《淮南鴻烈解》Vol. 3

Huainan Honglie Jie, Volume Three, “Chuzhen Xun,” Part One

(The annotations by the Libationer of the Grand Commandant, subject Xu Shen, are marked above the classic text.)

“Chuzhen”: “Chu” means beginning; “zhen” refers to the actual truth. Starting from “nonbeing,” it explains how the Dao transforms and nurtures into “being,” and so the title is “Chuzhen.”

There is a beginning: the initial opening of Heaven and Earth.

There is a not-yet-beginning of a beginning: the myriad things stir and signs have already appeared, yet they have not truly entered the time of “having a beginning” and taking form.

There is a not-yet-beginning of that not-yet-beginning of a beginning: the Qi of Heaven and Earth is still silent, desolate, and sparse; it cannot even be spoken of as “not-yet-beginning to have a beginning.” What is called “not-yet-having-a-beginning” is merely a stage of indistinct seeming existence, not yet fixed in form.

There is being: the myriad things begin to manifest discernible signs of form.

There is nonbeing: Heaven and Earth are vast and boundless, difficult to designate by names and appearances.

There is a not-yet-beginning of having being and nonbeing, and there is a not-yet-beginning of that not-yet-beginning of having being and nonbeing: pushed further back, this is what the following text calls “having a beginning”—the many Qi gather and have not dispersed (“fanfen”), sprouting like buds and shoots, with as yet no outline or boundary; chaotically writhing, about to arise yet not yet formed into categories of things.

There is a not-yet-beginning of a beginning: Heaven’s Qi begins to rise and Earth’s Qi begins to descend; Yin-Yang intermingle, roaming and racing freely through the cosmos, flowing and harmoniously blending (“jing” means to pursue or chase, “chang” means to penetrate or flow; “binfen” and “longcong” describe mixed and gathered convergence). They wish to connect with the myriad things, yet there are still no signs or traces—no marks or omens.

There is a not-yet-beginning of that not-yet-beginning of a beginning: Heaven contains harmony but has not yet sent it down; Earth harbors Qi but has not yet raised it. Empty and void, silent and still, desolate and vast (“xiaodi” is pronounced close to “xiao” and “di,” referring to a high, broad, soundless void), as if a single Qi then reaches complete penetration, mingming, dark and obscure, impossible to describe.

There is being: the roots, stems, branches, and leaves of the myriad things fall and grow again, lush and flourishing (“longcong” is the appearance of gathering), with brilliant radiance; small insects fly, wriggle, and breathe, and all can be closely observed and grasped, already possessing calculable and measurable form.

There is nonbeing: invisible to the eye and inaudible to the ear—

Common meanings of characters in the commentary, for comparison with the original text: fanfen—the many Qi accumulate but are not yet issued; zhaozhen—omens and traces; shan (read close to “can”)—to fall, to gather; guanhu—the appearance of luxuriant vegetation (in the commentary sometimes written “wei” and “hu”); qi (pronounced close to the “qi” in “che zhe”) and kuai (pronounced close to the “kuai” in “bu yue zhi kuai”)—the movement of insects and their breathing; qiexun—to stroke and soothe, to examine along the grain.

Form (bodily form): when listened to, its sound is not heard; when touched, it cannot be grasped; when gazed at, it cannot be exhausted. It is vast and boundless, impossible to hide; measured, it penetrates and shines, yet it has no form or shape. There is a kind of existence that is “not yet having being, not having nonbeing”; it wraps heaven and earth, molds the myriad things, greatly penetrates the chaotic darkness, is deep and vast, cannot be exhausted from without, cannot be dissected from within—a universe without walls, yet it gives birth to the root of being and nonbeing (within the chaotic darkness, this is called Dao (the Way)). There is also a state of “not yet having the not-yet-being, not having nonbeing,” when heaven and earth are not yet split, Yin-Yang not yet differentiated (splitting and differentiation mean mixed separation), the four seasons not yet divided, the myriad things not yet born; vast and calm, silent and clear, one cannot see its form (the word “wang” is pronounced as in the Zhou family’s “wang” in “transmitting the corpse”), as if between nonbeing and being there is a trace of radiance, yet it retreats and loses itself (self-loss means hidden and unseen). Someone says: I can have “being and nonbeing,” but I cannot “non-nonbeing” (one can [deal with] being and nonbeing through Wuwei (non-action), but cannot let one’s original nature be spontaneously non-active; hence it is said one cannot be without [nonbeing]). As for the realm of “non-nonbeing,” it is supremely wondrous and incomparable—how could one reach it!

