《化書》

The Book of Transformations, Volume 1, Chapter 2, authored by the Perfected Tan Jingsheng, primarily elucidates the principles governing the transformation of all things.

Regarding the operational laws of the Dao: When the Dao descends and evolves, it generates Shen (spirit) from emptiness, Qi (vital energy) from Shen, physical form from Qi, and once form is established, it gives rise to the concrete manifestations of all things in the world. Conversely, when the Dao ascends and returns, form transforms back into Qi, Qi into Shen, and Shen returns to emptiness. By attaining the state of empty clarity, one becomes interconnected with all things. Thus, the ancient sages, by studying these patterns of opening and closing transformations, mastered the root of creation and nurturing. They cultivated Qi by forgetting form, nourished Shen by forgetting Qi, and returned to emptiness by forgetting Shen, thereby reaching the "Great Unity" state where emptiness and form interpenetrate. This primal force is called Yuanjing (Original Essence) when stored, Wanling (Ten Thousand Spirits) when applied, Taiyi (Supreme Unity) when contained, and Taiqing (Supreme Clarity) when released. When this force circulates within the human body, it resembles the waxing and waning of Kan (Water) and Li (Fire) (Yin-Yang) within, with wind and clouds entering and exiting through the seven orifices (eyes, ears, nose, mouth, etc.). The steaming of true Qi makes one impervious to the changes of heat and cold, while the fullness of pure Yang Qi elevates one beyond life and death—such is the wondrous Dao of creation.

Example of snake and sparrow transformations: A snake can transform into a turtle, and a sparrow into a clam. The snake suddenly forgets its slithering form and acquires the turtle's lumbering gait; the sparrow abruptly loses its ability to fly and sing, gaining instead a shelled exterior. This transformation occurs so swiftly that neither knife nor rope can hasten or measure it. It is like observing dust floating in the air—some see only the dust and not the emptiness, while others, crushing the dust in search of emptiness, see only the emptiness and not the dust. In truth, form inherently has no obstructions; it is humans who create them. Things inherently have no stagnation; it is humans who impose it—how lamentable!

Example of the old maple tree: An ancient maple can transform into a flying immortal (feathered being), and rotten wheat grains can become butterflies—this is the shift from the insentient to the sentient. A virtuous woman may turn into a chaste stone, and a mountain worm into a lily—this is the shift from the sentient to the insentient. Thus, earth, wood, metal, and stone all possess numinous potential. Essence and soul can reach everywhere; divine spirit penetrates all; primal Qi permeates everything; forms can interchange. How can one distinguish what is "it" from "me," or what is conscious from unconscious? All things are fundamentally one; all spirits are fundamentally a single spirit—this is the highest realm of the Dao.

Regarding the senses of sight and hearing: Where the eyes cannot see, one may employ a mirror; for sounds the ears cannot hear, one may rely on empty Qi. Though Shen resides within oneself, seeing and hearing can borrow external aids. Just as a deformed toe can be removed or a split lip sewn, the senses of sight and hearing can be adjusted as needed, and physical appearance can be altered.

This passage from the Book of Transformations employs vivid analogies to reveal the Daoist understanding of reality's essence.

First, the principle of "deluded hun and po souls": People are deceived layer by layer by illusions—like substituting the real with the fake, then replacing the fake with something even falser—until even their souls are confused. Our bodies are bound by blood and qi (vital energy), the senses (the "ten apertures" like eyes and ears), and desires (the "five roots" of sensory cravings). Only the spirit (shen) can transcend these. The physical form is like a tumorous growth; without such burdens, what couldn't one achieve?

Next, the analogy of "whirling dance": A spinning dancer feels the room rotate; one watching flowing water grows dizzy. Yet it’s not the house or water that changes—the illusion arises within. Like folding a towel into a rabbit or using medicine stones as horses, people are easily fooled. Sweet words and heavy makeup deceive ordinary eyes. Only those with purified hearts remain unswayed.

The "lead elixir" section discusses alchemy (neidan): Some replace food with refined lead elixirs—filling in plenty but starving in famine. The elixir’s power doesn’t change; the mind does. Hunger stems from self-deception, fullness from illusion, all due to failing to grasp the Dao (the Way). Seeing through distinctions—being/nonbeing, life/death, desire/form, inner/outer—frees one from the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water) and Three Lights (sun, moon, stars). Why fret over a hundred meals a day or one in a hundred days?

The "form and shadow" analogy goes deeper: A mirror reflects the body; another mirror reflects that reflection. As mirrors multiply, shadows transmit endlessly, yet the crown’s shape and robe’s color stay unchanged. Form and shadow are undifferentiated; emptiness and substance are one. Realizing this unites one with the Dao.

"Hidden hibernation" speaks of wintering wisdom: Certain creatures excel at withdrawal—withstanding cold, enduring famine, even evading death. Their spirits (shen) stay serene, thoughtless, untouched by mortality. Daoist practitioners should emulate this: know the self by observing all things, comprehend the spirit (shen) through self-cultivation, and ultimately embody the true Dao. This is the auspicious path.

Finally, the "owl and rooster" contrast: Owls see keenly at night but blunder by day; rooster’s day-vision fails at dusk. Call the owl aberrant? Then the rooster is normal. Call the rooster peculiar? The owl becomes standard. Their difference, like day and night, is the Dao’s natural rhythm. The lesson: right and wrong depend on perspective. Only by relinquishing attachments can truth appear.

This passage from the Book of Transformations employs vivid metaphors to explore the relativity of perception and the realm beyond physical form.

The difference in perceiving day and night resembles how owls and chickens experience them completely differently. Each person's view of the world is subjective—the chime I hear, the flower I see, are all personal experiences. True sages (da ren) transcend such dualities, understanding that day and night, light and dark are fundamentally the same in essence.

The text mentions four types of mirrors (gui, zhu, di, yu) symbolizing different perspectives: some magnify, others minimize, some correct, and others invert. This reminds us not to be deceived by appearances, recognizing that form, Qi (vital energy), and Jing (essence) can all mislead us, just as treacherous ministers deceive rulers. One must remain vigilant, as cautious as guarding against tigers or fire, preserving inner purity to attain higher states.

The metaphor of shooting a tiger illustrates how focus creates illusions—the archer sees only the tiger, not the rock; the dragon-slayer sees only the beast, not the water. This reveals the emptiness underlying all things, and how our bodies can achieve a state of "non-being" (wu). When "non-being" merges with "emptiness," one gains the freedom to appear and vanish, transcending life and death. Like dust in the air or ants in a hole, many existences remain unseen and unheard, let alone those beyond sensory perception.

Dragons and tigers transform, traversing the void; metal and stone seem solid yet are permeable. Being and non-being interpenetrate; object and subject are fundamentally one. Understanding this principle reveals that life and death are mere appearances—the form may perish, but the Shen (spirit) endures forever.

Drifting clouds lack fixed shapes yet display myriad colors; flawless mirrors reflect all things without distortion. Just as a mirror a hundred paces away captures a person's image unseen by the observer, this demonstrates how the Taixu (cosmic origin) encompasses everything. Ordinary people gaze at the vast sky, unaware they already dwell within emptiness. Thus, the noble person rectifies the heart-mind, maintains dignified bearing, and communes with divine consciousness.

This passage from the Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) conveys several key teachings:

On Human Perception and Desire:

When one visualizes spoiled food, nausea arises; hearing the names of delicacies triggers involuntary salivation. Some recoil from ordinary bean paste as if seeing grubs, while others savor salted fish as though tasting phoenix fat. Those who grasp this principle transcend distinctions between luxury and frugality, honor and disgrace, right and wrong, fortune and misfortune.

On the Laws of Cosmic Transformation:

From emptiness emerges Shen (spirit), which transforms into Qi (vital energy). Qi condenses into form, and form gives rise to consciousness. A single glance initiates ritual propriety, which evolves into social hierarchy. Hierarchy breeds division, division begets official regalia, leading to carriages, palaces, guards, and feasts—ultimately descending into decadence. Decadence spawns greed, greed fosters deception, deception invites punishment, punishment incites rebellion, rebellion demands arms, arms provoke contention, and contention ensures ruin. This momentum cannot be halted when advancing nor reversed when retreating. Thus sages guide with Dao and De (Virtue/Power), instruct through benevolence and righteousness, and regulate with laws and rituals to preserve nations and prosperity. Yet when Dao remains obscure, virtue untaught, and laws unenforced, people turn treacherous and rebellious—rulers oblivious to decay, masses unaware of causes—rendering the situation irredeemable.

