a Daoist recluse) and his disciple regarding the merits of reclusion versus public service. The disciple argues that virtuous men should be esteemed like the sage-kings Yao and Shun, while Gengsangzi employs vivid metaphors to expound the Daoist principle of "concealing one's form and preserving authenticity."

Gengsangzi remarks: "When common folk whisper about enshrining me in a temple of worthies—am I truly such a paragon? Therefore I dare never forget Laozi's teachings. Those who have truly attained the Dao preserve their heavenly nature, forget worldly cunning, abandon clever stratagems, calm their hun and po souls (ethereal and corporeal souls), and relinquish forced action to follow spontaneity. Like dwelling in a crude earthen hut—though not interacting with others, the myriad things remain unaware of one's existence."

The disciple counters: "Ordinary ditches cannot harbor giant fish; small mounds cannot conceal massive beasts. Honoring the worthy and appointing the capable, rewarding the good and distributing benefits—these were practices established since Yao and Shun's time. How much more should you accept the sincere intentions of the people of Weilei (a place name)? Master, you ought to accept."

Gengsangzi responds with three metaphors: "A beast strong enough to pull carts, once leaving the mountains, falls into hunters' nets. A fish large enough to swallow boats, when stranded ashore, can be harmed even by ants. Birds and beasts always seek high places to hide; fish and turtles invariably dive to great depths. Those who preserve their lives must similarly pursue reclusion in profound seclusion." He then pointedly observes: "Exalting the worthy is as futile as recklessly chiseling walls to plant weeds or counting rice grains to cook a meal. Promoting worthiness makes people scheme against each other; esteeming cleverness breeds mutual deception. Nowadays, men toil bitterly for profit until sons murder fathers and ministers assassinate rulers, with daylight robberies becoming commonplace. I tell you: the root of great chaos lies precisely in Yao and Shun's practice of honoring the worthy—its poisonous effects will persist for millennia, until the horrific era of cannibalism arrives."

Finally, he illuminates the principle of Yin-Yang: "Fish belong to Yin (concealment), beasts to Yang (manifestation). Yin should remain hidden while Yang may be revealed—this is nature's law." Though the disciple cited giant fish and beasts to make his argument, Gengsangzi emphasizes: "Those who recede must do so completely; those who manifest will do so naturally. Only by each keeping to their proper station can calamity be avoided. Incomplete reclusion leads to worldly entanglements, while excessive display invites danger."

This dialogue recounts the process of Nanrong Chu (a Daoist practitioner) seeking guidance on spiritual cultivation from Gengsangzi (a Daoist master) and Laozi (the founder of Daoism).

Gengsangzi begins with an analogy: when wild beasts leave the mountains, they fall prey to traps; when fish leave water, they become food for insects—all because they abandon their natural habitats. Thus, the perfected person (one who has attained the Dao) knows to conceal their talents and preserve their being. Anxious about his advancing age, Nanrong Chu urgently asks how to practice cultivation. Gengsangzi advises him: preserve your physical form, guard your innate nature, and avoid excessive mental agitation. If followed for three years, progress will be made.

Nanrong Chu expresses confusion, using the eyes, ears, and mind as metaphors: though these organs may appear identical in different people, the blind cannot see, the deaf cannot hear, and the insane lack self-control—showing that while outward forms may resemble one another, internal states differ. He only partially grasps the instruction to "preserve the form and guard the nature."

Gengsangzi frankly admits his limitations, comparing himself to a small wasp incapable of hatching a bean caterpillar or a Yue chicken unable to incubate a swan's egg. He suggests Nanrong Chu travel south to consult Laozi. Carrying provisions, Nanrong Chu journeys for seven days and nights to find him.

Laozi asks why he stands apart from ordinary people, leaving Nanrong Chu visibly unsettled. Laozi then pierces to the heart of his dilemma: Nanrong Chu fears being called foolish yet worries that wisdom invites misfortune; abstaining from righteous acts harms others, while practicing them brings personal distress. These three contradictions, Laozi reveals, are the root of his spiritual affliction. The dialogue vividly portrays the classic struggles faced by practitioners on the Daoist path.

This passage records a dialogue between Laozi and Nanrong Chu (a Daoist figure), primarily discussing the principles of self-cultivation and nurturing one's nature.

Laozi first observes Nanrong Chu's condition: Your current state resembles someone groping in the ocean with a bamboo pole—utterly lost, seeking to return to your original nature yet finding no path. When Nanrong Chu requests to stay at Laozi's dwelling, even after ten days he remains confused, and Laozi perceives the lingering distractions in his mind.