The great block of heaven and earth (the great block means the space between heaven and earth) carries me with form, makes me live through labor (Zhuangzi says life is corvée labor), makes me age through ease, and makes me die through rest (death is rest, hence “rest me with death”). Those who are good at giving me life are also those good at giving me death (to be good at the joy of my life is then to wish to be good at the joy of my death; this clarifies that in death there is transformation and awareness, and wishes to encourage people to regard life and death as the same). Hide a boat in a valley, hide a mountain in a marsh, and people think it is secure. Yet at midnight a powerful one carries them off on his back (qu means to run), and the sleeper does not know; things still have a way of escaping and being lost (at midnight the powerful one carries the boat and mountain away, so the sleeping person does not know). If one hides the world within the world, then the forms of the myriad things have nowhere to escape or be lost (taking the world as a chamber to store the myriad things). How can one say the myriad things do not exist? They can be broadly enumerated—indeed, roughly a great number!

A Vernacular Interpretation of the Huainan Honglie Jie

Taking Humans as a Model, Things Can Also Be Delightful

The word fan can be understood as “to emulate” or “model/example,” and it also carries the sense of “encounter.” If the myriad things emulate human form and appearance and can still delight people, this shows that “having a standard to rely on and a model to emulate” is itself good.

A Myriad Transformations Have No Final End

If we speak of “the human,” it is endlessly transforming, with never a time of exhaustion. Birth and death, alteration, and even dream circumstances can all be said to be “not yet having an endpoint.” The old decays, the new is born again; how could the joy in this be counted to the end?

Dreaming of Birds and Fish, One Knows It Was a Dream Only After Waking

It is like dreaming that you become a bird flying in the sky, or dreaming that you become a fish sinking into the deep abyss. While in the dream, you do not know it is a dream; after waking, you then know that just now it was a dream.

From this one may infer: in the future there will be a “great awakening”—only after complete awakening will one understand that this entire stretch of life now is actually also a great dream.

Before Birth, One Does Not Know Life’s Joy; Before Death, How Can One Know Death’s Suffering?

At the time when I had not yet been born, how could I know the joy of “being alive”? Now that I am not yet dead, how can I conclude that “death” is necessarily not joyful?

Gongniu Ai Transforms into a Tiger in Seven Days (Allegory)

Legend says that Gongniu Ai contracted “zhuanbing,” a kind of transformation sickness that changes one’s form and was common among many in the Gongniu clan in the Jianghuai region, and in seven days he transformed into a tiger. Those who had transformed into tigers would turn back and eat people; those eaten would also become real tigers. Those not eaten might later change back into humans. In the Huainan region there were households whose livelihood was feeding cattle on grass and fodder, called “chuhuan”; many such legends circulated locally.

His elder brother shut the door and went in to peek; the tiger pounced and killed him. Therefore: its markings grew into beastly patterns, its claws and teeth were replaced; its will and thoughts all changed, and spirit and bodily form transformed together. When it was still a tiger, it did not know it had once been human; when it was still human, it did not know it was about to become a tiger. The two alternate and interlace, each content in its present form.

Cunning and Dullness, Right and Wrong Have No Fixed Origin

Cunning and dullness, right and wrong, straight and crooked—none has a fixed cause. Who can clearly say from where they sprout?

Ice and Water Exchange Between Winter and Summer

When water reaches winter, it freezes into ice; when ice reaches spring, it melts back into water. Ice and water ceaselessly exchange back and forth, revolving as if in a circle; who has the leisure to distinguish their respective suffering and joy?

Summary of the Main Idea

This interpretive passage uses examples such as “dream and awakening,” “life and death,” and “transformation into a tiger” to explain that form, identity, suffering, and joy all change. At any given stage, it is difficult for people to judge whether “this moment” is dream or waking, suffering or joy; only a greater awakening can make clear that the whole of human life is likewise like a great dream. It also uses water and ice—freezing in winter and thawing in spring—as a metaphor for the myriad things cycling and replacing one another, so that one need not stubbornly cling to a single time and a single form.