On Zhengyi (Orthodox Unity, the fundamental Daoist truth):

All know amaranth juice dissolves turtle flesh, yet few realize immortal herbs can disperse human form. Herein we understand Shen can scatter, Qi can divide, and form can dissipate. Dispersed into myriad things, it isn't diminished; coalesced into oneness, it isn't increased. Like hair scattered by gales, souls wandering in dreams, or earthworms surviving bisection—because the Great Void's essence is emptiness, the Great Shen's essence is unity, the Great Qi's essence is undifferentiated, and the Great Form's essence is wholeness. Names may differ, but the root is one: neither forcibly retained nor truly lost—this is Zhengyi's truth.

On the Nature of Heaven and Earth:

(The original text is fragmentary here, but inferred from other Hua Shu chapters) The cosmos operates through this same principle of "Great Transformation"—the perpetual cycle between emptiness and form, where all existence ceaselessly metamorphoses.

The Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) reveals the principle of interdependence and cyclical transformation between heaven, earth, and all things. Heaven and earth draw energy from emptiness, humans receive nourishment from heaven and earth, while parasites within the human body survive by consuming a person's Jing (essence) and Qi (vital energy). Just as borers gnaw at trees and perish when the trees decay, or treacherous ministers plunder state resources only to lose their footing when the nation collapses, the truly wise understand to conserve essence, restrain desires, and remain detached from wealth and status. Thus, even as heaven and earth age, they maintain their vitality.

The text then employs the metaphor of a "child" to illustrate: A toddler delights in its shadow without realizing the shadow is actually playing with it—just as rulers seeking to transform others become transformed by the very situations they create. From the era of the Three Sovereigns and Five Emperors to the Qin and Han dynasties, Dao (the Way) and De (virtue) gradually devolved into warfare, much like a drunkard sinking deeper into intoxication or an illness worsening with treatment, trapping all in an irreversible cycle.

The passage on the "yang sui" (ancient fire-making tool) observes: Just as a yang sui draws fire and a "fang zhu" (ancient water-collecting vessel) condenses water, a person's gaze reflects their inner state. Those who hold their heads high exude dominance, those with lowered brows conceal cunning, while level-eyed individuals embody benevolence. True importance lies in inward contemplation—when one's Shen (spirit) unites with the Dao, longevity is attained.

Finally, the chapter "Life and Death" elucidates the cycle of existence: Emptiness gives birth to the primordial Shen, which transforms into Qi; Qi generates blood, blood forms the physical body, progressing through infancy, childhood, youth, prime, and old age before returning to emptiness. The birth and death of all things follow natural law. Understanding this principle allows one to regain infant-like purity, achieving the state where spirit remains undying and form un-decaying.

On Nails and Hair: Though nails and hair belong to my body, cutting them causes no injury, and trimming them brings no pain. This is because the Qi-blood (nourishing and defensive energies) does not reach these parts. From this we see that harm does not originate from the "self," but is caused by sinews and bones; pain is not felt by the "self," but endured by flesh and blood. Thus we understand that joy, anger, sorrow, and pleasure do not arise from the "self" actively, but are veiled by the physical form. We often cherish this body excessively—those who see through this truth can transcend the bonds of life and death.

On the Nature of Spirit: The supreme Dao (Taishang) is the spirit (Shen) within emptiness; heaven and earth are the spirit of Yin-Yang energies; humans and animals are the spirit of flesh and blood. Their commonality lies in possessing spiritual awareness (Shen), while their differences manifest in form. Therefore, the physical form itself lacks spirituality, but Qi possesses it; language itself isn't spiritual, but sound contains it; waking consciousness doesn't reveal spirit, but dreams do; in life we remain unenlightened, yet in death clarity emerges. Just as water turns turbid when freezing at its clearest, spirit becomes obscured when descending into form. Ice melting returns to clarity, forms dissolving return to spirit. Those who comprehend true death can roam the supreme realm of Dao.

On Spiritual Resonance: When tortoises gaze at each other, it's the communion of spirits (Shen); when cranes call to one another, it's the resonance of Qi. These occur because shared intention allows spirit and Qi to intermingle. Thus, those who attain the Dao expand it to harmonize with heaven and earth, open their hearts to align with ultimate truth, regulate Qi to transform all beings, and blend spirit to influence the multitude. When my mind is peaceful and serene, the people's hearts become joyful and tranquil. In this state, thoughts remain undistracted, and actions flow with Wuwei (non-action). Like Qi naturally harmonizing, spirit spontaneously unifying, sounds inherently carrying joy and sorrow, and forms naturally undergoing flourishing and decline—what need is there for banner signals? Why employ war drums? What use for reward and punishment? Why deploy battle formations? Thus one can command all under heaven's armies and vanquish every foe. This is the Dao of spiritual resonance.

On the Containment Within All Things: Emptiness gives birth to spirit, spirit gives birth to primordial Qi, and Qi gives birth to form. Form and Qi interacting produce sound. The ear doesn't actively listen—sound enters naturally; valleys don't deliberately echo—reverberations fill them spontaneously. The ear is a small orifice, the valley a great one. Mountains and marshes are small valleys; heaven and earth are vast valleys. When one orifice sounds, ten thousand resonate; when one valley hears, ten thousand respond. Sound guides Qi, Qi guides spirit, spirit guides emptiness, emptiness contains spirit, spirit contains Qi, Qi contains sound. They mutually guide and contain each other, as naturally as autumn mosquitoes lightly flying or houseflies circling about.

The Book of Transformations reveals that the mystery of change permeates all existence. Even the slightest consideration leaves traces, and the softest whisper can be detected. Yet the profound workings of the true Daoist sage (the "Great Person") remain beyond the comprehension of heaven and earth, unfathomable to the interplay of Yin and Yang Qi, and impervious to the scrutiny of spirits and deities. Why is this? Because such workings arise spontaneously from the natural operation of Dao, De (Virtue), benevolence, and righteousness.

Here, the "Great Person" refers to an enlightened practitioner who has attained the highest realms of cultivation. Daoism teaches that when one acts in complete accordance with the natural principles of Dao, De, and moral virtue, their conduct merges with the heavenly Dao, transcending ordinary understanding. Like water flowing effortlessly downward, the actions of a realized sage may appear ordinary yet contain profound meaning—seemingly simple on the surface, yet impossible to trace back to their source.

The second volume of the Book of Transformation (Huashu) was composed by the Perfected One Tan Jingsheng, primarily expounding the profound principles underlying the transformation of all things.

The section on "Cloud-Dragon" explains how cultivators who master the mysteries of Shen (spirit) and Qi (vital energy) can harness natural forces like clouds following dragons or winds accompanying tigers. Here, Shen (referring to one's original spirit) acts as the mother, while Qi (primordial energy) is like the child. Summoning Qi with Shen resembles a mother calling her child—none shall fail to respond. To dispel impurities, one must summon the Qi of the Five Directional Celestial Emperors; to subdue venomous serpents, one must mobilize the essence of the Five Planets. Thus we understand how Yin-Yang can stir winds and summon clouds, how mountains may be moved, and oceans overturned. Yet rather than directing such power outward, one should first conserve Jing (essence) and Qi internally—only then can external applications become truly limitless.

The "Fierce Tiger" chapter describes how a prowling tiger makes vegetation bend and how an enraged venomous bird can shatter stones—all through the power of formidable presence. When a person's Shen and Qi are complete, their majesty becomes mighty; when Jing and Qi are abundant, their energy becomes majestic. Those truly capable of facing ten thousand foes rely not on martial skill but supreme majesty; those who inspire heartfelt submission in multitudes depend not on words but profound harmony.

The "Applying Shen" chapter observes legless insects, coiling snakes, and contracting snails to illustrate how physical movement has limits while spiritual application is boundless. Using physical form to drive Shen leads to dissipation, whereas employing Shen to master the body brings wellbeing.

The "Drainage Hole" section cites examples like water channels preventing floods and rice bran curing choking to demonstrate the universal principles of mutual generation and restraint. These methods have no fixed origin—the key lies in intuitive comprehension. Just as Yin is controlled by Yang, men overcome by women, hardness conquered by softness, and wisdom gained through simplicity, understanding these principles allows one to silence bells and drums, make chariot wheels rebel, transform spouses' hearts, or reverse ruler-subject positions.