Laozi teaches: To preserve the wholeness of one's form, nourish one's life force, and prevent anxious thoughts from disturbing—these three achievements are only attainable by those who have realized the Dao. Using the metaphor of "restraints," he explains: When external senses become entangled with worldly objects, the inner mind loses its stability; when the mind is disturbed by desires, the senses become uncontrollable. When both internal and external aspects are thus confused, even the maintenance of Dao and De (Virtue) becomes difficult—all these troubles stem from attachment to "self."

Nanrong Chu offers his own analogy: Like a patient who can describe his symptoms yet still suffers the root illness, he finds that listening to the Great Dao is like taking medicine that worsens the condition. Laozi clarifies: The ears and eyes (external senses) and the heart-mind (internal cognition) influence each other—a disordered mind leads to uncontrolled senses, and vice versa.

Finally, when Nanrong Chu inquires about essential techniques for nurturing life, Laozi responds: One must achieve single-minded devotion to the Dao, maintain unerring connection with original nature, discern fortune without divination, know when to stop, seek within rather than depend on others, and attain transcendent freedom. These all represent the cultivated states of those who have realized the Dao.

This passage discusses the Daoist practice of "preserving life's essence" (weisheng zhi jing), the fundamental principles for nurturing body and mind. When Nangrong Chu (a Daoist figure) asks whether this represents the state of an ultimate person (zhiren, one of supreme moral cultivation), the response clarifies this is merely the initial stage of liberation—like ice melting into water.

The essence of preserving life lies in: first maintaining mental tranquility without disturbing one's vital Qi (qi). When one achieves single-minded concentration in guarding the Shen (spirit), the innate nature is naturally preserved. Understanding this nature allows insight into fortune and misfortune without divination; perceiving these cycles frees one from enslavement to external things. Transcending material attachments enables the release of fixations and preservation of physical form. With the body intact, one attains the natural purity of an infant.

Consider how an infant cries all day without hoarseness—this manifests perfect harmony. Their constant fist-clenching never tires the hand, for it follows nature's course. Their unbroken gaze never strains the eyes, as no effortful seeing occurs. Walking without fixed direction and dwelling without specific purpose, they flow with the transformations of all things. This embodies life-preservation's highest state.

The genuine ultimate person shares the earth's nourishment and heaven's joy, undisturbed by worldly gains and losses. They neither participate in absurdities nor engage in petty intrigues, moving freely like the Dao itself. This is the true "preserving life's essence"—a method of safeguarding life's core through releasing attachments and returning to infant-like purity.

This passage elucidates the state and principles of attaining the highest realm in Daoist cultivation.

It first describes the state of the "child" (referring to pure innocence free from desires): When acting, one doesn't know what one is doing; when walking, one doesn't know where one is going. The body remains still like withered branches, while the mind stays calm like dead ashes. Such a person neither invites misfortune nor welcomes blessings, having transcended the dualistic categories of fortune and misfortune.

Next, it portrays the realm of the "perfected person" (one who has attained the Dao): Though unified with all things, they appear ordinary; they eat what should be eaten and enjoy what should be enjoyed. With a mind empty yet tranquil, they respond appropriately to all situations without being burdened by external things. Since they don't intentionally pursue external objects, strange phenomena cannot affect them; without forced contemplation, they naturally require no scheming. This state of no-mind may seem like non-action (Wuwei), yet it effortlessly handles all affairs with perfect ease—this is the principle by which perfected persons preserve life and endure eternally.

When discussing "spiritual stability" (a state of settled consciousness), the text mentions the natural emergence of "celestial radiance" (heavenly light). Cultivators who maintain this constant stability will receive assistance from both humans and heaven. When perfected persons return to the pure innocence of an infant, they attain abundant essence (Jing) and vibrant spirit (Shen), becoming one with heaven and earth while naturally manifesting wisdom's illumination.

Finally, it points out the essentials of cultivation: Study what cannot be studied, practice what cannot be practiced, and discern what cannot be discerned. Knowing where unknowable boundaries lie constitutes the highest attainment. Those who violate this principle will find natural laws ensuring their failure. One must prepare to face all circumstances while maintaining inner vigilance without excessive deliberation, approaching all things with reverential openness. Even when encountering misfortunes, understand these stem from heavenly will rather than human action, preventing such events from disturbing inner tranquility. The "spiritual terrace" (the mind) should maintain its integrity without forced grasping. Acting without sincere inner authenticity inevitably leads to repeated failures. Whether committing wrongs openly or secretly, one will face retribution from either humans or spirits.

This passage elucidates the core tenets of Daoist cultivation, emphasizing the state of emptiness, tranquility, and unity with the Dao.

