《抱朴子內篇》Vol. 12

Someone raised a question: If achieving immortality were truly possible, then sages like the Duke of Zhou and Confucius should have attained it long ago. Yet in reality, they did not become immortals, proving that the path of cultivation does not exist.

To this, Baopuzi (Ge Hong) replied: Sages do not necessarily seek immortality, nor do immortals necessarily become sages. Sages bear the responsibility of governing the world—they devote themselves to quelling violence, pacifying chaos, establishing rites and music, creating laws, educating the people, rescuing endangered states, and compiling classical texts. Burdened with such heavy duties, how could they find time to close their eyes and ears, practice inner vision (a Daoist cultivation method), train in breath regulation and daoyin (qigong exercises), observe prolonged fasting, refine elixirs and gather herbs, meditate on the gods (visualizing deities), or abstain from grains to cleanse their bowels?

Those who cultivate immortality, however, need only unwavering faith, diligent effort, and a tranquil, detached mind—no extraordinary talent is required. In fact, worldly fame becomes a hindrance to the Dao. By successfully refining the Golden Elixir (Jindan) and mastering the essentials of nurturing the spirit (Shen), one can achieve eternal life. This is far simpler than the boundless responsibilities of sages governing the world.

The sages people speak of are those who rule the world, not those who attain the Dao and achieve perfection. The sages who realized the Dao refer to the Yellow Emperor (Huangdi) and Laozi (Huang-Lao tradition), while the sages who governed the world are the Duke of Zhou and Confucius. The Yellow Emperor first ruled the world and later attained the Dao to become an immortal—an exceptionally rare case of balancing both. Among the seventy-two ancient emperors who left stone inscriptions at Mount Tai to record their achievements, only the Yellow Emperor is documented as achieving immortality, proving its authenticity.

People call those exceptionally skilled in certain fields "sages." For example, Yan Ziqing and Ma Suiming, peerless in chess, were called "chess sages"; Wei Xie and Zhang Mo, masters of calligraphy, were called "calligraphy sages"; Zhang Heng and Ma Zhong, unparalleled in carpentry, were called "carpentry sages." This shows the title "sage" is given based on expertise—governing sages and Daoist immortals represent two distinct accomplishments.

The concept of "sagehood" manifests differently across various fields. Mencius praised Bo Yi as a sage of incorruptibility, yet the standards for sagehood are not singular. For instance, Gongshu Ban (Lu Ban) and Chui Di were sages of mechanical invention; Bian Que, Yi He, and Yi Huan were sages of healing; Zi Wei and Gan Jun were sages of celestial divination; Shi Su and Xin Liao were sages of oracle bone prognostication; Xia Yu and Du Hui were sages of extraordinary strength; Jing Ke and Nie Zheng were sages of fearless courage; Fei Lian and Kua Fu were sages of lightning speed; Zi Ye and Yan Zhou were sages of musical mastery; while Sun Wu, Wu Qi, Han Xin, and Bai Qi were sages of divine military strategy. A sage is simply one who reaches the pinnacle in a particular domain—not limited to literary cultivation alone.

Zhuangzi once remarked that even thieves possess five "ways of sagehood": discerning hidden treasures demonstrates "illumination" (ming); entering first without hesitation shows "courage" (yong); withdrawing last without fear embodies "righteousness" (yi); judging opportune moments reflects "wisdom" (zhi); and dividing spoils fairly exemplifies "benevolence" (ren). No great robber ever succeeded without these qualities. Some argue that the Dao of sages cannot be fragmented—that one must embody all aspects to qualify. Yet Confucius' seventy-two disciples each inherited specific dimensions of sagehood, proving the Dao can indeed be compartmentalized. Yan Hui nearly embodied complete sagehood, albeit to a lesser degree, demonstrating that sage virtues exist on a spectrum. The Book of Changes identifies four expressions of sagehood: valuing eloquence in speech, adaptability in action, symbolism in craftsmanship, and interpretation in divination—all affirming that sagehood can be analyzed discretely.

Why then shouldn't those skilled in cultivating immortality be considered sages who have attained the Dao? If we deny the existence of such Dao-attaining sages, then even the Duke of Zhou and Confucius wouldn't qualify as sages of governance. Since sagehood has no single standard, why insist on comprehensive perfection? According to Daoist scriptures, those who achieve immortality are predestined to receive celestial Qi (vital energy), possessing an innate affinity for the Dao from the womb. They naturally gravitate toward immortality practices in adulthood and encounter enlightened masters who transmit the methods. Without such inherent endowment, even earnest seekers rarely obtain true transmission. The Jade Pivot Scripture: Origins of Destiny states that human fortunes and misfortunes are determined at conception by the essence of celestial constellations.