These passages reveal the core Daoist cultivation concept of "internally conserving essence-energy while externally responding to all phenomena," emphasizing how inner refinement enables mastery of natural laws to achieve unity between self and cosmos.

This passage from the Book of Transformations reveals profound Daoist insights on the relationship between emptiness and substance, mind-nature, and natural laws.

Regarding the phenomenon of wangliang (legendary spirits) possessing shamans, the text observes: When possessed, the shaman's speech and actions resemble those of a deity; after departure, they return to ordinary behavior. This fundamentally demonstrates the dynamic between mind and Qi (vital energy), form and Shen (spirit)—the physical body serves as the dwelling of the spirit, while the spirit manifests through the body. Thus we understand that through cultivation, human thoughts can influence each other, Qi can transform, and Shen can transfer.

The "Emptiness-Nothingness" chapter emphasizes: When one attains the state of "no-mind," they transcend natural limitations—fire cannot burn them, water cannot drown them, weapons cannot harm them. Just as those immersed in joy forget hunger, those immersed in the realm of nothingness transcend life and death.

The "Substance-Emptiness" chapter illustrates with vivid analogies: A log of equal size appears spacious when placed on the ground, yet insufficient when balanced atop a pole—not because the object changes size, but because mental perceptions differ. Therefore, when one's mental state reaches a certain level, even water need not wet nor fire burn.

Regarding how fox spirits cannot deceive polished mirrors, the text attributes this to the mirror's "no-mind" quality. Expanding this principle: The void knows all precisely because it has no mind; heaven and earth operate naturally because of Wuwei (non-action), thus manifesting all phenomena. True Dao practitioners emulate this state of "nothingness" to attain omnipresence.

The final analogy of steering a ship demonstrates: A small wooden rudder turns a massive vessel; a tiny trigger releases a thousand-pound crossbow. Similarly, those who awaken to the Dao grasp the laws of Yin-Yang, perceive the essence of Shen, and thereby alter predetermined fate—even reversing heaven and earth. This embodies the Daoist cultivation wisdom of "governing the great through the small" and the ultimate pursuit of "seizing creation from heaven and earth."

The Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) discusses the intrinsic laws governing the metamorphosis of all things, emphasizing how mental states can induce physical transformations and how the interplay of Yin-Yang generates wondrous conversions.

The first passage explains how shifts in human consciousness manifest as bodily changes. Those who indulge excessively in desires may develop feminine features, while individuals prone to violent rage may exhibit tiger-like countenances. Joyful people appear gentle in form, contented ones relaxed, angry persons rigid, and sorrowful individuals mournful. A human's six-foot frame can transform like dragons and snakes, harden like metal and stone, or become supple as plants—such is the mystery of transformation.

The second passage uses pearl and jade formation as metaphors for inner cultivation. Grief produces tears, pungency induces nasal discharge, resentment congeals into lumps, and fury erupts as sores. Where consciousness directs, Qi follows accordingly. Thus Dao practitioners must moderate sorrow and restrain anger to preserve their primordial Qi (Haoyuan Qi), nurturing inner radiance like oysters guarding pearls or jade-bearing rocks.

The third section illustrates universal interconnectedness through the mud dauber wasp's example. This insect can alter a caterpillar's nature through shared Qi and spiritual resonance, maintaining each species' authenticity. Hence horses can be trained to fly, fish taught to run, and wooden dolls made sentient—just as infants mimic wet nurses. The principles of transformation surround us.

The fourth passage demonstrates Yin-Yang mutual generation through hybridization. When northern Hu people intermarry with southern Yue people, their offspring develop beards and short legs; when Man tribes wed Qiang tribes, children inherit high nasal bridges. Pear trees grafted with peach produce fuzzy fruit; plum trees grafted with apricot yield sweeter harvests. Yin nurtures Yang, softness begets hardness, curves straighten, the short lengthen, and water kindles fire (referring to alchemical water-fire interaction). These phenomena of mutual generation and restraint prove metals can become jewels and species alter forms.

The concluding passage summarizes the fundamental law of Yin-Yang transformation. When these two Qi energies interact, lingzhi mushrooms sprout without roots; when dryness and dampness interplay, borers emerge without mothers. Thus Daoists emulate Yin-Yang's generative roots and study moisture-aridity dynamics. Like clay tempered by Five Phases' fire, water flowing in endless cycles, or the Bagua's cosmic revolutions—all reveal the wondrous workings of creation.

The Dao is a wondrous existence through which all things come into being through transformation. Thus, the wise observe the myriad beings to understand themselves, and through understanding themselves, they comprehend the Great Dao. Yet the supreme Dao is profound and subtle, and ordinary people struggle to discern right from wrong within it.

There is a fish in the sea that uses shrimp as its eyes, and people mock it. Little do they know that the ancients used fireflies in bags as lamps for illumination, yet they failed to realize that without sunlight in the day, they could not move, and without candlelight at night, they would lose their way. People watch puppet shows and dismiss them as false, yet never doubt themselves; they mourn the death of friends but do not grieve over their own inevitable demise. Both sages and fools find it difficult to awaken—only those who preserve pure hearts and cultivate the Supreme Mystery (referring to the highest Dao) avoid falling into such delusions.

The pine trees in mountain valleys endure frost and snow because they embody upright Qi (vital energy); fine jade withstands scorching flames because it accumulates the purest Jing (essence). Thus, those who attain the Dao wield spirit banners (Daoist ritual objects) by day and gather divine mushrooms (immortal herbs) by night. They perceive what ordinary people cannot and contemplate what others fail to grasp. Hence, they fear neither winter’s bitter winds nor summer’s scorching heat. If a noble person nurtures upright Qi, they can repel disturbances from ghosts and spirits and subdue treacherous villains; if they accumulate the purest Jing, they can bring blessings to living beings and maintain prosperity, nobility, and longevity. How could this be a matter of mere quantity?

When movement and stillness rub against each other, fire is born; when dryness and dampness rise together, water forms; when fire and water clash, they transform into clouds; when hot water is poured into a well, it turns into hail; when water is sprayed toward the sun, a rainbow appears. Petty men take this as proof that one can manipulate Yin-Yang, command the Five Phases (Wood, Fire, Earth, Metal, Water), remake heaven and earth, and create the sun and moon. Those who hear such claims will surely find them absurd. Yet the human body itself—with its round head and square feet, its active upper half and still lower half, the Five Phases circulating within and the sun and moon shining without—embodies the very principle of remaking heaven and earth.

The music of zithers and lutes brings serenity and ease, the tunes of Zheng and Wei (ancient folk music) bring joy and relaxation, the sound of striking tiles sends chills down the spine, and the pounding of war drums makes even a feather tremble. Such is the principle of resonance in sound: harmonious tones summon Yang Qi, transforming into gentle breezes that nourish all things, while discordant sounds stir Yin Qi, turning into harsh winds that devastate. Qi gives rise to sound, and sound in turn influences Qi. When Qi flows, sound is emitted; when sound is emitted, it vibrates Qi; when Qi vibrates, it forms wind that moves all things.

The Book of Transformations (Huashu) teaches that all things can mutually transform. Wind and clouds may become frost and hail, phoenixes can sing, legendary bears (xiongpi) can dance, and even divine spirits (shenming) can form friendships with humans. The mystery of such transformations is profoundly vast.

The state of "Great Unity" (datong) refers to the void containing the void, divine spirits containing divine spirits, Qi (vital energy) containing Qi, light containing light, and all things containing all things. Those who comprehend this principle find their emotions can interflow and their forms can merge. Those who unite with fire become fire; those who unite with water become water; those who unite with the sun and moon become the sun and moon; those who unite with metal and stone become metal and stone. Only the perfected person (daren), who has attained the Dao, can unite with all things—there is nothing they cannot transform. Such a person may even stand shoulder to shoulder with the Supreme Void Sovereign (Xuhuang), the highest deity in Daoism.