Therefore, when a person’s form is ravaged by cold and heat, dryness and dampness, the form withers while the spirit (Shen) remains vigorous; when the spirit is harmed by joy, anger, thought, and worry, the spirit is exhausted while the form instead remains abundant. Thus the carcass of an old horse, once skinned, is dry and hard like dead wood, while the body of a living dog, once cut open, still has moist flesh. Therefore, those who die from injury—their ghosts haunt and trouble the living; those who end their days naturally in their own chambers—their spirits are still and peaceful. In none of these cases are form and spirit both extinguished. The Daoist cultivation of form and spirit is entirely for the sake of dying a natural death and having form and spirit both extinguished, not for having form and spirit separate. Laozi said, “When the Dao is established in the world, the ghosts are not numinous,” and this means precisely that form and spirit are both extinguished.

The sage uses the mind to support the original nature and relies on the assistance of spirit, and so is able to complete their natural lifespan. Therefore they do not dream in sleep and do not worry upon waking—because the spirit has nothing to ponder, they do not dream; because benevolence and righteousness abide in the mind, misfortune does not arrive, and so they do not worry. The ancients dwelt in the undifferentiated chaos; their spirit and Qi were not disturbed by external things, and the myriad things were calm and tranquil, joyful and at peace. Even the noxious Qi spreading from comets and the handle of the Northern Dipper could not cause them harm. At that time, the myriad people were happy and free, not knowing east from west or north from south; with food in their mouths they roamed, patting their bellies they played. Together they received Heaven’s harmonious Qi and enjoyed Earth’s five grains. They did not reproach one another through cunning and clever ornamentation; vast and undifferentiated, this was called great order.

Thus those in superior positions, with assistants at their left and right, employed the people without indulging their original nature, settled and nurtured them without altering their De (Virtue/Power). Therefore they did not need to broadly dispense benevolence and righteousness, and the myriad things naturally multiplied.

A Vernacular Reading of the Huainan Honglie Jie

(Simplicity does not rely on benevolence and righteousness, yet the myriad things can still flourish and grow.)

Without rewards and punishments, the people of the world will still be sincerely convinced—convinced by his De (Virtue/Power).

This Dao can cause the myriad things to arise in grandeur and be nourished into growth, yet it cannot be calculated exhaustively, item by item, by arithmetic. (This means that the nature of the great Dao nurtures the myriad things: it can cause them to arise in great beauty and sustain their growth, but it is difficult to account for it completely by number.)

Thus, reckoned by the day, it always seems insufficient; viewed by the year, it often has surplus. (Only when one calculates with limited time does one feel there is “surplus.” Compare sour plums: a hundred plums are just enough for a hundred people to taste sourness; a single plum is certainly not enough for a hundred people to share the sourness.)

Fish in the great rivers and lakes each find their place and forget one another; people within the arts of the Dao each fulfill their aspirations and also forget one another. (Each finds its place, and therefore they forget one another.)

The True Persons of antiquity stood within the root of Heaven and Earth, utterly at ease; they embraced and guarded De, bathed in harmonious Qi (vital energy), and the myriad things then ripened and accumulated in profusion. (Here yang is interchangeable with “nourish”: embracing aspiration and guarding De while nurtured in harmonious Qi, the myriad things thus form in mixed profusion.)

Who would be willing to mix together the trivial affairs of the human world and use external things to vex and burden their own nature and life? (“Deconstruction” here means gathering together, piecing together; “trouble” means vexation and encumbrance.)

The Dao has its guiding norms and ordered patterns; one who obtains the Dao of the “One” can penetrate the thousand branches and ten thousand leaves. (“One” is the root of the Dao; having obtained the root, one can connect and order the thousand branches and ten thousand leaves, using the few to rectify the many.)

Therefore the noble can use it to issue commands, the lowly can use it to forget their baseness, the poor can use it to take joy in their work, and the distressed can use it to endure danger.

Only after great cold arrives and frost and snow fly thickly is the luxuriance of pine and cypress seen. When one is in danger and hardship, with profit and harm laid out before one’s eyes, only then does one know that the sage has never lost the Dao.

Thus, one who can “wear the Great Circle” treads the Great Square (the way of wearing Heaven and treading Earth); one who mirrors the Great Purity sees the Great Brightness; one who establishes Great Peace dwells in the Great Hall. (Great Peace refers to the peace of the world; the Great Hall is the Mingtang, used for announcing the new moon and issuing orders.)