This passage explores the relationship between human destiny and celestial constellations (ancient Chinese believed stars governed mortal fates), as well as the conditions for attaining immortality through Daoist cultivation.

Human fate corresponds to specific constellations—encounter a sage's star and one becomes a sage; meet a worthy's star and one becomes virtuous; align with a literary star to gain literary talent, or a martial star to develop military prowess. Wealth, poverty, nobility, longevity or early death are all preordained. Only those destined to encounter an immortal's constellation can achieve transcendence. The stars manifest diverse destinies: some govern divine sages, others worldly saints; some combine both traits, while certain constellations predestine fluctuating fortunes like wealth followed by ruin.

The author asserts that destiny is innate, illustrated by the allegory of "Zhang Chezi." Without an immortal's destiny, one wouldn't seek transcendence; without such aspiration, cultivation becomes impossible; without cultivation, immortality remains unattainable. History shows clever scholars often disbelieved while ordinary practitioners achieved immortality—proof that transcendence depends on heavenly mandate, not intellect.

Daoist transmission of arcane arts remains rigorously selective. Even disciples undergo prolonged observation before receiving essential teachings. Why then force-feed celestial truths to skeptical worldlings? Compelling persuasion breeds not belief but mockery and slander. Thus realized adepts and mundane folk walk separate paths—dwelling apart, neither conversing nor mingling. A thousand miles seems insufficient distance; severed ties barely prevent calumny. True cultivators remain unmoved by worldly temptations and never flaunt their arts before the uninitiated.

The text concludes with Confucian sages like the Duke of Zhou and Confucius—despite their erudition, they couldn't master trivial skills like juggling, let alone profound Daoist mysteries. The implication is clear: celestial Dao and worldly learning follow fundamentally different ways.

Standing on the edge of a sheer cliff to swim, crossing the fathomless rapids of Lüliang (legendary treacherous currents in ancient lore), lifting thousand-jun weights barehanded, treading upon raging winds, subduing tigers with bare hands, capturing leopards in cages, catching flying arrows midair—these feats impossible for ordinary people cannot be surpassed even by sages like the Duke of Zhou or Confucius. The trivial matters ordinary people dwell on daily—like the movements of lice and fleas, colors glimpsed through walls, weeds in the forest, books in boxes, treasures buried underground, birds and beasts in dense woods, fish and turtles in deep pools—even if the Duke of Zhou or Confucius were asked to discern colors, name objects, count quantities, or verify existence, they might not know everything. How much less could they comprehend all things?

Sages grow hungry without food, thirsty without water, burned by fire, chilled by ice, pained by blows, wounded by blades, aged by time, sickened by injury, and die when breath ceases—in these ways, they are no different from ordinary people. Where they surpass others lies only in their exceptional talents, profound thoughts, eloquent speech, masterful writing, complete virtue, noble conduct, skillful teaching, and broad knowledge. How could they possibly excel in everything? Since we already expect them to establish institutions and govern nations, how can we further demand they master the immortal Dao (the Way) and achieve eternal life? Isn’t such a demand on sages excessive?

I know well that profound truths often grate on vulgar ears, and the truth often contradicts common belief. When Confucian scholars read these words, they will surely think I am slandering the sages. How would I dare? I merely seek to exhaust the principles of things. Yet speaking the truth plainly ends up seeming like defamation of the Duke of Zhou and Confucius. People always assume sages are divine beings descended from heaven, omniscient and omnipotent, and out of awe, they dare not question them, believing what sages cannot do no one can, and what sages do not know no one knows—isn’t this laughable?

Take a recent example to clarify: In Wanshan (an ancient place), there was a bird that mourned its companions with cries. Confucius did not know of this—does that mean even Yan Hui (his wisest disciple) only understood partially? When Confucius heard a woman wailing at Mount Tai, he had to ask before learning her family of three had been devoured by tigers, yet he did not understand why she did not move away until she explained. Seeing a bird-catching net, he had to observe which way the mesh faced before knowing where to catch the sparrow—if even such mundane matters were like this, how much more so for deeper truths?

This passage illustrates the cognitive limitations of even sages like Confucius and his disciples to argue for the authenticity of supernatural phenomena.