The chapter "Imperial Teacher" (Dishi) states: A mirror does not actively reflect objects—objects appear in it of themselves. A bellows does not actively draw breath—Qi naturally fills it. Thus, the nose perceives scents because it is empty; the ear hears sounds because it is empty; the eye sees colors because it is empty; the tongue tastes flavors because it is empty. When the mind communes with darkness, it can encompass all things; when the spirit (shen) unites with emptiness, it can know all affairs. Therefore, the perfected person grasps the pivot of transformation, conceals subtle mysteries, masters divine talismans (yufu) and wondrous yin-fluids (a term from internal alchemy), and can protect nations, save troubled times, and even serve as teacher to emperors.

The chapter "Amber" (Hupo) illustrates with metaphors: Amber cannot attract rotten mustard, cinnabar (zhusha) cannot penetrate scorched metal, a lodestone cannot attract rusted iron, and primordial Qi cannot ignite a pottery kiln. Thus, the perfected person excels at harnessing the essence of the Five Phases (wuxing), adeptly capturing the numinous energy of all things, enjoying the blessings of heaven and humanity, and commanding the glory of wind-steeds (or phoenixes). The essential method of cultivating the Dao lies in forgetting the physical form and seeking the inner true nature.

In the third volume of the Book of Transformations, the Perfected Tan Jingsheng elucidates profound truths through vivid analogies.

Regarding "Virtuous Transformation" (Dehua), the text observes: Confucianism speaks of the Five Constants (humaneness, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness), which people categorize as five behavioral norms corresponding to natural phenomena like the Five Phases (Wuxing), five colors, five tones, five sacred mountains, five planets, and five metals. But clinging to these external forms is like vinegar worms unable to comprehend the vastness of heaven or frogs in a well imagining the ocean's immensity. In truth, the Five Constants share an essential unity—only by forgetting names can one grasp principles, and only by forgetting principles can one apprehend true meaning. Nourishing oneself with the Dao's purity and stillness, allowing spirit (Shen) to merge with nature, is like water dissolving into water or fire merging with fire—thus one masters the essence of the Five Phases. When concentrated, a single point suffices; when dispersed, all things benefit. Applying it is like pouring wine into a vessel; responding to events is like reflecting forms in a mirror. This way, one comprehends Yin-Yang transformations, attains spiritual illumination, and masters the great Dao of governing states like Confucius.

The "Moth" chapter uses moths drawn to flame as a metaphor: all people, wise or foolish, resemble moths flying toward candlelight or flies crashing against windows—knowing only advancement, not retreat; recognizing profit but blind to the harm within gain. Those wise about others but confused about themselves—can they be truly wise? Those learned about external things but ignorant of themselves—can they be truly erudite? Thus, genuine transcendents rise above profit and harm, achieving perfect appropriateness in all actions.

The "Differing Minds" chapter illustrates through animal behavior: tigers prowl mountains, snakes glide through marshes—not enemies of eagles, yet eagles cry warnings because they harbor differing minds. Oxen graze fields, pigs sleep in pens—not controlled by birds, yet birds perch on them because they share no conflict. Similarly, the qilin bears horns but never attacks; the phoenix has a beak but never harms.

This passage from The Book of Transformations employs vivid metaphors to reveal the dialectical relationship between power, cunning, and the natural Dao.

Regarding power and strategy, the text observes: The swiftest runner will eventually stumble; the mightiest warrior will ultimately meet defeat. Cunning schemes inevitably reach their limits, and the crafty often find themselves outwitted by the simple. Just as the Son of Heaven creates bows and arrows to awe the realm, only to have thieves turn these weapons against him; as noblemen establish rituals and music to regulate society, only to see petty men appropriate these trappings to pose as gentlemen. Rulers hoard provisions and expand armies to guard against thieves, yet bandits ultimately seize these very resources to overthrow the state. If one truly relies on De (Virtue), what need is there for stockpiling? If one follows celestial patterns, why maintain armies?

On the nature of understanding, it proposes: Those who appear omnipotent invariably harbor profound limitations; those who seem omniscient must have realms unknown. Only by forgetting the bow itself can one grasp the essence of archery; by releasing the whip and reins can one master horsemanship; by transcending musical instruments can one comprehend music's true nature; by abandoning clever stratagems can one apprehend the Dao of sages. The ruler who governs All-Under-Heaven derives his De from human nature; the effective administrator roots his benevolence in human hearts; the doomed monarch's so-called "wisdom" violates fundamental humanity.

The text contrasts the yellow sparrow with the dark swallow (swift): The sparrow bustles daily in courtyards, growing familiar yet perpetually disturbed; the swallow visits human dwellings occasionally, maintaining distance yet finding peace. The former moves anxiously, chirps fretfully, darts nervous glances, and harbors constant fear; the latter glides effortlessly, sings clearly, gazes serenely, and maintains tranquil composure. This metaphor illustrates how those perpetually suspicious of others inevitably become objects of suspicion themselves.

Finally, it critiques rulers: Though performing sacrificial rites and divinations to show reverence for spirits, they simultaneously conscript laborers to build walls and confiscate food to fill granaries. This amounts to seeking blessings through violence and preventing collapse by force—profaning the spirits while deceiving the people. Under such governance, rewards fail to inspire and punishments cannot intimidate, making the state's preservation naturally impossible.

The Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) passage primarily elucidates principles for personal conduct and state governance.

On the distinction between noble persons (junzi) and petty persons (xiaoren): Just as a caged monkey cannot leap beyond its bars no matter how high it jumps, or an encased tiger cannot break free despite its fury, petty schemers cannot transcend the noble path of the junzi. The true Dao operates like earth supporting all things or heaven encompassing all directions—it neither rages at others' resentment nor retaliates against deception, thereby allowing all beings to find their natural place.

Regarding enduring governance principles: Benevolence (ren), righteousness (yi), loyalty (zhong), trustworthiness (xin), integrity (lian), and eloquence (bian) are fundamentally sound governance methods. Yet misapplied, they may instead bring national ruin, invite punishment, provoke public outrage, or summon calamity. The crux lies in their application: the unskillful wield them to control others, while the wise employ them for self-cultivation. Just as fish flee bait and ants avoid pungent lures, such failures stem from misunderstanding transformation's principles (hua zhi dao).

On emotional attitudes: Filial piety motivated by paternal affection isn't true devotion, nor is loyalty prompted by imperial favor genuine allegiance. Authentic resonance arises without seeking, true joy without expectation. Excessive emotion breeds resentment, extreme delight begets anger. Like smoldering embers hidden in field grass, the junzi navigates the world thus: neither feeling honored by titles nor slighted by courtesy; neither overvaluing intimacy nor suspecting distance; bearing disgrace without resentment—where then would emotional turbulence arise?

On discerning character: When imperial physicians diagnose pulses, steady and substantial rhythms indicate the junzi's vitality, while erratic and superficial ones reveal xiaoren traits. In divination, smooth hexagrams portend fortune, jagged ones misfortune. Thus we see universal principles interconnect. Observe a nation to understand its ministers, observe ministers to comprehend their ruler, observe the ruler to discern the state's destiny. Ministers may choose enlightened rulers to serve; rulers may select worthy officials to employ. Outward courtesy can be feigned, but innate qi-quality cannot be falsified; robes and caps may disguise, but genuine capability resists imitation.

The Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) reveals social laws and principles of governance through vivid metaphors, with its core philosophy opposing artificial effort and advocating natural non-action (Wuwei).

On contrived speech and scheming: Artificially embellished words and sounds ultimately reveal their true nature. What is hidden in the heart is called scheming, what surpasses ordinary people is called strategy, yet few understand this truth: the profound mysteries of genuine Virtue (De) are known to all, while hypocritical benevolence and calculated strategies are what people truly lack. When rewards and punishments become tools of indoctrination, mercenary ways flourish; when distinctions are made between intimacy and distance, petty men find opportunities. Just as thieves dare not pick up gold left openly in the street, so slander cannot take root when court discussions are conducted transparently—this represents the fairest state of governance.

On the harm of artificiality: Painters dare not alter divine iconography arbitrarily, nor do carvers disrespect the original form of sacred statues, for unauthorized changes inevitably bring misfortune. Those who set traps eventually become trapped themselves; those who create dangers perish by those dangers. The meritorious become burdened by their fame, while lawmakers find themselves constrained by their own statutes. A single adjustment triggers chain reactions—thus ceremonial bows value sincerity, danger-resolution values simplicity, achievements value leaving no trace, and laws value formless subtlety. Only those who transcend the realm of artificial contrivance can truly grasp the Great Dao (the Way).