One who can wander in the dark and obscure shares the light of the sun and moon. (Brightness: one who discusses De and practices the Dao can share the illumination of the sun and moon.)

Therefore, with the Dao as rod, De as line, ritual and music as hook, and benevolence and righteousness as bait, casting into the rivers and floating upon the seas, the myriad things come in profusion—which one does not belong to him?

As for the “jia” (a small wooden strip), it walks leaning on a staff and stops at the water’s edge. (Leaning on a staff and stopping illustrates that a small vessel has limits, forming a contrast with the great Dao’s fishing for the myriad things.)

A Vernacular Interpretation of the Huainan Honglie Jie

The so-called “qiyue” technique is simply to take crooked byways: to manipulate human affairs underhandedly, to go along with worldly customs in order to stir things up and seek profit, and even to grope after and entangle oneself in petty trifles. Such a person can still indulge his private desires and get what he wants. How much more, then, one who embraces the precious Great Dao, forgets cunning of the liver-and-gall kind, discards the entanglements of ears and eyes, wanders alone beyond the formless, does not wear away or mix himself up with external things (the compound bi-sha, with bi read like ba, means “mixed together”; sha in Chu usage carries the sense of “to kill”), and rests along the way in the realm of the formless, in harmony with Heaven and Earth?

Such a person withdraws his intelligence and acuity, embraces and guards the Great Simplicity (Tai Su, the plain original nature), regards benefit and harm as dust and life and death as day and night. Thus, though day after day he gazes upon the jade and ivory ornaments on a royal jade carriage, and his ears hear wondrous music such as “White Snow” (“Baixue”) and “Clear Horn” (“Qingjue”)—Baixue is traditionally said to be a five-stringed qin piece of Taiyi performed by Shi Kuang, capable of making divine beings descend; Qingjue belongs to the shang mode—none of this can disturb his mind. Though he climbs above a thousand-ren-deep ravine and looks down to where monkeys on the bank grow dizzy, this cannot destroy his equanimity (a monkey looking down from a high bank grows dizzy; this illustrates the disturbance of harmony and ease). He is like the jade of Mount Zhong in Kunlun: placed in furnace coals and burned for three days and three nights, its color and luster do not change. This is the manifestation of supreme De and the Jing and Qi of Heaven and Earth (Mount Zhong is Kunlun).

Therefore, life is not enough to move him with benefit, nor death enough to frighten him with harm. Clear about the distinction between life and death and penetrating the transformations of benefit and harm, even if the whole world were offered in exchange for a single hair on his lower leg, his resolve would not stir (gan refers to the shinbone below the knee; gan is pronounced close to “han”). Noble and base status, as they bear on himself, are like a tiaofeng—a wind that makes the branches sing, a metaphor for swiftness—sweeping past; slander and praise are like gnats flying by. He holds fast to luminous whiteness without being stained black, walks in purity without adulteration, and dwells in the Dark Mystery without being benighted.

Vernacular Interpretation

Being at Peace with Tianjun Without Falseness or Corruption

The so-called “false” means corrupt. Tianjun is the region around the North Pole, a field of accumulated cold. If one merely “rests” there without embodying the Dao (the Way), one will become corrupted. Only one who realizes the Great Dao remains uncorrupted.

Mengmen and Zhonglong (the Zhongnan Mountains area) are such perilous passes. Mengmen is a narrow pass in the Taihang Mountains; Zhonglong is the Zhongnan Mountains in the Fufeng region. All are strategic barriers and dangerous obstacles—yet one who embodies the Dao can still pass through them without hindrance. The rapids, swirling pools, and depths of Lüliang cannot hold him back: the rapids are swift currents, the swirling pools are deep pools, and Lüliang is a water name near Pengcheng—all are watery perils. Nor can the dangers of the Taihang Stone Gorge, Feihu, and Juwang obstruct him—Taihang lies in the area of Shangdang Pass north of Yewang; Stone Gorge is a deep ravine; Feihu is in Daijun; Juwang is in Yanmen—all are narrow and dangerous places.