The text begins with several examples: Confucius' disciple Yan Hui (Yan Yuan) was once falsely accused of stealing food, and Confucius mistakenly believed he had died. Confucius traveled extensively among various states yet couldn't foresee that he wouldn't be employed. When passing through Kuang, he didn't anticipate being surrounded. Though he sought Laozi's guidance on ancient rites, some aspects remained unclear to him. When inquiring about official systems from Tanzi, he still had unanswered questions. Once lost, he sent someone to ask for directions, unaware that the person would mock him without providing help. These examples demonstrate that even sages have their limits in knowledge.

The text then refutes the common Confucian view that "what sages cannot achieve, no one else can." It cites numerous extraordinary individuals and feats: Liang Mu could live underwater, Zibo endured extreme heat, Zhongdu withstood severe cold, Zuo Ci survived execution without dying, Gan Shi could go without food for long periods, Fan Yi remained unharmed despite being hacked at, Bieling's corpse floated away only to revive, Shaoqian could capture hundreds of ghosts, Changfang could shorten distances between geographical points, Zhongfu could transform into a wild duck, and Zhang Kai could exhale to create clouds and mist—none of which were within the capabilities of the Duke of Zhou or Confucius.

Finally, the passage points out that if one arbitrarily assumes the Duke of Zhou and Confucius could perform such feats but chose not to, then one might just as baselessly claim they had already attained immortality (xian). Yet such unfounded assertions are meaningless. The author emphasizes that if the Dao of immortality (xian) were widely known, people would pursue eternal life at the expense of their livelihoods, ultimately causing social disruption.

This passage discusses the contrast between Daoist cultivation of immortality and conventional worldly values. It suggests that sages like the Duke of Zhou and Confucius, while outwardly conforming to social rituals, might have secretly practiced longevity techniques. The text cites the example of Yu the Great obtaining immortality methods from the Lingbao Jing (a Daoist scripture), sealing these secrets in stone caskets within famous mountains, later revealed when a red sparrow carried them forth—demonstrating the actual existence of immortal arts.

The author provides another example: when the King of Wu discovered purple-inscribed golden tablets (scriptures recording immortal techniques) within a stone, Confucius recognized them as the same longevity methods once used by Yu the Great. Since Confucius could identify such techniques, he might have secretly practiced them himself. This implies that sages may have privately pursued the Daoist path to immortality without openly acknowledging it.

The text contrasts two life orientations: the pursuit of fame and wealth, chosen by most people, versus the path of ancient recluses who renounced worldly glory to dwell in mountain forests, even abstaining from marriage and delicacies to seek spiritual transcendence. The Yellow Emperor's marriage to the plain-looking Mumo and Lord Chen's affection for an unattractive woman illustrate how human aspirations can surpass conventional standards.

The core message is this: the path to immortality through Daoist cultivation genuinely exists, though it remains incomprehensible to ordinary people. Just as some prefer bitter flavors over sweet foods, individual pursuits differ. While the "status" and "wealth" valued by sages may attract followers, history records numerous lofty individuals who abandoned imperial thrones and declined lavish gifts to embrace reclusion. Similarly, though romantic love and fine cuisine are common desires, some transcend these cravings. This demonstrates that the immortal path, though seemingly contrary to conventional logic, represents a legitimate and respectable life choice.

This passage illustrates through vivid examples how human preferences vary greatly and cannot be forced into uniformity. Take Dunqia (an ugly woman from ancient legend) who, despite her keen nose capable of discerning all manner of fragrances—sulfur, tulips, orchids, styrax, dark gallbladders, plain glue, angelica, chrysanthemum, spring cymbidium, and autumn orchids (all prized aromatics)—yet the fisherwomen by the shore deliberately chase after foul-smelling fishermen, clinging to them without reprieve. King Wen of Zhou (founder of the Zhou dynasty) relished coarse pickled vegetables, considering them no worse than the sacrificial trio of ox, sheep, and pig; Emperor Ming of Wei preferred the sound of a carpenter's chisel to the melodies of silk and bamboo instruments. Each person has their own inclinations—how can we demand others share our tastes?

The author then observes: The Duke of Zhou and Confucius (sages of Confucianism), constrained by their own perspectives, did not believe in the Dao of immortality. Just as the sun and moon have places their light cannot reach, even sages have matters beyond their understanding. How can we conclude there are no divine immortals in the world simply because sages didn't practice transcendence? This would be like blaming the sun, moon, and stars for failing to illuminate the inside of an overturned basin (metaphor for cognitive limitations). This segment from Chapter 12 of the Baopuzi aims to dismantle blind worship of sages while demonstrating the rationality of the Daoist path to immortality.