On governance principles: Forced drinking makes people abstain, while tolerant hosting makes them drink freely. Oppressed populations rebel, while embraced populations support. A ruler who understands the paradoxical truth—"threatening death makes people willing to die, imposing taxes makes people pay gladly"—will realize: people emulate their ruler's Virtue (De), while rulers ultimately depend on their people's strength. Only those who master this cyclical transformation are fit to govern nations.

On the measure of rewards: While marquisates are universally desired and gold universally treasured, no one praises publicly awarded titles or rejoices over equally divided jade. Rewards must not be given arbitrarily, nor favors distributed indiscriminately. Appropriate bestowals become seeds of contention, while inappropriate ones breed chaos. When rulers maintain humility, their rewards avoid excess; when practicing frugality, their favors remain balanced. All historical collapses stem from arrogant extravagance in rewards.

On governing wisdom: People resent fire prohibitions rather than fire itself, resent anti-theft measures rather than thieves. Thus forced relief proves worse than no relief, and compelled affection worse than indifference. Heaven's timely rains draw complaints, and answered prayers invite criticism. This reveals a profound truth: excessive intervention backfires, while natural non-action (Wuwei) ensures lasting peace.

This passage from the Book of Transformations emphasizes that addressing root causes is more important than treating symptoms. Banning people from using fire (prohibiting "people's fire") is less effective than extinguishing the inner flames of anger ("heart-fire"); guarding against theft by others is inferior to first restraining one's own greed ("self-theft"). The same principle applies to governing the people.

Here, "heart-fire" metaphorically represents negative emotions like anger and desire, while "self-theft" refers to personal greed. The author argues that external restrictions are less effective than inner cultivation—rather than imposing harsh prohibitions, rulers should guide the people in self-cultivation. This reflects the Daoist governance philosophy of "inner sagehood and outer kingship," emphasizing that nurturing inner virtue (De) is the true foundation.

The fourth volume of the Book of Transformations (Huashu) was authored by the Perfected Person Tan Jingsheng and primarily expounds on the principle of "transformation through benevolence" (Renhua).

On the concept of "attaining the One" (De Yi):

The great Dao (the Way) is fundamentally empty and spontaneous—this is called "Dao." The capacity to maintain this state of emptiness is "De" (Virtue/Power). When De transforms and generates all things, it becomes "benevolence" (Ren). When benevolence rescues the endangered and relieves the distressed, it becomes "righteousness" (Yi). When righteousness involves discernment in action and restraint, it becomes "propriety" (Li). When propriety adapts to changing circumstances, it becomes "wisdom" (Zhi). When wisdom preserves sincerity, it becomes "trustworthiness" (Xin). One who integrates and applies all these is a sage. The Dao itself is empty and cannot sustain itself, so it requires De to uphold it. De is pure and non-active (Wuwei), yet it must manifest through benevolence. When benevolence is applied, it transforms and generates all things, and with the emergence of all things, there inevitably arise dangers and crises—thus, righteousness is needed to regulate them. Righteousness, in aiding the endangered and relieving the distressed, inevitably involves gains and losses, so propriety is required to standardize it. Propriety, in maintaining order, may become rigid, so wisdom is needed to adapt. Wisdom, in its thorough understanding, leads to many changes, so trustworthiness is necessary to stabilize it. Trustworthiness is the key to the fulfillment of all things.

On the correspondence with the "Five Phases" (Wuxing):

Dao and De are like heaven and earth, while the Five Constants (benevolence, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and trustworthiness) correspond to the Five Phases. Benevolence governs growth and corresponds to Wood; righteousness governs rescue and corresponds to Metal; propriety governs distinction and corresponds to Fire; wisdom governs adaptability and corresponds to Water; trustworthiness governs stability and corresponds to Earth. When benevolence is insufficient, righteousness compensates (Metal overcomes Wood); when righteousness is insufficient, propriety compensates (Fire overcomes Metal); when propriety is insufficient, wisdom compensates (Water overcomes Fire); when wisdom is insufficient, trustworthiness compensates (Earth overcomes Water). Initially, mutual compensation among the Five Constants is necessary, but ultimately, their mutual restraint reflects the natural order of the Dao.

On the reflection on "hunting and fishing":

Animals share many similarities with humans: they have nests for dwelling, mates for companionship, innate bonds between parent and child, and emotions regarding life and death. The crow feeding its parents embodies benevolence; the falcon protecting its young embodies righteousness; the hive having a ruler embodies propriety; the lamb kneeling to nurse embodies wisdom; and the pheasant not remating embodies trustworthiness. Upon closer examination, all things in the world possess the Five Constants and a hundred virtues. Yet humans craft nets and teach others to hunt and fish: burning animals’ nests violates benevolence, depriving them of their loved ones violates righteousness, using them as sacrificial offerings violates propriety, teaching cruelty violates wisdom, and causing all creatures to live in fear violates trustworthiness. The human craving for the taste of flesh does not cease, nor does the impulse to kill—these actions all defy the heavenly Dao.

The Book of Transformations (Huashu) reveals profound truths about social phenomena through vivid metaphors.

On Sacrificial Rites: In ancient times, people offered livestock like oxen and sheep to deities, seemingly following ritual propriety. But true gentlemen understand that such formalistic offerings cannot genuinely move heaven and earth. If spirits were to accept these superficial tributes, calamity would follow instead. Just as the appearance of divine dragons (shenlong) brings sudden storms, phoenixes descending signal disorder in social hierarchy, and unicorns (qilin) manifesting foretell the fall of nations—ostensibly auspicious signs often conceal inauspicious realities.

On Social Harmony: Hares become cunning because hunters are cunning; people turn deceitful because officials are deceitful. Don’t merely blame thieves and rebels—these phenomena stem from social injustice. Without harmony, hatred arises; without fair rewards, conflict ensues. The truly wise treat all beings equally, without favoritism or prejudice. This embodies the state of "Great Harmony" (Taihe), the highest form of unity.

On Worldly Wisdom: The cuttlefish conceals itself with ink, only to be caught more easily. Likewise, the intelligent are often suppressed, the eloquent humiliated, the clear-sighted deceived, and the bold meet untimely ends. No lock can fully deter thieves; no prohibition can wholly block enemies. True wisdom lies in following the Dao (the Way), De (Virtue), and humaneness (ren).

On Human Relations: Praising others earns praise in return; slandering invites slander. A noble person knows that self-reproach indirectly reproaches others, and that refusing retaliation is the truest form of retribution. Like a mystical bow that shoots without drawing or aiming, this natural principle applies equally to individuals and the world.

On Generosity: Those who help others while flaunting their righteousness fail to earn genuine respect; those who give expecting repayment seldom receive it. Such is human nature: the more one yields, the more one gains; the more one contends, the less one obtains.

The Book of Transformations reveals profound truths about human conduct through vivid analogies.

On "Great Righteousness" and "Great Benevolence": True righteousness has no fixed form, and true kindness leaves no trace. When great righteousness is accomplished, its beneficiaries often remain unaware; when great benevolence is bestowed, its recipients seldom think to repay.

On the Dao of calligraphy: True mastery lies not in technique. Only when mind and hand, hand and brush become one—forgetting the tools themselves—can one grasp calligraphy's essence. Excellent calligraphy isn't deliberately archaic or artificially delicate, but a natural expression of inner spirit. Like the harmonious governance of the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi), or the dignified bearing of a noble person. Those who understand this principle enjoy inner joy, spiritual harmony, and smooth Qi flow—governing with such understanding brings peace to the world.

Nature inspires self-cultivation: Mountains suggest stillness, water prompts movement, clouds inspire change, and names remind us of rectitude—these are natural human responses.

The phoenix and owl analogy: The phoenix doesn't perceive its own beauty, nor the owl its ugliness. Emperor Yao and Shun didn't consider themselves sage-kings, just as the Youmiao tribe didn't see their own cruelty. People often discern others clearly but remain blind to themselves—they can sketch others' features but not their own, spot others' faults but not their own, foresee others' misfortunes but not their own crises. Truly wise individuals observe others' true character through their words and actions.

External manifestations reveal inner qualities: Writing displays social standing, calligraphy betrays temperament, music reflects virtue, and policies foretell fortune. Thus we recognize: Yao's countenance showed simplicity, Shun's serenity, Yu's expansiveness, Tang's solemnity, King Wen's nobility, King Wu's resoluteness, and Confucius' radiance. In this way, everyone can assess their own worthiness or folly.

