《劉子》

The first volume of Liu Zi, titled "On Clarifying the Spirit" (with commentary by Yuan Xiaozheng, a Tang Dynasty military officer from Bozhou), primarily discusses the principles of self-cultivation and nurturing one's nature.

The human body is the vessel of life, the heart is the master of the body, and the spirit (shen, referring to consciousness and thought) is the treasure of the heart. When the spirit is tranquil, the heart becomes harmonious; when the heart is calm, the body avoids excessive strain. In undisturbed stillness, human nature remains free from worldly defilements. Just as the sun shines brightest when the sky is clear, sages emerge when waters are pure, peace reigns when the world is in order, and fish leap joyfully in clear waters—when the spirit is purified, it bears no burdens, and when the mind is pure, actions naturally align with righteousness.

"Spirit" (shen) signifies profound wisdom, while "clarity" (qing) denotes a state free from turbidity. If one can maintain purity in body and mind, filth cannot cling; if one can calm the heart-spirit, the body remains unharmed. Confucius regarded Bo Yi and Shu Qi as exemplars of such lofty purity.

When the heart is at peace, the body thrives; when the spirit is agitated, the heart becomes unsettled, and an unsettled heart harms the body. To preserve the body, one must first regulate the spirit. Therefore, cultivating the spirit through serenity and harmony brings inner tranquility; maintaining a mind of clarity and emptiness prevents external temptations. A tranquil spirit and clear heart ensure the body remains unburdened. Emptiness within the heart gives rise to wisdom, and auspiciousness follows naturally.

If the human heart is as clear and untroubled as a polished mirror, blessings will descend. Observing things unobstructed is like an empty room naturally filled with light. If the heart remains empty, pure radiance shines forth alone. Sima Biao explains that "què" (闋) means emptiness and stillness.

People do not use dull metal for mirrors but polished bronze, for a bright mirror reflects clearly; they do not gaze into flowing water but still water, for stillness captures images sharply. Mirrors and water, by their clear nature, reveal forms accurately. From this, we see that a luminous spirit dispels defilements, and a tranquil body clarifies the spirit. When defilements vanish, desires cease forever; when the spirit is clear, external burdens cannot intrude.

Hearing a bright song lifts the mood, while a mournful melody brings sorrow. The spirit, dwelling within the body, shifts with external influences—as in the story of Han E: this skilled singer, begging for food at Yongmen, was driven away with sticks, and her lament moved the entire city to weep for three days without eating. Later, when she sang joyous tunes, her voice was so enchanting it shook dust from the rafters, and listeners again forgot to eat for three days. This illustrates how the human spirit transforms in response to external sensations.

This passage from Liu Zi primarily discusses the relationship between human emotions, desires, and innate nature, as well as how to regulate desires to cultivate one's mind and character.

Human emotions fluctuate in response to external changes. Even a single instance of sorrow or joy can disturb one's originally pure nature, let alone the myriad temptations of the world. It is like ten thousand archers simultaneously aiming at a single cunning bird—how could it possibly escape being struck? The human heart is the same: faced with various temptations, emotions become chaotic, and the will is thrown into turmoil, just like that bird pierced by countless arrows.

The seven apertures (eyes, ears, nose, mouth, etc.) are the gateways through which the spirit (Shen) enters and exits, while the will governs the five viscera (heart, liver, spleen, lungs, and kidneys). The eyes are drawn to beauty, the ears seduced by music, the nose and mouth crave flavors, and the body seeks comfort—these desires are fundamentally the same. If indulged, the spirit scatters, the will becomes enslaved by desires, and the functions of the five viscera fall into disorder. When external cravings grow unchecked, the inner self becomes obstructed, sinking into decadent pleasures and entangled in judgments of right and wrong, gain and loss. Few indeed are those who can avoid damaging their virtue (De) and harming their life under such circumstances.

Therefore, sages purify their eyes to avoid being deluded by external things, calm their ears to shut out clamor, close their mouths to refrain from speech, and relinquish distracting thoughts. They treasure self-cultivation and disdain worldly status, so no amount of power or influence can sway them. It is like the ancient Emperor Yao offering his throne to Xu You—not only did Xu You refuse, but he also felt the words had defiled him and went to wash his ears by the river.