Only those who truly comprehend the Way of humanity and the spiritual realm can independently practice the inner covenant (referring to harmony with the Dao). Those who pursue external fame expend their mental energy calculating gains and losses. Only those maintaining equanimity can radiate inner light, while those constantly scheming for profit are mere merchants. When people observe them straining on tiptoe in pursuit, they appear like clumsy clods of earth.

The Dao of preserving life's authentic essence cannot be attained through deliberate study, action, debate, or cleverness. Only by relinquishing forced learning, contrived actions, argumentation, and artifice, and instead following nature's course, can one truly comprehend it. Thus, genuine learning means studying what cannot be deliberately learned; true action means doing what cannot be forcibly done. Compulsive pursuit not only harms life but also forfeits one's innate nature.

Those who commune with all things find all things merging into them; those who oppose all things cannot even contain themselves, let alone others. Those incapable of embracing others have no intimates—such individuals have essentially lost their human nature. The sharpest weapon cannot compare to an obstinate will; the greatest adversary is none other than the transformations of Yin-Yang (referring to natural laws). Humans cannot escape the cosmic interplay of Yin-Yang—it's not that Yin-Yang harms people, but that human minds invite misfortune upon themselves.

The profundity of the Dao lies in this: when things disintegrate, they appear destroyed yet are actually forming new combinations. We detest separation yet cannot avoid it; we dislike completeness yet pursue it. When the Shen (spirit) wanders outward without returning to its authentic source, it manifests ghostly appearances (indicating loss of true nature); what seems like gain is actually movement toward death. When form disappears yet one clings to material existence, this becomes a ghost. Only by having formed things emulate the formless Dao can tranquility be attained.

The foundation of preserving life lies first in emptying the mind. When the mind is void, it can embrace all things; being embracing, it won't resist when external things come. If the mind isn't empty, it cannot harmonize with external things; unable to accommodate things, it can hardly contain even itself, let alone others. Therefore, those who oppose all things cannot even contain themselves—how could they contain others? Those who cannot embrace others create divisions between self and other; creating divisions leads to isolation and alienation. All this stems from insufficient emptiness within the mind.

This scripture primarily examines the harm of delusional thoughts to life and the cosmological view of "non-being" (wu you).

It first points out that reckless actions injure life more severely than swords. When human will is misdirected, Qi (vital energy) becomes disordered—excessive joy fuels Yang energy while uncontrolled anger amplifies Yin energy. Such internal damage proves more destructive than external wounds, as people remain fundamentally bound by physical form. The greatest adversaries are actually the dual forces of Yin-Yang, permeating heaven and earth inescapably. Yet what truly harms life isn't Yin-Yang itself, but the mind's failure to maintain emptiness and stillness, leading to emotional extremes. Hence the saying: "Calamity lies not in Yin-Yang, but in the mind's restless agitation."

The text then describes the primordial state of the cosmos: it emerges without root, vanishes without trace, exists authentically yet eludes location, continues endlessly without beginning or end. This state of simultaneous generation and dissolution, manifestation and disappearance without visible form, constitutes the "Celestial Gate" (tian men, cosmic origin). The Celestial Gate represents the condition of "non-being," from which all things arise. True sages abide permanently in this realm.

Ancient Dao-realized individuals recognized the highest truth: the world's original state was "absence of things" (wu wu). The secondary understanding acknowledges things' existence, viewing birth as the loss of original nature and death as return to the source. A lesser perception holds that life emerges from "non-being" only to vanish instantly. Only those who comprehend the unity of being/non-being and life/death can become companions of the Dao.

Three metaphors conclude the teaching: Like sacrificial offerings that may be dispersed while their essence remains unchanged; touring a palace requires viewing both main halls and latrines; human understanding should take life as foundation and wisdom as teacher. Right/wrong and name/reality are relative—the key lies in maintaining an empty, still heart undisturbed by external things.

This passage elucidates the Daoist pursuit of natural Wuwei (non-action) and transcendence beyond worldly concerns. It observes how modern people often mistake cleverness for enlightenment, chase after fame, and view poverty as disgrace—all manifestations of losing one's original nature.

Just as cicadas and small birds share the same fundamental essence, or how one apologizes for stepping on a stranger's foot but not a relative's, life emerges from nothingness and returns to nothingness upon death, revealing no concrete form. This is the natural order. The "Gate of Heaven" (Tianmen, referring to the cosmic origin) embodies this formless existence—the source from which all things arise—yet "non-being" itself relies on no particular thing.