Finally, the ant metaphor: Though tiny, ants have their ruler. They share one nest, climb the same mound, store grains collectively, and divide a single insect. This implies leaders should share weal and woe with their people.

(Note: "The harmonious governance of the Yellow Emperor" refers to the peaceful era under Huangdi's rule; "Taotangshi" denotes Emperor Yao; "Youmiao" names an ancient tribe.)

The Book of Transformations reveals the profound principles of mutual resonance between things. When many people share responsibility for wrongdoing, their hearts become connected; when hearts connect, their spirits (Shen) become connected; when spirits connect, their Qi (vital energy) becomes connected; and when Qi connects, their physical forms become connected. Thus when I fall ill, others will also fall ill; when I feel pain, others will feel pain—this prevents resentment and betrayal from arising. This was the purest form of education in ancient times.

On the Dao of song and dance: Those skilled in singing perform while those unskilled listen; those skilled in dancing perform while those unskilled watch; the dexterous demonstrate their craft while the clumsy judge their merits; the virtuous shoulder responsibilities while the ordinary remain content in their stations. Just as tree planters will eventually fell their trees, those who nurture talent will ultimately require their service unto death. Luring people with official positions and salaries is like decorating horses with ornate carriages—it doesn't make the horses noble. Feeding pigs with husks won't make them fat. Thus the truly wise neither vainly chase wealth and status nor stubbornly cling to poverty, maintaining balance in both advancement and retreat. Those who withdraw from society don't delight in hardship—they simply understand this principle.

Consider the tasting of fine wine versus poison: At first sip it resembles mustard greens, then millet, then medicinal pills, until finally it becomes like dried meat. From this we learn that powerful crossbows can be drawn gradually, massive cauldrons can be lifted slowly, water and fire can be adapted to progressively, and fierce beasts can be tamed step by step. Rebels will be transformed by my influence, the humiliated will receive my aid, the unresponsive will accept my commands, and the defiant will submit to my rule. Just as the gentlest horse proves hardest to control and the most insidious thief hardest to guard against, mastering this principle makes one the root of all transformations.

On stopping conflicts: Forcibly preventing fights only provokes more conflict; suppressing anger only intensifies rage. Those skilled at resolving disputes prevent them before they arise; those adept at calming anger channel it constructively. Thus the heart cannot be forcibly restrained—the more you suppress it, the more chaotic it becomes; the people cannot be forcibly governed—the more you control them, the more resentful they grow. Water may be easily stirred but will clarify naturally; people may be easily changed but will stabilize spontaneously. The key lies in not violating the inherent nature of things.

On symbolic talismans (Fulu): Certain arts can neutralize all poisons using nothing more than crossed arms or bent fingers as symbolic talismans. For instance, a winding posture serves as the talisman for scaled creatures, a soaring posture for birds, a crouching posture for beasts, and a curled posture for shelled creatures. From this we understand that folded hands are humanity's talisman—those who bow to others will surely receive bows in return; those who bend before others will surely be met with deference. This is the foundation of ritual propriety.

The Huashu (Book of Transformations) expounds on the principles governing the metamorphosis of all things and the fundamental nature of human character.

When we examine phenomena in isolation, they manifest in countless changing forms. Teaching someone to dance appears as instruction in movement, yet its essence transcends mere dance; directing people in prayer and sacrifice seems like ritual performance, but its true significance extends beyond ceremony. As one who has attained the Dao, I seldom cling to superficial forms, whereas ordinary people remain ensnared by illusory appearances. To reproach others for lacking genuine feeling reveals precisely their deficiency in sincerity; to blame rituals for being ineffective misunderstands that they should never be pursued for external results alone.

Concerning good and evil: those who commit wrongs fear discovery, yet are inevitably exposed; those who perform good deeds hope for recognition, yet often remain unknown. Thus, the most profound wickedness lies in acts entirely hidden from view, while the highest goodness resides in virtue that goes unnoticed. Those who delight in petty favors will never bestow great kindness; those who chase novelty will never achieve monumental deeds; those obsessed with games of chance will never attain deep wisdom; those who pursue ornate rhetoric will never secure enduring fame.

Therefore, the true noble person values only the great Dao (the fundamental law of the cosmos) and upholds only genuine De (Virtue). It is precisely this commitment that allows their spirit to endure, undiminished, through ten thousand generations.

Book of Transformations, Volume 5, Chapter 4, written by the Perfected Tan Jingsheng, primarily examines various forms of exploitation and human nature in society.

On the importance of food: When people go without eating for one day, they grow weary; after two days, they fall ill; and after three days, they perish. Nothing is more urgent in commoners' lives than obtaining food, yet rulers exploit them through multiple channels: local officials take their share, soldiers plunder through warfare, artisans have their labor exploited, merchants see their profits siphoned, Daoist priests and Buddhist monks demand alms, harvests are taxed even in abundant years, and frugal savings aren't spared. The people raise silkworms and weave cloth yet wear coarse hemp garments; they till fields and reap harvests yet survive on acorns. The ruler's punishments appear to maintain justice while creating the greatest injustice; the sages' promoted morality seems to rectify unrighteousness while potentially fostering greater inequity. How can superficial displays of benevolence and ritual possibly mend such harm?

On sorcery and idols: When shamans perform rituals, ghosts possess them; when idols are erected, spirits descend—this occurs because these entities relish such offerings. Just as the Rong and Jie tribes honor mothers but not fathers, just as beasts follow only their mothers, and just as humans instinctively call for their mothers in distress—all this stems from the nurturing bond of breastfeeding. Tigers and wolves merely crave flesh; flood dragons simply thirst for blood—yet human desires know no bounds. When desires go unfulfilled, conflict arises; when deprived, rebellion follows. To inflame the grievances of all under heaven or provoke warriors' fury—the way of sustenance is no trivial matter.

On nurturing relationships: Though the horse's owner holds mastery, its daily caretaker grows closer to the animal; though the mother bears the child, the wet nurse becomes more intimate with the infant. Between ruler and minister—who by nature shouldn't be so close—salaries create attachment; between mother and child—who by nature shouldn't be so intimate—nursing fosters bonding. Inferior horses are inherently ignorant; infants are innately guileless—yet scheming and cunning emerge precisely from these relationships. Thus arise distinctions of love and hate, oppositions between self and other, seeds of contention planted, and deceptions cultivated.

On escalating exploitation: When the ruler takes silk thread, officials seize the strands; when the ruler takes the strands, officials claim the ribbons. Exploitation progresses from deception to flogging, from flogging to theft, from theft to murder, from murder to judicial punishment. Deception isn't inherent to the people—it's taught through excessive taxation; killing isn't their intention—it's trained through harsh penalties. Like tossing fuel into flames while knowing the fire approaches—this only makes the blaze fiercer.

These passages from the Book of Transformations discuss how human obsession with food and desire leads to social problems, using vivid metaphors to reveal the dangers of uncontrolled cravings.

When a drowning person knows death is inevitable, they still hope to delay it; when someone chased by a tiger leaps off a cliff, they cling to the illusion of survival despite certain doom. This self-deceptive mentality is profoundly tragic.

On extravagance and waste: A noble person feels ashamed to admit hunger and equally ashamed to flaunt satiety. Such attitudes easily provoke resentment in others. The harm of gluttony manifests in many ways: Golden plates and jade bowls are its ornaments, bells and drums its entertainment, lavish settings its indulgence, exhausting rare delicacies its cruelty. Disputes arise over taste, and conflicts erupt over ingredient values. The stronger the desire, the greater the demand—the poor always crave more food, while the rich constantly seek finer fare. Thus emerges extravagance, and thus begin wars. If food were distributed equally, the world would know peace.

The metaphor of gnawing burnt bones: Some chew scorched bones until their mouths blister without feeling pain; others drink strong liquor until their stomachs burn and they vomit without sensing bitterness. The glutton forgets suffering, just as the starving disregard life itself. When pain is forgotten, anything becomes edible; when life is undervalued, any action seems permissible. Rulers project their own desires onto the people—when hungry themselves, they imagine their subjects starving. The ruler's anger becomes the people's wrath; the ruler's resentment becomes public grievance. Understanding this principle, how could rebellion ever arise?