Those who truly delight in the Dao (the Way) are content in poverty; no amount of profit can change them. They settle their body and mind, maintaining a peaceful state, their inner being suffused with pure Qi (vital energy). Thus, they need not deliberately tend to their physical form, yet their nature remains intact; they need not exhaust their spirit (Shen), yet the Dao naturally manifests.

The second part discusses preventing the harm of desires. Humans are born with innate nature and disposition, which, when stimulated by external things, give rise to emotions. When emotions settle, they transform into desires. Desires are the source of greed and the root of extravagance. Jie of the Xia dynasty and Zhou of the Shang dynasty both lost their kingdoms due to indulgence; Qing Feng and Zhi Bo ruined their families through greed—all because they failed to curb small faults before they grew. As Jiang Taigong said in Six Secret Teachings: "If you do not remove the sapling, you will later need an axe; if you do not extinguish the small flame, it will become a conflagration." Minor issues left unresolved will lead to major disasters.

Though emotions originate from nature, excess violates it; though desires arise from emotions, indulgence harms them. The relationship between emotions harming nature and nature obstructing emotions is like that between smoke and fire, or ice and water: smoke emerges from fire yet can smother it; ice forms from water yet can block it. Thus, even seemingly trivial desires must be guarded against.

This passage explores the relationship between human nature, desires, and self-cultivation, using natural metaphors to illustrate its points. Just as excessive fire melts ice, overwhelming passions obscure one's true nature. When original nature remains pure, desires naturally subside; when desires burn fiercely, innate virtue perishes. Like a luminous pearl untouched by dust, those with clear-sighted nature remain untainted by worldly cravings.

Three natural analogies follow: Trees by nature stand tranquil—their shaking comes only from wind; water by nature stays clear—its turbidity arises from stirred sediment; humans by nature embody integrity—their corruption stems from deluded desires. Desires are compared to wood-boring insects (xie): too many borers break the tree, too many desires kill the person. To regulate passions, one must first guard the "Five Gates" (sensory portals of eyes, ears, nose, mouth, and body)—all pathways for desire's intrusion:

The eye's lust for beauty acts like an axe felling one's virtuous nature;

The ear's indulgence in seductive sounds resembles war drums assaulting the heart-mind;

The mouth's craving for delicacies becomes poison corroding the gut;

The nose's addiction to fragrances burns like smoke scorching the throat;

The body's pursuit of comfort triggers disaster like a hidden snare.

The text cites the example of Shu Shou (a Han dynasty minister) who remained vigilant against potential crises even amidst wealth and honor. Another analogy compares foolish animal-keeping practices: placing fish in hot water during winter or moving birds near fire—actions that kill through misguided care. Similarly, excessive pursuit of sensory pleasures damages life itself.

Thus the wise practitioner:

1. Restrains passions to lighten life's burdens

2. Governs desires to maintain serene detachment

3. Eats only to satisfy hunger, clothes only to ward off cold

4. Refuses to let dazzling objects disturb fundamental nature

5. Prevents sorrow or joy from agitating the spirit (shen)

6. Cultivates contentment while avoiding harm

Just as scorpion stings can drive men mad, excessive desires similarly wound body and mind. These principles constitute the method for preserving one's original nature intact.

This passage uses common life experiences as metaphors to explain the principle of controlling desires and emotions.

Just as people cannot sleep all night when bitten by mosquitoes, avoid bees and scorpions when entering mountains, and drive away insects when entering houses—knowing these small creatures can harm the body—the greater harm actually lies in inner desires. These desires disturb human nature and are far more serious than minor skin injuries. People can avoid external minor harms but often overlook major internal dangers. This is like discarding a light burden only to shoulder a heavy one—isn't this utterly foolish?

Those who tend cattle and horses know to retrieve stray livestock, yet fail to restrain their own indulgent desires. To control desires, one must act at their earliest sprouting. When desires first emerge, they're like tender saplings just budding or tiny flames just flickering—easily pinched off by hand or extinguished with dew. But once they flourish, they become like wildfires engulfing the towering Zhanghua Terrace (a famous high platform of the Chu state), where even exhausting all efforts—wielding axes to fell trees and draining ponds to douse flames—cannot stop the conflagration.