The true sage abides in this realm of "non-being," flowing with nature without force. The text outlines five supreme states: the highest propriety makes no distinction between self and other; the highest righteousness clings to no external object; the highest wisdom needs no scheming; the highest benevolence holds no partiality; the highest sincerity requires no pledge. All these embody the essence of "nothingness," aligning with the profound mystery of the Dao.

It then identifies four constraints to overcome: wealth, fame, and six other distractions that unsettle the mind; appearance, emotions, and six other illusions that confuse the intellect; preferences, anger, and six other burdens that weigh down De (Virtue); choices, talents, and six other obstructions that hinder enlightenment. By clearing these disturbances, the mind attains harmony, clarity, and serene emptiness, naturally achieving Wuwei yet accomplishing all things.

In conclusion: dissolving mental distractions brings focus; dispelling intellectual confusion fosters openness; shedding moral burdens leads to self-contentment; removing Daoist obstacles yields lucidity. Thus, one is no longer driven by wealth, awed by power, or tempted by fame.

This scripture primarily discusses how to attain the state of "non-action (Wuwei) yet nothing is left undone" through inner cultivation, as well as the relationships between the Dao, Virtue (De), life, and innate nature.

It begins by explaining that when the mind is empty and tranquil, one's behavior naturally becomes composed, facial expressions serene, and breath smooth. Upon reaching this state of natural ease, excessive desires cease to arise, and one becomes undisturbed by emotions like joy or anger. Free from external distractions, one can carefully manage decisions about advancement or withdrawal, and properly employ one's talents. This prevents disturbance of will, distortion of spirit, burdening of Virtue, or obstruction of the Dao. Maintaining an upright, peaceful, clear, and empty mind allows one to appear inactive while actually accomplishing everything effortlessly.

The text enumerates four categories of cultivation obstacles: wealth and high status (among six factors that disturb aspiration); facial expressions and gestures (among six that confuse the spirit); preferences and desires (among six that burden Virtue); and decisions about advancement (among six that obstruct the Dao). Only by transcending these distractions can one achieve the state of inner uprightness, tranquility, clarity, and emptiness.

Key concepts are then explained: The Dao serves as Virtue's fundamental basis ("the Dao is what Virtue reveres"); life manifests Virtue's radiance ("life is Virtue's light"); and innate nature constitutes life's essence ("nature is life's substance"). When nature moves in response to external things, this becomes action; when artificially forced, it becomes fault.

Historical examples illustrate these principles: The legendary archer Hou Yi excelled at shooting but couldn't prevent others' praise, while sages mastered heavenly principles but weren't skilled in human affairs. Only the "complete person" harmonizes both heavenly Dao and human affairs. Just as using the whole world as a cage leaves birds no escape, or how King Tang of Shang employed the cook Yi Yin and Duke Mu of Qin secured Baili Xi with five sheepskins—success comes through aligning with others' inclinations.

This passage emphasizes inner cultivation's importance for achieving Wuwei, clarifies core conceptual relationships, and uses historical anecdotes to demonstrate natural alignment's significance.

This passage primarily discusses the various levels of Daoist cultivation and methods for achieving harmony between body and mind.

The first part addresses the state transcending worldly judgments: Those who have truly attained the Dao (the Way) remain indifferent to others' praise or blame, much like a prisoner ascending heights without fear, having already transcended concerns of life and death. Only by forgetting others' evaluations can one reach the state of celestial harmony (Tianhe). Such individuals neither rejoice at honor nor grow angry at insults, for their anger doesn't stem from emotion, nor are their actions deliberately contrived.

Next, it compares three cultivation levels: The divine archer Yi excelled at hitting minute targets, yet couldn't prevent others from praising him. The sage (Shengren) was adept at following nature's course, yet found it difficult to make the world forget him. The highest state belongs to the divine person (Shenren), who not only aligns with the Dao of heaven but also benefits all beings, transcending worldly troubles to reach the state where self and objects are both forgotten. Only those of complete virtue (Quanren) can simultaneously accord with nature and skillfully navigate human affairs.

Finally, it expounds methods for cultivating mind and nature: To attain inner tranquility, one must regulate the breath (Pingqi); to achieve spiritual clarity, one must follow the original heart-mind (Shunxin). When acting, one should adhere to the principle of "acting only when unavoidable" (Bude yi), responding naturally to external stimuli. The breath serves as the dwelling place of stillness, while the heart-mind houses the spirit (Shen). Regulating the breath naturally brings stillness; following the heart-mind naturally connects with the divine. True sages never force their pursuits but reflect all things effortlessly like a mirror—this constitutes the sagely way of "acting only when unavoidable."