The delusion of food: Some gorge themselves to death, others choke fighting over meals; some die moved by food, others perish from humiliation over dining, still others fall in brawls over provisions. People mock these victims, yet fail to see officials chasing salaries are ultimately chasing food, just as merchants pursuing wealth seek sustenance. Officials executed for flattery or slander, merchants drowned crossing seas for trade—none comprehend what they truly pursue or why they die, instead blaming colleagues or cursing the ocean. This is food's great deception.

The tyranny of appetite: Merely imagining sour plums makes saliva flow uncontrollably; seeing lavish feasts triggers irresistible urges to devour. Hunger makes one crave entire oxen; thirst conjures visions of draining oceans. Desire assaults humans like bandits, while reason stands as defensive walls. When defenses hold, bandits retreat; with slightest weakness, they attack. Desires never vanish voluntarily, just as bandits never leave willingly.

Interpretation of the Hua Shu in Vernacular Language

Desire and War

When war erupts, the most exquisite brocades and pearls lose their value, the most prestigious official hats and banners cease to command respect, and even the grandest music of metal and silk instruments goes unheard. The splendor of palaces and towers becomes invisible. At such times, the people starve, their livelihoods precarious. If you preach empty platitudes about benevolence and righteousness, who will believe you? If you try to intimidate them with harsh laws and punishments, who will truly fear them?

The Glue-Tipped Pole and the Sparrow

When you use a bamboo pole smeared with glue to catch sparrows, the birds merely chirp in response. But if you hold out food to feed crows, they will fly to you with news. This shows that the most violent methods provoke resistance, while sharing food dissolves hostility. Thus, even snakes and pigs can become friends, and tigers and rhinos can be tamed. If this is true for distant and alien creatures, how much more so for human interactions?

Geng and Xin’s Fish

Geng built a railing by his pond using bamboo, which made a "ce-ce" sound when stepped on. Xin used wood for his railing, producing a "tang-tang" noise. Both men kept fish in their ponds and fed them by tossing in bait, causing the fish to leap from the water. Over time, the fish began jumping at the mere sound of "ce-ce" or "tang-tang," even without food. Eventually, Geng’s fish were called "Ce-Ce Fish," and Xin’s were known as "Tang-Tang Fish"—a demonstration of how conditioned reflexes can override instinct.

The Crux of Rise and Fall

Boils and burns are urgent human afflictions, and the people liken hunger to festering sores and hardship to scorching flames, for nothing is more real than personal suffering. Salted fish and foot filth are no different; pufferfish and mud are much the same—yet a starving man will eat even these. When famished, people will consume anything; when desperate, they will do anything. This is the crux of a nation’s rise and fall.

Humans, Sparrows, and Rats

People despise sparrows and rats for stealing, while the creatures distrust humans, fearing capture. Those in power oppress the masses over food, and the masses deceive the powerful to survive. Mutual hatred and suspicion arise from the struggle to endure. If you cut flesh from a man to feed yourself, how can he not cry out? If you throttle him to take his food, how can he not rage? The people’s poverty stems from exploitation; their hunger, from plunder—how lamentable!

The Dao of Wuwei (Non-Action)

Oxen are born to pull carts, horses to bear loads, dogs to guard homes, and hawks to hunt—all things follow their inherent nature.

This scripture profoundly reveals the fundamental influence of "food" on all beings through comparisons between animal and human behavior.

Food can be used to train animals for specific actions: making macaques dance, teaching parrots to speak, inciting eagles to fight each other, or organizing ants into collective warfare—all are results of food inducement. Fish bite hooks for food, tigers enter traps for food, wild geese collide with nets for food, and enemy states turn against each other for food—such are the temptations food creates. The movement of heaven and earth, the protection of deities, the bowing of noble men, and the submission of foreign tribes—all relate to food offerings. From the Son of Heaven to commoners, all beings are governed by food. If rulers wear plain cloth, the people naturally feel warm; if they eat coarse grains, the people naturally feel satisfied. Those skilled in applying this principle can achieve the state of governing through Wuwei (non-action).

The text particularly notes: the mother hunts for food while the young suckle; the young preserve their lives while the mother falls into traps. Neither understands the other's suffering. A ruler's annual expenditure on clothing and food may not exceed a million, yet the lands granted and riches bestowed amount to millions more. This is like gnawing at the ruler's flesh—joy belongs to the subordinates while resentment falls upon the ruler. If the ruler does not pursue wealth and status, how would anyone dare overstep their bounds?

The author laments: some pity eagles fighting over rotten rats or ants carrying dead insects, believing them inferior to humans. Yet they forget that during famines, men fight over corpses; during sieges, they exchange children to eat—acts even jackals and wolves would balk at, yet humans commit them. Thus comes the conclusion: a ruler without food cannot be benevolent, ministers without food cannot be righteous, scholars without food cannot be courteous, and commoners without food lose wisdom. Food is the root of the five constants—humanity, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness—while these virtues are merely its extensions. If rulers distribute clothing equally and yield food humbly, the people will live in harmony: mutual joy among people is the ultimate humanity, love between father and son the ultimate righteousness, yielding in hunger and satiety the ultimate propriety, proper advance and retreat the ultimate wisdom, and keeping promises the ultimate faithfulness. This constitutes the highest form of moral cultivation.

Through numerous examples, this passage demonstrates the material foundation's crucial role in moral education, emphasizing that rulers must lead by example and restrain desires to achieve genuine social governance.

This passage illustrates how seemingly humble things often contain immense value. Though food appears to be an ordinary substance (its material seems lowly), its function is profoundly significant (its use is highly esteemed). The very name "food" sounds trivial (its name appears minute), yet its transformative power (referring to its life-nourishing, existence-sustaining role) is extraordinarily great (its transformation is vast). Hence it is called "priceless goods" — meaning that while commonplace, its worth is beyond measure.

Here we see the Daoist principle of "nobility and baseness mutually arising," which teaches that outwardly insignificant things may possess sublime value, warning against judging true worth by surface appearances.

The sixth volume of The Book of Transformation (Huashu), written by the Perfected Tan Jingsheng, primarily expounds on the principle of "frugality." The chapter "Great Peace" (Taiping) states: Water and fire are daily necessities, but improper use can destroy a household—this stems from a lack of moderation. Eating and drinking are ordinary matters, yet improper consumption can be fatal—this too arises from a lack of restraint. When rituals become extravagant and pleasures unrestrained, it is like spilt water that cannot be retrieved. To remedy such a situation, the best method is frugality. Frugality is the way to distribute food fairly; when food is distributed fairly, benevolence and righteousness emerge. When benevolence and righteousness arise, ritual and music find their proper order. When ritual and music are orderly, the people will not resent; when the people do not resent, the spirits will not be angered. This is the foundation for achieving an era of Great Peace.

The chapter "Balance and Measure" (Quanheng) explains: Those who wear fine linen robes do not originally feel cold, but if given thicker silk, they may begin to feel chilled. Those who eat wild vegetables do not originally feel hunger, but if given refined grains, they may grow hungrier. Thus, rulers must consider their own feelings while also guarding against the psychology of the people. When the people see others carrying stones, they are content to carry earth; when they see others carrying earth, they are satisfied to bear fodder. Hunger and cold have no fixed standard, nor do lightness and heaviness have absolute boundaries—abundance and frugality are relative. What the ruler values, the people will value; what the ruler dismisses, the people will dismiss. Only those who practice frugality can become the measure for the people.

The chapter "The Dao of Ritual" (Lidao) points out: Ritual emphasizes grandeur, while frugality emphasizes simplicity. Ritual seeks completeness, while frugality embraces incompleteness. Ritual favors ornate attire, while frugality prefers plain clothing. Ritual thrives on pomp and spectacle, while frugality cherishes quiet and simplicity. The more one pursues wealth and status, the less joy one finds; the more one seeks honor, the less beauty one perceives; the more rewards are given, the less satisfaction is felt; the more affection is bestowed, the less respect is shown. Gold and jade are the trappings of wealth, while official titles are the marks of nobility. To the thirsty, even water tastes sweet; to the hungry, even coarse food is delicious. Only by maintaining frugality can one truly understand what constitutes excess.