Human desires follow the same pattern. At their inception, they can still be guarded against through sensory awareness and restrained by willpower. But once they intensify, even attempts to rein them in prove futile, for one's fundamental nature is already damaged. Therefore, one must block their source before desires take form ("plugging the openings" refers to closing sensory gates, as Laozi advises sealing desire's entry points) and prohibit them while still weak. Otherwise, when grave mistakes occur, regret comes too late.

The latter section explains how emotions are the root of judging right/wrong and generating gain/loss. Without emotional interference, one perceives things with clarity; when emotions color interactions, obstacles arise. Like matchmakers in ancient times who exaggerated others' qualities—often clouded by subjective biases—we must eliminate emotional interference to perceive reality's essence.

This passage employs vivid metaphors to reveal subtle psychological truths about human nature. When praised, people often show little gratitude—just as a satiated person feels no thanks toward someone who forces food upon them. When an infant hurts someone or a dwarf mocks others, the injured party rarely holds resentment, knowing there's no malice involved. This resembles how fish fear pelicans (a waterbird that preys on fish) but not fishing nets—because nets are mindless tools while pelicans are active predators.

The text mentions how an avenger wouldn't resent the famous Mo Ye sword (an ancient legendary blade), only the wielder, as the sword itself lacks intent. The author suggests that rather than having a trustworthy person distribute resources (which invites disputes), it's better to use random lots; instead of appointing an incorruptible official to guard a warehouse, simply lock it. This shows how human-engineered "fairness" breeds suspicion, while mindless mechanisms avoid such issues.

Though modern people possess vision as keen as Li Zhu (a legendary figure from the Yellow Emperor's era famed for extraordinary eyesight) who could spot autumn down, and minds as precise as scales, pointing out others' flaws directly—even accurately—inevitably breeds resentment. Yet when people see their own ugliness in a mirror, they feel shame without blaming the mirror—knowing it bears no subjective malice. When three people quarrel in a room, observers always trust the one who stays out of the dispute, though neutrality doesn't necessarily indicate fairness—it's simply that both quarreling parties are driven by competitive impulses.

The sage's way of navigating the world lies in: discarding clever stratagems to preserve innate nature, and relinquishing subjective emotions when dealing with others. By not pursuing the hollow role of "master of reputation" (where "名尸" signifies ownership of fame and profit), though appearing foolish, one precisely avoids boundary disputes precisely because of this lack of scheming. These metaphors collectively illustrate how mindless actions prevent interpersonal conflicts more effectively than deliberate ones, and how natural states prove more valuable than artificial interventions.

This passage expounds the Daoist wisdom of "concealing one's light and biding one's time" (taoguang yanghui). The essential teaching is that all beings in the world should conceal their traces. Like Jiang Taigong's Six Secret Teachings (Liutao), it instructs people to restrain their brilliance like dragons, tigers or leopards. One should hide one's talents rather than deliberately display them, for only thus can life be preserved. Those who enjoy flaunting their abilities or pursuing novelty invariably bring harm upon themselves.

Several examples illustrate this principle: The kingfisher is captured for its beautiful plumage, the divine turtle is burned for divination because it can foretell fortunes, cinnabar is ground for its vivid color, and fine jade is split open for the treasure it contains. Though these things have no quarrel with the world, their conspicuous qualities bring misfortune. Had the kingfisher remained hidden in southern volcanic forests, the divine turtle lurked in sunrise marshes, cinnabar stayed buried deep in Mount Jing, and jade concealed within Kunlun's Mystic Garden rocks, they would have escaped harm.

Consider trees deep in the mountains—their roots reach the Yellow Springs while their branches touch the heavens. Qilin play beneath them and phoenixes roost in their boughs, untouched by axe or blade year after year. This isn't because they've formed some bond with humans, but because they understand concealment. By contrast, roadside trees—conspicuous by their location—have their branches broken before they fully grow.

Therefore, Dao practitioners should conceal their forms and shun fame, thus preserving their innate nature. Like keeping a sharp sword sheathed or wrapping precious jade in stone, only by restraining one's brilliance can calamity be avoided.

The text from Master Liu employs vivid analogies to elucidate wisdom for conducting oneself in the world and pursuing scholarly cultivation.

It begins with three illustrative tales: An elm tree had its branches broken by passersby not because it harbored enmity, but due to its overly conspicuous form; a rooster in the Zhou dynasty pecked off its own tail to escape sacrificial rites, surviving precisely because it no longer met ceremonial standards; a mountain monkey (ju) was shot by the divine archer Yang Youji after flaunting its agility. These examples demonstrate how excessive self-display invites misfortune.