Thus, though his body may be above the rivers and seas, his Shen (spirit) can roam beneath the Wei Gate. The Wei Gate is the outer gate of the royal palace; the books of teaching and images were often suspended at the Xiangwei tower. Towering and lofty, it is called the Wei Gate. This means that although the true person is far away, his heart remains tied to the kingly Dao (another interpretation: beneath the heart is the Juque point, and the spirit guards within). If one had not attained the “single source”—the root of the Dao—who could reach this?

Therefore, in the company of the Ultimate Person, wealthy households forget the distinction between wealth and poverty, and kings and lords disregard their noble wealth and delight in lowliness; the brave weaken their Qi (vital energy), and the greedy dissolve their desires. He sits without teaching, stands without debating; people go to him empty and return full. Thus without speaking he can “give people harmony to drink”—a metaphor that the Dao is like a river: without words it brings people harmony and ease.

Hence the ultimate Dao is Wuwei (non-action), like a dragon or a snake: the dragon can transform, the snake can slip free, and so they are used as analogies. Waxing and waning, coiling and uncoiling, it changes with the times; outwardly it follows the prevailing wind, inwardly it guards its nature. Ears and eyes do not show off; thoughts do not engage in deluded schemes (ying means confusion). The spirit he indwells—with “tai” meaning to hold fast and guard, and “jian” meaning great—roams in Taiqing (Great Purity). He draws up and promotes the myriad things, and every beauty sprouts forth—“yinshun” means to lift up and promote; shun is pronounced like the yun in “yungong” (respectful and sincere).

Therefore: those who “manage” their spirit—the spirit departs from them (shi means to govern); those who let their spirit rest—the spirit dwells in them (not moving or disturbing it). The Dao issues one word…

(The final phrase, “the Dao issues one…,” appears incomplete in the transmitted text; the common continuation is an exposition of the Dao. Here we stop following the original scroll.)

Classic: Huainan Honglie Jie

Vernacular interpretation:

The Dao originally runs through the “Nine Gates” (jiu men, what the ancients called Heaven’s gate, the entrance and exit of Heaven) and spreads through the “Six Thoroughfares” (liu qu, the great roads of the four directions under Heaven). It is settled amid boundless Heaven and Earth, taking quietude and emptiness as its root. It does not actively manipulate external things, but lets the myriad things each exert their own action within themselves. Therefore, if people act in accordance with the Dao, it is not that the Dao “acts in their place,” but that the Dao “bestows and brings to completion.”

Whatever Heaven covers, Earth bears, the six directions contain, Yin-Yang warms (hou means mouth-to-mouth breathing warmth, the meaning of mutual nurturing), rain and dew moisten, and Dao and De support—all are born of the same pair of “parents” (Heaven and Earth) and share one “harmonious Qi” (the all-encompassing harmony, which is also what the Dao values). Thus the locust tree and elm can be regarded as brothers of the orange and pomelo (showing that the Dao can transform difference into sameness); the Youmiao state (the people in the Pengli region of the south in Shun’s time who did not submit to royal civilization) and Sanwei (a mountain far in the west, traditionally said to be near Chenzhou) can also be joined into one family (likewise the result of the Dao’s transformative nurturing).

The eyes watch the swans fly high, the ears hear the sounds of qin and se, yet the mind runs beyond Yanmen Pass—within one and the same body, the spirit is split and dissected; within the six directions, a single movement seems to cross thousands of miles. Therefore, viewed from the side of “difference,” liver and gallbladder can be as distant as the lands of Hu and Yue; viewed from the side of “sameness,” the myriad things are all within a single circle (quan here means zou, a corner or a single whole). The doctrines of the Hundred Schools are all different, each with its own origin.

As for the theories of governing of the Mohists, Yang Zhu, Shen Buhai, and Shang Yang—Mozi (Mo Di) advocated universal love and condemnation of music, and would rub his head bald and wear his heels through to benefit the world; Yang Zhu taught preserving one’s original nature and guarding integrity, and would not pluck a single hair from his body even if it would benefit the world; Shen Buhai served as chancellor to Marquis Zhao of Han and relied on the technique of the “Three Tallies,” esteeming harsh and minute regulations; Shang Yang (Gongsun Yang) established for Duke Xiao of Qin the law of collective liability, was known for severity, and was enfeoffed at Shang, hence called Lord Shang—their relation to the way of governance is like each using a single tile to cover something (each grasping one end, unable to exhaust the whole of the Dao).