The chapter "The Elephant of Consumption" (Shixiang) states: Those accustomed to seeing elephants will find oxen too small; those accustomed to wearing royal crowns will find ordinary hats unimpressive. This sense of "insufficiency" has its roots, and the winds of corruption have their origins. When rulers indulge in extravagance, ministers will feel it is not enough; when ministers are extravagant, scholars will feel it is lacking; when scholars are lavish, the common people will feel deprived; when the people are wasteful, the whole world will feel wanting. If the wealth of the world were divided into ten portions, and the ruler desires one, the people will also desire one; if the ruler seeks five, the people will demand five; if the ruler claims all ten, the people will covet all ten. This psychology of comparison is calculated precisely in these ten measures.

Here is a modern vernacular interpretation of several passages from the Hua Shu (Book of Transformations):

"The passage 'Ten Households as One State' discusses the dangers of excessive expansion. If ten households are forcibly merged into one, or ten states combined into a single kingdom, eventually only one ruler will remain in the world—how could this not lead to problems? It's like how an alcoholic husband impoverishes his family, or a son obsessed with falconry brings ruin to his household. A single servant consuming three bowls of rice daily amounts to over a thousand bowls annually. Maintaining a thousand soldiers at this rate, with rulers sustaining such expenditures year after year, inevitably stirs popular resentment. The issue lies in incessant demands rather than restrained consumption. When rulers ride in ox-drawn carriages, the people take pride in walking; when rulers dwell in earthen huts, the people honor simplicity. The key is to cultivate frugality through small daily practices—seeing others wear hemp robes without disdain, finding contentment in coarse pottery tableware."

"The passage 'The Reputation of Miserliness' rehabilitates thriftiness. Though society considers miserliness shameful, it embodies true frugality. Giving nothing indiscriminately nor taking excessively, farming for one's own sustenance, clothing oneself through personal labor—ensuring family members are well-fed and servants never starve—this neither invites resentment nor angers the spirits. One person's understanding of thrift enriches an entire household; a ruler's comprehension of it enriches the world."

"The passage 'Ruler and People' reveals the subtle relationship between governors and the governed. Though their status differs, their desires interconnect. What rulers enjoy—hunting on horseback—the people also relish; what rulers indulge in—sensual pleasures—the people crave too; rulers' love for jewels mirrors the people's; rulers' gluttony parallels popular appetites. Different labels, identical cravings. The hemp-clad covet scholars' hairpins; the pinned scholars envy officials' swords; sword-bearing officials yearn for royal crowns. Thus positioned at the pinnacle of universal attention, rulers must deliberate carefully. Gilding chariots with gold and jade plunders the people's wealth; erecting towering pavilions exhausts their labor—this teaches the populace greed. Rather than exchanging grain and firewood for treasures, better to store practical necessities, lest one invites calamity."

"The passage 'Nursing Infant' emphasizes sincerity over form. Who dares mock a nursing babe though it wears no clothes? Is this due to fine garments? Who scorns a shepherd's bow though it lacks ceremonial rigor? Is this through harsh laws? When host and guest share true feeling, coarse fare becomes a feast—why need bells and drums? With gentle virtue, hemp cloth outshines silken robes."

This passage from the Hua Shu (Book of Transformations) expounds on the principle of "frugality" (simplicity and moderation) as the fundamental tenet for governing a state and cultivating the self.

Regarding statecraft: When rulers dig moats, display weapons, hoard provisions, and erect barriers, it stems from their distrust of the people. Yet if they practice the Dao of frugality, the people naturally refrain from deceit and selfish desires diminish. Frugality thus becomes the ruler's true teacher.

Concerning self-cultivation: Moderating hearing nurtures emptiness and stillness; restraining vision preserves the spirit (Shen); limiting speech conserves vital energy (Qi). Personal frugality brings prosperity, while public frugality maintains nobility. When frugality permeates from households to court halls, banditry and rebellion cease. Frugal officials shun corruption, frugal consorts prolong their years, and a frugal mind transcends life and death. Herein lies frugality as the root of all transformations.

On mastering the fundamental ("holding to the One"): Rulers know that grasping the root governs all under heaven, yet fail to recognize what constitutes the root. The Five Constants (humanity, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness) each have their essence—he who holds this essence can rule. This truth is profoundly simple, though men mystify it. The secret of holding to the One is frugality, which regulates the Five Constants and anchors the people's hearts.

On governance in the era of the Three Sovereigns: When the ruler practiced frugality, ministers became content; this influence cascaded until all commoners were satisfied. Thus vanished greed for wealth and fame, cunning and deception. Ritual and righteousness arose naturally, punishments and governance found peace, warfare ceased of itself, and wanderers returned to till the land. Such was the way of the Three Sovereigns.

The text concludes with a financial analogy: The extravagant exhaust three years' reserves in one, while the frugal stretch one year's store for three. The most profligate never have enough; the most temperate always enjoy surplus. Lavish kings with nations' wealth still crave more, yet modest hermits find abundance in coarse tea and plain rice.

This passage from The Book of Transformations (Huashu) elucidates the contrast between extravagance and frugality, and their respective impacts on personal cultivation and social governance.

On the dichotomy of extravagance and frugality: The extravagant, though wealthy, perpetually feel impoverished, while the frugal, though materially modest, find inner abundance. The extravagant, drawn to powerful circles, court misfortune, whereas the frugal, maintaining distance, avoid calamity. Extravagance in serving rulers invites disgrace; frugality preserves one's position. Extravagance breeds anxiety; frugality nurtures blessings. Only those steadfast in frugality's Dao (the Way) are fit to govern the world.

The parable of the yellow sparrow illustrates: Confined in gilded cages with delicacies, the sparrow grows despondent. Similarly, when people are governed through elaborate rites, music, and punitive systems, true contentment remains elusive. True wisdom lies in achieving stability without coercion, compliance without compulsion, and transformation without indoctrination.

Governing through frugality: When rulers economize on palaces, the people gain surplus labor; when they spurn treasures, the people retain wealth; when they abstain from war, the people enjoy leisure. What seems like withholding becomes the greatest giving; what appears as non-appropriation becomes the ultimate gain. Just as the sea god never abandons the ocean for losing fish, a wise ruler never forsakes the state for losing horses.

The essence of ritual propriety: True rites should embody the Dao naturally, yet contemporary rulers misunderstand this. Confucian recluses in mountain forests may revere teachers and study rituals, but upon witnessing lavish carriages or hearing opulent music, they startle like deer or revel like intoxicated pigs, forgetting the Dao's essence entirely. Calling a bow "arc" or a horse "team" only confuses the people. Ritual chaos stems from excessive complexity—only those emulating frugality grasp its core.

The Dao of tranquility: The extravagant crave agitation; the frugal cherish stillness. The extravagant prefer complexity; the frugal value simplicity. The extravagant pursue indulgence; the frugal honor austerity. One who uses a single vessel unbroken for life or wears a fur coat undamaged for a decade may govern people, manage resources, and wield authority—for they understand the Dao of serene clarity.

The concluding insight: Virtues like humaneness (ren), righteousness (yi), ritual propriety (li), wisdom (zhi), and trustworthiness (xin) become corrupted without frugality as their foundation. Humaneness without frugality turns inhumane; righteousness without frugality becomes unrighteous; ritual without frugality distorts into impropriety; wisdom without frugality decays into folly; trust without frugality degrades into hypocrisy. This is genuine wisdom.

Frugality forms the foundation of the Five Constant Virtues (humaneness, righteousness, propriety, wisdom, and faithfulness), while these virtues manifest as concrete expressions of frugality. Emphasizing ritual propriety (Li) follows the path of augmentation, whereas practicing frugality follows the path of diminishment. Though augmentation and diminishment appear contradictory, they actually complement each other. Excessive focus on ritual leads to extravagance and indulgence, while excessive frugality results in crude simplicity. Yet throughout history, no nation has ever perished due to practicing frugality.

People universally respect the humble and value the frugal. Forced humility cannot produce genuine humility, just as imposed frugality cannot yield true frugality. When rulers embody humility themselves, the people will naturally follow their example; when rulers practice frugality, the people will likewise adopt frugality. The key lies in the ruler's personal demonstration rather than demanding compliance from others. Those who fail to understand this principle and attempt enforcement through coercion demonstrate profound confusion.

(This passage from the sixth chapter of the Book of Transformations (Huashu) emphasizes the importance of leading by example in governance. The text argues that moral transformation occurs not through external compulsion but through the exemplary conduct of those in positions of authority. This philosophy reflects the Daoist political principle of "governing through non-action" (Wuwei), highlighting the power of subtle influence in social transformation.)