Ancient people of virtue (De) understood the importance of concealing wisdom and sheathing brilliance (tao ji yin zhi), maintaining inner clarity (cheng xin feng qing) within. Only when the spirit (Shen) remains tranquil within and the physical form undisturbed without can one truly preserve one's integral being.

Regarding scholarly pursuit, the text explains: The profoundest truth (zhi dao) is ultimately ineffable, yet requires language for elucidation; the great phenomena of heaven and earth (da xiang) are fundamentally formless, yet demand tangible representations to probe their mysteries. Just as silkworm cocoons left unspun will rot in their baskets, human potential untapped through learning lies wasted; unopened clams conceal their pearls, and uncut Kunlun bamboo (legendarily used by Ling Lun under the Yellow Emperor's decree to craft pitch pipes) cannot produce phoenix-like tones. Metal contains water's nature, wood harbors fire's essence—these only manifest through refinement. Likewise, human beings awaken their inherent spiritual wisdom (shen ming) through study and self-cultivation.

This passage employs vivid analogies to illustrate how study and cultivation shape human nature and abilities.

Just as indigo extracted from the blue plant becomes bluer than its source due to the dyeing process, or ice formed from water grows colder than water itself because of its inherent nature, a bronze mirror polished from metal shines brighter than the raw material—these transformations result from refinement. Children from different regions cry the same at birth but develop distinct languages as they grow, shaped by their upbringing—infants from the Western Rong and Eastern Yi tribes may start with identical wails, yet their speech diverges entirely due to learning environments.

Mountains harboring jade nourish lush vegetation, and rivers bearing pearls keep their banks evergreen. Just as savoring delicacies nourishes the whole body, absorbing the teachings of the classics illuminates the Five Constant Virtues (humanity, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness). Without climbing high peaks, one never grasps the sky’s height; without descending deep valleys, one cannot fathom the earth’s depth—just as neglecting the Six Arts (rites, music, archery, charioteering, calligraphy, and mathematics) blinds one to the wellspring of wisdom. From afar, brilliance dazzles due to adornment; up close, radiance intensifies through learning.

Bamboo from Wu (modern Jiangsu-Zhejiang) is sturdy, yet arrows made from it remain incomplete without fletching. Swords from Yue (modern Zhejiang) are sharp, yet they dull without grinding. Though humans possess innate intelligence, they cannot achieve mastery without persistent study. Learning progresses from shallow to profound, from ignorance to enlightenment—it cannot rely on hearsay or superficial talk. Like a homesick traveler longing for return yet unable to arrive in one step, or a scholar yearning for ancient texts yet unable to grasp them in a single reading, cultivation demands patience.

A mountain begins with a single basket of earth, yet culminates in towering heights; a well starts as a three-inch pit, yet reaches unfathomable depths. A luminous pearl, small as a bean at first, grows to illuminate an entire room—just as sustained study naturally brightens wisdom. The wooden clapper of a bronze bell may seem intact, but over years it wears down; water dripping on cliffs bores through stone, and ropes rubbing against wheels fray over time. Though water is no drill nor rope a saw, relentless accumulation creates astonishing change. Ears may appear whole yet fail to hear profound truths—precisely because they lack this discipline of continuous cultivation.

The ears that can hear but do not listen are like those of the deaf; the eyes that are intact but do not see are like those of the blind. Human nature is inherently virtuous, yet if one fails to contemplate the Dao (the supreme truth of Daoism), it is akin to refusing to study. When people first experience hearing difficulties or blurred vision, they often spare no expense seeking medical treatment, traveling great distances to consult renowned physicians. But if one neglects learning, it is as if their mind becomes both deaf and blind, yet they remain unaware of the need to seek enlightened teachers to heal this mental obscurity.

Confucius (Xuan Ni) held scrolls in hand until his dying breath, while Dong Zhongshu (a Han Dynasty Confucian scholar) recited classics until his final moments. Dong Zhongshu, a native of Guangchuan, secluded himself behind curtains to study with single-minded devotion—for seven years he never glanced at his garden, failed to recognize his own brothers when they met, and after three years of riding couldn't distinguish a stallion from a mare. Youzi (Confucius' disciple You Ruo) despised his own drowsiness and would prick his palm with an awl to stay awake. Su Qin had his family members stab his thighs with awls to overcome sleepiness. If even these sages demonstrated such relentless dedication to learning, how much more should we ordinary people remain diligent?