A Vernacular Interpretation of the Huainan Honglie Jie

A cartwheel without a single spoke, a number with no substantive basis—such things are harmful to practical use. If a person believes he alone possesses the Dao and does not resonate with the true nature of Heaven and Earth, he has the same defect.

Like an artisan pouring molten metal in a furnace: as the liquid churns, some of it is inevitably splashed out and discarded, while some congeals at the bottom of the furnace into a form that seems to resemble something. Even if that shape has a certain completeness, it is not worth comparing with the Nine Tripods of the Zhou royal house, let alone merely resembling a shape drawn by a compass. How much farther it is from the Great Dao.

All things grow and their branches and joints extend; the flowers, leaves, and branches of the hundred affairs all originate from the same root and divide into thousands and millions of branches. If so, then there is something “received”—but it is not “conferred” from outside. What is received is that which is not conferred, and yet nothing is not received. “Nothing is not received” is like dense clouds gathering and brewing into rain, soaking all things while itself not becoming wet together with all things.

The skilled archer has proper form and measure; the craftsman has the numbers of the compass and square—these are the means by which one can reach a wondrous realm. Yet Xi Zhong (good at making carts) could not also be Feng Meng (good at archery), and Zao Fu (good at driving horses) could not also be Bo Le (good at judging horses). This is called being expert in one corner but unable to penetrate the myriad directions.

When dyed black with nie (alum), it becomes blacker than nie; when dyed blue with indigo, it becomes bluer than indigo. Nie is not black, and indigo is not blue; but after the dyeing is complete, even if it encounters its origin (mother), it cannot change back to its original state. Why? Because the dyeing process causes the original substance to become attenuated. How much more so for the Transformer who has not yet begun with nie or indigo? Its power of transformation and nurture could not be exhausted even by engraving metal and stone or writing on bamboo and silk.

A Vernacular Reading of the Huainan Honglie Jie

To set forth its measures: from this we see that no thing is not born from “being.” Here “being” can be understood as dwelling, existence—all things come forth from “being.”

Great and small roam at ease—this speaks of abundant plenty. Whether great or small, all are abundant and relaxed.

The tip of an autumn hair sinks into the seamless and returns again to greatness. The finest tip of a bird’s autumn down can sink into the seamless—where there is no gap; the Dao is formless, and when compared to an autumn hair, it ultimately returns to “greatness.” The thin membrane of a reed mat penetrates the boundless and returns again to the thick and solid. The thin white membrane inside a reed mat can penetrate to the formless and imageless, then return to the thick, solid whole of the mat—thinness at its extreme still returns to “thickness.”

As for the Dao: it does not need the fineness of an autumn hair or the thinness of a reed membrane. It reaches in all four directions without boundary and penetrates the boundless (the term means limit); nothing can intercept, restrain, or obstruct its course toward Heaven.

It inherits the subtle and layers the wondrous; it kneads and shapes the myriad things, rolling and transforming them like pellets—how could the affairs within Heaven and Earth suffice to discuss its vast transformative nurturing?

A fierce wind can uproot great trees but cannot uproot a single hair.

From a height like the Cloud Terrace, a falling person breaks the spine and shatters the skull; yet gnats and midges are just able to soar there unharmed—what the Dao values is precisely this principle of the tiny being able to preserve itself.

People and creatures that crawl and wriggle all ride together on the Heavenly Mechanism—the creative mechanism bestowed by Heaven, like the movement of a divine horse.

Heaven receives form within a single circle; things that fly lightly, finely, and subtly are still able to escape the fetters of life—how much more so what the Dao honors: the “not-yet-having-kind,” an image not yet fixed in form and not yet shaped.

Seen from this, the formless giving birth to the formed is also clear.

Therefore the sage entrusts his spirit to the Spirit Mansion—the inner seat of spiritual clarity—and returns to the beginning of the myriad things before differentiation.

He sees within the dark and obscure and hears within the soundless. In the dark and obscure, he alone sees the bright and clear; in silence and vast stillness, he alone possesses illumination.

In his use, he uses non-use; only by not using can he then truly use. His knowing is a kind of not-knowing—not clinging to knowing, he can thereby use together with the Dao.

Only after first setting aside the worldly kind of “understanding that thinks it understands” can one possibly attain true knowledge. If heaven had no constant standard, the sun and moon would have nowhere to move; if earth had no stable support, plants and trees would have nowhere to take root; if a person’s heart could not be peaceful and self-possessed, right and wrong would have no way to appear or be established. Thus, only with a Zhenren (the true person, one who has attained the Dao and is united with it) is there true knowledge (zhenzhi)—true knowledge is knowledge that does not deceive, does not defraud, and is not falsely adorned; that is why it is called “true.”

The principles held by the Zhenren are not made clear through speech; how could the mediocre and dull understand that the “knowledge” I speak of is in fact different from the “knowledge” ordinary people believe in?

Now some people accumulate thick De (Virtue/Power) and abundant kindness, using fine reputations and fabricated auspicious omens to deceive and pacify the myriad people, causing them to praise him on all sides and to rest content in their original nature—this is called Ren (benevolence). Some establish achievements and make a name, put ruler and minister in order, clarify high and low, distinguish close and distant, level noble and base, save endangered states, continue lines that had been cut off, settle disputes, govern confusion, restore ruined ancestral temples, and establish heirs for those without descendants—this is called Yi (righteousness). Some block the nine apertures, conceal and restrain the mind and will, cast aside cleverness, and return to no-knowing, wandering blankly beyond the dusty world and roaming freely in the enterprise of Wuwei (non-action), embracing Yin-Yang so that the myriad things are harmonious and united—this is called De.

Therefore, when the Dao (the Way) disperses and leaks downward, it manifests as De; when De overflows, it in turn transforms into Ren and Yi. Once Ren and Yi are established as moral doctrine and institutional system, the primordial Dao and De are instead abandoned. A great tree a hundred arm-spans around is cut down to make the sacrificial vessel Xizun (a carved sacrificial vessel), carved with hook knives and marking tools, painted in blue, yellow, and other colors, decorated with ornate patterns, made as bright as a golden vessel, and carved into coiling patterns of dragons, snakes, tigers, and leopards. Yet compared with that Xizun, the splinters sawed away into the ditch seem very far apart in ugliness and beauty; but once they have become the vessel and the ditchwood, both alike have lost their original wood nature, and in “losing their nature” they are equal.

Therefore, those whose spirit is scattered speak in flowery words that lack substance; those whose De is dissipated have shallow wisdom and much cunning.

People who practice Xingwei (outward falsehood, inconsistency between inner and outer, putting on appearances) have already scattered and lost the utmost Jing (essence) within—the most refined Shen (spirit) and true primordial Qi (vital energy)—yet they display their words and deeds outwardly for others to see. Inevitably they make the body serve external things, letting themselves be dragged along by things and, in turn, waiting upon them.

Those who single-mindedly chase fame and profit, waver in what they accept and reject, and put on airs seek Jing outwardly. The Jing within is finite, while outward tricks are endless; the heart then becomes Hua (restless and insubstantial), Shen becomes turbid, and the root is disturbed. What they hold to cannot settle, yet they run about after the winds of the world (social customs and teachings), and inwardly they muddy the originally clear heart. Thus they hesitate all their lives and, until death, never obtain a moment of Tiandan (peaceful, detached tranquility).

Therefore the sage cultivates the arts of the Dao within and does not decorate benevolence and righteousness on the outside; he does not cling to the functions of ears and eyes, sounds and colors, but roams freely in the harmony of Shen (spirit)—the harmony of spirit with Heaven, Earth, and the ten thousand things. Such a person can fathom the Three Springs below, exhaust the Nine Heavens above, traverse the six directions, and penetrate the ten thousand things—this is the sage’s realm of roaming.

As for the Zhenren (Perfected Person), in movement he merges with utmost Xu (emptiness, the deepest void and stillness) and roams in the Wilds of Extinction (a realm without birth or death, without form or image). He rides Feilian (a winged, long-haired divine beast; some say the name of the wind god) and follows Duntu (some say a small tiger, some say an immortal’s name); he gallops beyond the mundane world and rests within the cosmos. He can illuminate the ten suns, command wind and rain, make Leigong (the Thunder Lord) obey, press Kuafu (an immortal, the legendary figure who threw away his staff to become Denglin) into service, and take Fufei and Zhinü as his wives and concubines—vast as Heaven and Earth are, they cannot hold his aspiration.

Therefore, Xuwu (emptiness/nonbeing) is the dwelling place of the Dao, and Pingyi (plainness and ease—simplicity, original nature) is the Dao’s intrinsic nature.