The essence of learning lies in the heart-mind (Xin), which governs the body. The heart-mind carries the five virtues of benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness, yet each person's inclinations differ: some delve into classics and histories, others cherish music and calligraphy, some yearn for worldly pleasures, while others pursue serene tranquility—all these stem from inner choices. Ears and eyes are external sensory organs; if the heart-mind isn't focused on learning, one hears without listening and looks without seeing. To advance in studies, one must first rectify the heart-mind, allowing principles and righteousness to enter one's being.

Just as two leaves covering the eyes render one blind, two pearls blocking the ears make one deaf. The leaves become obstacles for the eyes, the pearls obstructions for the ears—both inner and outer senses become blocked. When the heart-mind concentrates inward, external distractions cannot intrude: eyes perceive no colors, ears hear no sounds—this state of complete inner-outer separation occurs naturally.

Yet Li Lou (a legendary figure from the Yellow Emperor's era with extraordinary vision) could discern the fine tips of autumn birds' and beasts' newly grown fur but couldn't hear thunder's roar; Ji Zha (a Wu State prince renowned for musical mastery) could distinguish the Qingjiao melody symbolizing national peace yet failed to see the majestic forms of Mount Song and Mount Tai. This demonstrates the limits of human attention—focusing on one aspect inevitably causes neglect of another.

This passage vividly illustrates through multiple examples how the human spirit (Shen) cannot focus on two things simultaneously. When a person concentrates fully on one matter, they inevitably neglect others.

For instance, when intently listening to foreign music, one's eyes fail to perceive the forms of Mount Song or Mount Tai; when absorbed in observing something, the ears become deaf to sounds. This occurs because the eyes are responsible for seeing and the ears for hearing—the spirit cannot attend to both at once. It is like trying to draw a square with the left hand while simultaneously drawing a circle with the right: even with compasses (for circles) and rulers (for squares), it remains difficult to accomplish both, as the mind cannot focus on two tasks at the same time.

The text cites two famous historical figures as examples: the ancient chess master Yi Qiu (who earned the surname "Yi" for his mastery of the game) once lost a match when his attention was diverted by someone playing the sheng (a reed pipe). Similarly, the mathematician Li Shou, while deep in calculation, saw a flying swan and thought of shooting it with an arrow—when asked a simple arithmetic question, he couldn’t answer. This was not due to any decline in their skills, but because their spirit was scattered by external distractions.

Finally, the passage uses the metaphor of a blind man (Gu) and a turtle: the blind man, lacking sight, develops extraordinarily sharp hearing, while the turtle, without external ears, possesses exceptionally focused vision. This demonstrates that only by concentrating on one aspect can one achieve mastery in it. The entire passage emphasizes the principle of "the mind cannot serve two purposes," pointing out that attempting to do two things at once leads to failure in both.

Cicadas are notoriously difficult to catch, yet with sticky traps they can be captured as easily as picking up objects. When Confucius (courtesy name Zhongni) traveled to the state of Chu, he witnessed a hunchbacked old man catching cicadas with such adhesive—his movements so swift it seemed like casually gathering items. Confucius marveled, "How exquisitely skillful! Truly exquisite!"

The chickweed herb is simple to harvest, yet some fail to fill their slant-rimmed bamboo baskets—this illustrates the difference between focused and distracted effort. The royal consort once lamented, "If only we could find virtuous gentlemen to govern together," unaware the proper time for ritual sacrifices had already passed. Here we see how presence or absence of focus manifests in action.

Thus, students of the Dao must cultivate diligence and single-minded concentration to attain that state of "entering spirit" (rushen)—the Daoist term for transcendent mental focus. When one's mind wanders during study yet forces recitation, though sounds enter the ears, they never settle in the heart. Like a deaf man mimicking singers: his mouth moves in imitation but grasps no joy in the melody; though sounds emerge, they've long strayed from harmony.

(This passage employs everyday analogies—cicada catching, herb gathering—to demonstrate concentration's vital role in learning. Key terms include "entering spirit" (rushen), a Daoist meditative state, and "recitation" (fengsong), the classical method of memorizing texts through rhythmic chanting.)